the carriage through the trees, she let out a cry of dismay. The horses had been spooked by the storm. Even though Harland had tied them both, one had broken its strap, then either fallen against or kicked the side of the carriage. There was no sign of the animal, but the vehicle was tilted drunkenly to one side. The front axle was clearly broken, the spokes of the right wheel shattered.
Harland approached the remaining horse, making soft crooning noises to the terrified animal. Its eyes rolled back in its head, and he had to sidestep several times to avoid its plunging hooves before he managed to grab its halter and calm the beast by stroking its quivering neck.
He glared through the rain toward the entrance of the lane, seeking the missing horse, but Emmy suspected it was long gone.
“Bugger,” he muttered. “Looks like we’ll have to walk.”
“Back to Stamford?” Emmy groaned. “It’s miles.” She dropped her sodden skirts against her legs and indicated the listing carriage. “Can’t we just shelter in there until it passes?”
She tried to ignore the blush that rose in her cheeks as she remembered what he’d said about doing to her in that carriage.
He glanced crossly at the sky. “No. This doesn’t look like it’s going to stop anytime soon. I’ve spent far too many nights getting rained on and sleeping out in the open during the war, thank you very much. If I’m going to die of pneumonia, I’d just as well do it in a bed. We passed an inn a mile or two back, didn’t we?”
Emmy sighed. “The Bertie Arms. But it has a dreadful reputation. No one of any consequence ever stays there. It’s probably full of highwaymen and thieves.”
“Then we’re not likely to see anyone we know,” he countered reasonably, “and you’ll feel right at home in such company.” He wheeled the horse around and started to trudge away down the lane.
Emmy scowled at his broad back. “We can’t just leave the carriage here. What of my things?”
He shrugged, and carried on walking. “You can bring your bag if you like. And you might as well have my greatcoat. I’m already drenched.”
With a sigh of defeat, Emmy reached up into the coach and pulled out her bag and his coat. The sheer weight of the heavy woolen garment almost brought her to her knees, but she managed to shrug it over her shoulders. The sleeves fell way past her hands and the hem dragged in the mud when she started after him.
His scent wrapped itself around her, infused in the fibers of the coat, and the musky, wet-pine scent made her insides curl. What would have happened if they hadn’t been interrupted? Would she have let Harland take her up against that tree? On the ground in the mud and the rain? Her stomach gave a little flip. Most probably. She still ached for him.
She hastened to catch up. It was only a couple of miles to the inn. She could manage that. She wasn’t a sensitive hothouse flower, like most of the young ladies of the ton.
Chapter 33.
The rain turned into a biblical downpour during the last agonizing mile. Emmy trudged alongside Harland and the horse, her shoes squelching in the puddles, her teeth chattering with the cold.
Darkness had fallen swiftly over the countryside, and there was little moonlight to help show the way. She followed them almost by sound, by the suck and splash of the horse’s hooves in the mud, cursing the ache in her legs and the fact that the thin soles of her stupid slippers provided almost no protection against the rocky ground.
Her stockings were soaked, her sodden skirts a heavy encumbrance that made every step more difficult. She was so hungry, she was almost faint with fatigue.
No other travelers passed them on the road. No one else was foolish enough to be out in such weather. Emmy blinked through the teeming rain, which seemed to be going sideways rather than straight down, driven by a blustery, malevolent wind.
Harland’s voice floated back to her. “It rained like this on the morning of Waterloo. It was miserable. But the rain might have been what won the day for us. The French cannons got stuck in the mud. They left them behind when they retreated, and we were able to capture most of them.”
One such cannon had injured him. Emmy sent up a brief prayer of thanks that he’d been spared. However miserable he was now, at