A Week to Be Wicked (Spindle Cove #2)(93)

The coach hit the mud with a thick squelch. They broke apart, and Minerva’s shoulder jarred painfully as she bounced against the side panel.

“Min.” He scrambled to her side. “Minerva, tell me you’re not—”

“I’m fine,” she hastened to say. “Unharmed.”

Mostly.

She wouldn’t tell him so, but her shoulder did ache a bit. Nevertheless, this was hardly a dramatic, deathly carriage accident. The post-chaise hadn’t even been in motion. It was really no more than falling off a fence, or out of a tree.

“Just don’t die.” He clutched her tight. “If you died, I’d beg God to take me, too.”

Lord, what a statement. She forced herself to ignore its implications and keep to the task at hand: reassurance.

“Well, I’m not dying. I’m not even injured.”

He searched her face. “Are you certain?”

“Yes.”

“You’re not bleeding anywhere? You can feel all your limbs?”

“Don’t you feel my arms around you?”

She stroked up and down his back, until he released a heavy sigh.

“Yes.” He moved his weight off her chest, laughing a bit. He passed a hand over his face. “Good God. I didn’t realize how unstable these contraptions are without a team hitched to them. I suppose we were too . . .”

“Zealous?” She smiled. “Well, look at it this way. The wheels aren’t stuck in the mud any longer.”

“This is true. Let me help you up.”

They untangled their knot of limbs. Colin rose first, then offered his hand.

As she got her feet under her, Minerva’s boots sloshed. Water was seeping in through the coach’s damaged side panels, puddling at their feet.

“Oh dear.”

Colin had noticed it, too. He tipped the trunk, using his boot to move it away from the growing puddle. Francine was packed so tightly, she’d no doubt survived the fall—but she wouldn’t survive a soaking.

“So it wasn’t our . . . you know . . . that toppled the chaise. At least, not entirely.”

He shook his head. “The road is flooding. That’s why the wheels slid free.”

The muddy water lapped at her hem. “We should get out of here. