The Perfect Crimes of Marian Hayes (London Highwaymen, #2)(45)

Marian tried to reassure herself that Rob wasn’t delusional enough to think that this was acceptable traveling weather. He would stop at an inn, flirt with everyone and everything, pet a dog, hold a baby, and wind up spending all his money on rounds of drinks for his new friends. A snowbound inn was probably Rob’s idea of a grand time. She really didn’t have to worry.

She didn’t like to think about why she was worrying in the first place—Rob, after all, had triumphed over greater dangers than inclement weather and had the scars to prove it—so she set about clearing out a room that seemed to exist only to store old and broken bits of furniture. She sorted out what could be sold or given away, then put aside the rest to have broken down for firewood. That accomplished and the room empty save a serviceable bedstead, a mostly functional wardrobe, and a couple of other odds and ends, she dragged up the mattress from the tiny ground-floor bedroom that had been too cramped for Rob to sleep in. This room was much bigger and airier than the room downstairs and perhaps wouldn’t make Rob feel quite so closed in. She liked the idea of him sleeping in this room she had arranged for him with her own hands.

He might not come at all, of course. He might have decided that he preferred being in London, where he belonged, not in the country in a ramshackle house with a woman who caused him nothing but trouble. That would be eminently sensible of him. She would congratulate him on having finally allowed reason to prevail for once in his life.

When night fell, Marian lit a lamp and read aloud to her father, who thought it peculiar that a literate stranger was in his midst but treated her with the cordiality and kindness with which he had always treated everyone. Occasionally she caught him looking at her as if he thought she was just a little familiar, like someone he had met in passing a long time ago. She caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the darkened window and had what she imagined was the same sensation, catching a glimpse of the person who had once been Marian Hayes.

When her father fell asleep, she extinguished the lamp, and the landscape outside the window suddenly became visible. The moon wasn’t full, but it reflected brightly off the snow, giving Marian a view clear down the length of the drive until the wind picked up, concealing everything but a veil of swirling snow. She was debating whether to run out to the stable to check on the cart horse, when she saw a dark figure silhouetted against the white of the snow.

She didn’t know how she knew it was Rob, and perhaps it was just that whoever it was had to be foolhardy and impetuous, but she ran down the stairs and flung open the door, letting in a gust of wind and no small amount of snow.

“The back door was blocked with snow,” Rob said. His cape was caked with snow and ice, but at least he had had the sense to wear the cape in the first place. “Had to go to the front. About to ruin your parquet, Marian.”

“To the devil with the parquet.” Marian shut the door before the entire hall filled with snow. “What is wrong with you? What possessed you to travel on such a night?”

“Wanted to see you, love. The roads are in a state, let me tell you.” His voice sounded ragged and his face was red with cold. He didn’t even have a muffler, the idiot. She wanted to kiss him—she wanted to check him for frostbite—she wanted to yell at him for traveling in dangerous weather and for all the other risks he had ever taken in his life.

“Get in the kitchen so I can pour some brandy down your throat and then slap you.”

“Promises.”

She bullied him through the house and into the kitchen, where she divested him of his outer layer of clothes and shoved him into a chair before the fire. Then she did kiss him, even though she really ought to be carrying on with warming him up, or scolding him, or both. His lips were cold against hers, but they warmed up as she kissed him, so maybe she was accomplishing something after all. When the hand that had settled on her hip began to slide lower, she returned to her senses. “How did you get here from the coaching inn?” she asked as she knelt to build up the banked fire.

“Hired a pony cart to bring me to the end of the drive.” She could feel his eyes on her. “I didn’t tramp through the snowbanks, if that’s what has you worried. I wouldn’t do you much good if I were dead, now would I.”

She sniffed skeptically. “There’s brandy in the cupboard on your left. Pour two glasses and tell me what news you brought.” Something occurred to her—something she ought to have realized the minute she saw him at such an hour, in such weather. “I suppose it can’t have been good news, if you were in such a hurry to—”

He took hold of her hand with fingers that were icy cold. “It’s fine news, Marian. Eliza’s well. Percy’s well. The duke is dead, and nobody got a good look at the highwayman who shot him.”

She went rigid. This was the best possible news, and she supposed she ought to be happy, but instead the relief hit her like a blow to the head. Everything was as well as it could be, which was far more than she deserved. For a week now, she had been doing whatever she could to ignore her worries and instead concentrate her efforts on doing what had to be done. And now that it was over, she felt like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

The hand holding her own became an arm wrapped around her, a solid body holding her close. He didn’t say anything, which was good because there was probably nothing intelligent that could be said to a grown adult who was, it had to be admitted, sobbing on the kitchen floor.