Snowbound With The Baronet (4 page)

By now they had reached the barn. The warm, pungent smells of hay and livestock were perfume to Brandon’s nose after the freezing, scentless trek through the storm.

He brought the horse to a halt then trudged back and raised his arms to his cousin. “Down you get, Imogene. Aren’t you glad you came with us now?”

“That remains to be seen.” She pried her arms from around Lady Cassandra and let Brandon lift her down.

Her earlier panic seemed to have dissipated, for which he was grateful. But in its place he sensed her ridiculous haughtiness returning. Brandon would have welcomed some middle ground.

He was pleased that she lowered her voice before demanding. “What is this place? Could we not press on to find a proper inn?”

“No, we could not.” He set her on her feet harder than he’d intended. “We were fortunate to find a hospitable welcome here. Show a little gratitude.”

He let his cousin go and turned to assist Lady Cassandra, only to find she had already begun to slide off the horse’s back. Was she trying to avoid further contact with him after he’d seized hold of her earlier? Or was she too chilled and weary to keep her seat?

Whatever the reason, Brandon’s instincts took over. He caught her in his arms and eased her the rest of the way to the ground.

“Are you alright?” he asked in an anxious tone he wished he could disguise.

As one arm continued to support her, he raised his other hand and brushed away some of the snow that had accumulated on her hood. Heaven help him, the gesture was almost a caress.

“I am quite well, thank you.” The breathless quality of her voice contradicted her words. “At least I shall be once I thaw out. Excuse me. I must find out how Mrs. Davis fared on our excursion.”

Brandon had no choice but to let her go, which he told himself should come as a relief. Yet it did not feel that way.

“Thank you,” he said before she moved out of earshot, “for keeping Imogene calm. I wish I had your knack for it.”

“No need to thank me.” She lingered near him for a tantalizing instant. “It was the least I could do.”

What did she mean by that? Brandon wondered as Mr. Martin ushered the ladies into the house with rustic gentility, while he helped the other men unharness and tend to the weary horses. Did Lady Cassandra feel some remorse for the injury she’d once done him and seek to atone for it? Brandon was not sure he wanted that, or anything else that might threaten to rekindle feelings he had struggled so long to subdue.

T
HERE HAD BEEN
times since they set out from the stranded stagecoach that Cassandra had feared Imogene Calvert might squeeze the life out of her or perhaps send them both tumbling off the horse into the snow. The girl’s bleats of fright every time the creature took a step rubbed Cassandra’s nerves raw. Still she had managed to keep her temper and do everything in her power to soothe Miss Calvert.

After all, she
had
invited Sir Brandon’s cousin to ride with her and she knew their situation would only be made worse if Miss Calvert lost her nerve altogether. But the chief reason she’d remained patient with the girl was her need to make amends in some small way for the humiliation she had caused Sir Brandon. It made her feel a bit less beholden to her former suitor.

Now, as the kind farmer led her and the other ladies into the thatched-roofed cottage, Cassandra strove to dismiss the sensations that had overwhelmed her when Sir Brandon caught her in his arms and eased her to the ground. She had no business feeling buoyant and light-headed. There was no excuse for her intense inclination to linger near him.

“Welcome to our humble home, ladies,” Mr. Martin ushered them into a narrow entry hall where several coats and cloaks hung from pegs on both walls. “I reckon you are accustomed to finer lodgings than this, but any port in a storm is better than none, as they say.”

Before they could reply, he called out, “Come greet our guests, Mother! Their carriages got stuck in the snow so they are going to stop with us for a spell. If this storm keeps up, who knows but we may have company for Twelfth Night.”

“Oh no!” Miss Calvert cried. “Surely we will not be stranded here that long!”

If one of her sisters had uttered such a tactless remark, Cassandra would have swiftly silenced her with a firm nudge in the ribs. But she could hardly do that to Sir Brandon’s cousin, whom she had met only hours ago. Instead she did her best to make it sound more courteous. “Of course we hope we shall not be obliged to trespass on your hospitality that long, sir. It is kind of you to speak as if our presence would be a pleasure rather than a burden.”

“Very kind, indeed,” Mrs. Davis murmured in support.

