Brock saw Cecil consider a heated response, but self-interest must have kicked in. He wouldn’t want to offend such a powerful patron as Lord Derwent. In seething acknowledgment, he bowed.
Derwent nodded, although his expression didn’t warm. He presented his arm to Selina. "May I offer you a seat in my carriage, Mrs. Martin?"
"Thank you, but if…if Erskine has a broken arm, he should go. I was only bruised in the accident, my lord."
Pride threatened to burst Brock’s chest. Even on what must count as the worst day of her life, she thought of someone else’s trouble before her own.
Derwent scowled, as if the idea of a menial sharing the rarefied air he breathed offended every drop of his blue blood. "There’s room for four. If we take the injured man, Mr. Canley-Smythe
or Lord Bruard must remain behind."
Horror flooded Brock at the prospect of letting Selina go without him. He didn’t trust Cecil, who looked ready to commit murder. It was the closest thing to passion he’d ever seen the cod-faced poltroon display. But then Brock had known from the first that while Selina didn’t want Cecil, Cecil most definitely wanted her.
Selina broke away to cross to where Erskine sat, pale and in obvious agony. Brock followed, itching to do something to make all this better for Selina and hating to be so powerless.
"We need to splint that arm before you travel, Erskine," she said in an impressively steady voice. "I’m so sorry you were hurt."
"Och, madam, nae need to worry about me. I’ll be right as rain in nae time." But when the man tried to stand up, he jarred his arm and went as white as milk.
Relieved to have something practical to do, Brock returned to his carriage. He slithered down the bank and felt his boots sink into the mud as he snapped a length of wood from the rails. He tossed the stick back onto the road, then collected the baggage from the back and tossed that up to safety, too.
Plaistow appeared at the top of the ditch. "May I be of assistance, my lord?"
"Good man. Can you give me a hand up?"
The sides of the ditch were steep and slippery. Brock had made it down with relative ease. He wasn’t sure he’d make it out again without help.
When he was back on the road, he rummaged in his bag and produced half a dozen neck cloths. He also took the chance to rub some snow over his face and hands to clean off the worst of the blood.
He turned back to Plaistow. "Will you help me splint my coachman’s broken arm?"
By the time Erskine was ready to travel, after an interval of excruciating pain that he bore with astonishing stoicism, Derwent and Canley-Smythe had retired inside the undamaged coach. Neither had offered to assist with the coachman’s injuries.
"More brandy, Erskine?" Brock asked, as he and Selina helped the stocky young man up onto shaky legs. Now Erskine was as ready to travel as he was going to be, Plaistow had left them to check that his horses were fit to run.
Erskine was ashen, and it was clear shock was setting in. "Aye, thank ye," he mumbled, staggering as he found his feet.
"Keep this." Brock handed the man the silver flask. "You might need it again before you reach the Blue Wagon."
With some stumbling, Brock and Selina got Erskine across to the carriage. Derwent emerged as they approached. "If we take your man, someone has to stay behind."
"Be buggered if I’m giving up my seat for that petticoat-chasing bastard," Cecil snarled from inside the vehicle.
Brock caught a flash of terror in Selina’s eyes at the prospect of being trapped with Cecil. He lowered his voice as he spoke to Derwent. "I believe it’s best if Mrs. Martin isn’t alone with Canley-Smythe."
Derwent still looked as though something in the vicinity stank to high heaven. "You have my word that she’ll come to no harm, Bruard."
The sneer he sent Selina indicated that despite his assurances, he believed she deserved all she got. Brock fought back the urge to beat the self-righteousness out of the sod. Right now, he and Selina needed Derwent’s help – and his discretion, although Brock had a grim feeling that was too much to ask.
"Thank you," he said, although the words stuck in his craw.
"You can wait here and we’ll send back help, or you can follow us on one of your carriage horses," Derwent said coldly.
Now Selina no longer fussed over Erskine, the brief purpose faded from her expression. She was back to looking like the world ended. Damn it all to hell.
"I’ll ride one of the horses." He raised his voice so that Cecil heard him and noted that Selina’s defender intended to arrive at the inn soon after she did. "I should be just behind you. Derwent, when you get to the Blue Wagon, can you please wait with Mrs. Martin, so that no ruffians annoy her?"
He meant one ruffian in particular. To Brock’s relief, Derwent nodded. "It would be my pleasure."