"She gets a fortnight's pay and nothing more."
"You are a fool! Fergus is not the only one she meets," Rebecca hissed as he started to turn away. "There's another man. I've seen him in the woods. He says that your fine wife is nothing more than a whore wh
o tricked you into this marriage. I cannot stand to see you brought low, Collin!"
"What," he ground out, "do you mean, there is a man in the woods?"
Red rose to her cheeks. "He is a gentleman, not some beggar. He says he was a friend to you and that you parted ways over that doxy."
"His name"
"John."
"John."
Rebecca took a step back. "I only wanted to help you, Collin."
Collin reached out and snatched her wrist into an iron grip. "What have you done?"
"Nothing." She tried to pull away. "Nothing! I only met him three days ago. I was to make sure that you were occupied tomorrow, so that she could go to meet him. And then . . . Then be sure that she was caught sneaking back in, be sure that you saw the evidence of her infidelity."
"My God, you would send my wife out to be raped?"
Rebecca sniffed, "Hardly," but then began to claw at her wrist. "Collin, You're hurting me."
"I. . ." Collin tried to loosen his fingers, but he could not feel them. "I should beat you for this. Beat you like the spoiled child you are. If she comes to harm . . ."
He let her go and watched as she stumbled away. "But I am as much to blame. More. Do not be here when I return or you will regret it."
The crowd parted before him. He stalked toward the stairs to take them two at a time and was bounding back down in minutes, armed with winter cloaks and blankets, his pistol and dirk and a small bag of gold.
The hall had emptied, though a frantic murmur filled the whole house like the swell of pigeons in a barn. But Collin's soul stayed quiet. It had nothing more to say to the likes of him.
Something dripped from the tip of her nose and plopped to her sodden cloak. Tears or melted snow—she no longer had any idea. Self-pity had set in about the same time as the wet snow and she had since descended into depths of misery the likes of which she'd never imagined. Why had she not stopped at that dark cottage she'd spied through the gray mist? Why had she not turned back?
Brinn snuffled behind her and nudged her arm, but Alex ignored her. resenting the horse's damned delicate leg that hadn't held up past the first patch of ice.
They hadn't passed an occupied home since the start of the bad weather and only one rider had overtaken them. She hadn't even met the man's eyes much less asked assistance. His muttered, sing-song cursing had reached her long before his mule had drawn even.
Clouds parted above her for a bare moment of palest moonlight. The sliver of moon would provide little light even on a clear night, but during this snow . . . It wasn't nearly bright enough to warn her of the ice that sent her feet skidding.
Her own scream scared her more than the fall. She was so cold that she barely felt the pain in her knees, but frustration overwhelmed her and she knelt in the cold and wept.
Another mistake, this flight. Another misstep in her life. My God, she was only twenty. How many bad decisions were still ahead of her? When she got to Somerhart—if she got to Somerhart—she would do best to avoid the outside world entirely. She would hide in her room during parties to avoid lecherous men. Visit convents for holiday to keep her body cool. And perhaps if Hart married, she would simply retire to her cottage and transform herself into a crazy spinster.
A memory danced behind her closed eyes, of Collin standing above her, face fierce with pleasure.
No, not her cottage. Never her cottage. One of Hart's lesser holdings then. One that employed no men. She would be the crone with wild hair and wilder eyes, the woman who trailed a path of half-feral cats and the smell of pipe smoke.
Pressing her hands to wet eyes, she pictured herself old and alone, something she'd never done when she'd been so determined not to marry. But now she understood what that would mean . . . to be alone. To never feel a reverent touch. To never stroke her belly and wonder if it quickened with life. And it never would. No, she had bled not a week ago and now there would not be a chance of holding a tiny babe to her breast.
Her bones shivered, a deep rumbling of cold that vibrated weakly at first, then strengthened to something more . . . a pulsing. Stronger then, and Alex wondered weakly if she were dying there in the snow. Her heart stuttered over the rumble of her bones. Metal clinked.
A rider. Someone on the road behind her.
A whine of fear escaped her throat. It can't be St. Claire, she told herself. Not in this weather. He wouldn't dare breaking his precious neck for her. Her fear didn't ease.
She tried to push herself off the ground, but her legs felt thick and stiff as trees. How long had she knelt here?