Just then a plump little woman appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. Wisps of ginger hair curled out from beneath her cap. “Well, well, didn’t I say there would be travelers stranded on the road with this storm coming on so sudden? Welcome, my dears. Hang up your wraps and come through to the parlor to warm yourselves. I’ve a good fire going and the kettle is on for tea.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin,” Cassandra replied before Imogene Calvert had a chance to speak. “You are a gracious hostess. We were fortunate indeed to find our way to your house.”

She removed her snow-covered cloak then peeled off her gloves and untied the ribbons of her bonnet with stiff, uncooperative fingers. By the time she and the others hung up their wraps, the men had begun to enter behind them. At the urging of their hostess, the three women followed her into the parlor.

The room was less than half the size of the smallest sitting room in the ducal mansion where Cassandra had resided so briefly. She hoped Sir Brandon would not bump his head on one of the sturdy wooden beams that protruded from the low ceiling. But the parlor’s modest dimensions made it far cozier on a stormy winter night, especially with a cheery fire blazing in the wide stone hearth.

Several plain, solid chairs clustered around the walls facing the fire. A wide seat had been hewn into the thick outer wall of the house beneath a pair of small, shuttered windows. Cassandra and Mrs. Davis sank down on it together while Imogene Calvert selected the chair nearest to the fire and perched there. She surveyed the Martins’ snug parlor with barely concealed disdain.

Fortunately Mrs. Martin did not appear to notice. She stood beside the hearth beaming at her guests. “I fear you have me at a disadvantage, ladies. You know my name but I do not know yours. I reckon introductions are in order, don’t you?”

“I do indeed, ma’am,” Cassandra replied, rubbing her hands together to relieve the painful prickling as they began to warm. “I am Cassandra Whitney. This is my friend Mrs. Davis and Miss Calvert, whom we met on the road today.”

She explained how the Calvert’s carriage broke down and its occupants had been picked up by the stagecoach, which later got stuck in the snow.

“That is more adventure than I should care to have in a whole year.” Mrs. Martin shook her head over their predicament. “Though I suppose it will make an exciting story to tell, Miss Whitney. Or is it Miss Cassandra?”

She was referring to the custom for the eldest daughter of a family to be addressed by her surname while younger ones were known by their given names.

Cassandra was about to reply when Imogene Calvert spoke up. “It is
Lady
Cassandra, in fact. Her father was the Duke of Norland.”

Inwardly, Cassandra cringed at Miss Calvert’s lofty tone. She was in no position to exult over anyone, least of all their hosts, who were behaving more graciously than many persons of title she could name.

“Lady Cassandra?” Mrs. Martin repeated with evident relish. “Well, fancy that. I never expected to entertain a duke’s daughter!”

“I am more apt to answer to Miss Cassandra.” She attempted to make light of the whole question. “That is how I was known for most of my life. I feel quite a fraud using any title since my father held his for such a short time before it passed to his cousin.”

She welcomed the arrival of the men, hoping their presence would bring a change of conversation. The stagecoach driver and the Calvert’s coachman entered first, followed by two younger men. One was the coach guard, while the other Cassandra assumed to be the Calvert’s footman.

By the time Sir Brandon entered, blowing on his fingers to warm them, all the chairs in the Martins’ parlor were occupied. The young footman started to vacate his seat for his master but Mrs. Martin had other ideas.

“There is room on the window seat, sir, if the ladies do not mind budging up a bit.” She did not wait to hear if they objected, but practically dragged the baronet over and pushed him down beside Cassandra.

Thank heaven she had been out in the cold so long! Her cheeks were already bright red, which would conceal the furious blush that rose in them now.

With his usual courtesy Sir Brandon thanked their hostess when Cassandra knew he must want to do quite the opposite. She budged up as far as she could without doing poor Mrs. Davis an injury, yet her right leg still pressed against the baronet’s, a familiarity of which she was far too aware.

He did not appear to notice. Instead he introduced himself and the other men to their hosts.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” declared the lady of the house with obvious sincerity. “Now you all need a good hot drink to warm you up. If you’ll excuse me, I shall go make the tea.”

Mr. Martin raised one large hand to stay her. “I reckon these folks need something a mite stronger than tea, Mother. Have we any of that mulled cider left from Christmas?”

“Plenty, my dear!” Mrs. Martin beamed at her husband’s cleverness. “I have no doubt that will soon revive them, poor frozen souls.”

In spite of Cassandra’s discomfort at being forced into such close contact with her former suitor, she could not help but notice the easy affection between Mr. and Mrs. Martin. She envied it. No doubt they had fancied one another in their younger years and wed for that reason alone. It was a luxury she and her sisters had never been permitted. Now it was too late, except perhaps for Evie. She hoped her sister would marry for love and not feel bound to accept an uncongenial suitor simply because he could improve her family’s fortunes.

That thought made Cassandra even more conscious of the gentleman she had once hoped to marry for love. Her nostrils tingled at the faint tang of his shaving soap, so familiar to her even after all this time. More than the sight of him, the sound of his voice or even the disconcerting physical contact between them, that scent transported her back to her first Season in London. It threatened to revive the emotions she had experienced then with painful intensity.

As Mrs. Martin headed off to fetch refreshments, Cassandra scrambled to her feet and followed.

“Let me help you.” Her offer came out in the tone of a desperate plea.

“No need for that, my dear.” Mrs. Martin tried to wave her back but Cassandra held her ground. She would rather have her feet put to the fire than go back and squeeze in so close to a man who must despise her, as Sir Brandon Calvert had every right to do.

“I gave our chore girl a little holiday to visit her family in Avebury,” Mrs. Martin admitted, “but I can manage. You are our guest and the daughter of a duke.”

“If you think that will make me a hindrance in your kitchen,” Cassandra persisted, “I can assure you I am no stranger to housework. I like to make myself useful and I expect I will warm up faster by moving around than by sitting still.”

As they spoke, the two women made their way down a narrow passage that opened into a tidy kitchen. A large cooking hearth mirrored the one in the parlor. A good fire burned in it while a copper kettle whistled on the hob.

Mrs. Martin turned to fix Cassandra with a puzzled look.

“Is it that young gentleman?” She lowered her voice so as not to carry back to the parlor where the others had begun to talk among themselves. “Was I wrong to seat him beside you? He is a handsome fellow, but they are not always the most agreeable.”

Cassandra knew she should not betray anything of her feelings toward Sir Brandon. Especially not to a woman she had just met. Yet she could not allow anyone to speak ill of him and go unchallenged. “I have known gentlemen like that, but Sir Brandon Calvert is not one of them. If anything, his character is more agreeable than his looks.”

“I see.” Mrs. Martin began bustling about her kitchen. “So you have met him before? Can I trouble you to fetch those cups down from the shelf?”

Cassandra turned to the task, grateful for any diversion. “I was once acquainted with him but I fear we did not part on the best of terms. The fault for that is entirely mine. I would rather not subject him to my company any more than our circumstances make necessary.”

“Are you certain he is still angry with you?” Mrs. Martin inquired as casually as she might have asked about the weather.

“Quite certain.” Cassandra insisted as she took the last of the cups down. She did not want their hostess to get any ridiculous ideas about her and Sir Brandon any more than she wanted to. That would only lead to more heartache—something she had suffered enough to last a lifetime.

“I hope you will be able to keep your distance from the gentleman if that is your wish, my dear.” Mrs. Martin sounded doubtful. “But that is a lot of snow outside and this is not a very big house.”

It appeared Lady Cassandra’s attitude toward him had not thawed after all.

As Brandon wrapped his hands around the warm cup and sipped its spicy-sweet contents, he told himself he would not wish it any other way. When she had leapt from her place beside him to assist their hostess, a sense of relief had surged through him. Now he would not have to work so hard to ignore her when all his senses fairly screamed their awareness of her leg pressed against his.

At the same time, a sharp pain pierced his chest, chilling in its intensity. It contradicted the wishful belief he’d cultivated in recent years that Cassandra Whitney no longer meant anything to him.

He told himself not to be ridiculous. He was no longer a green, young fool in the throes of his first love. He had gone to war, where he’d taken lives and nearly lost his on more than one occasion. After four years he thought he had forgotten Cassandra Whitney. But seeing her again, so unexpectedly, brought back memories of their old courtship, as fresh as if it had been yesterday. It was the years and experiences since then that felt like a hazy dream he could scarcely recall.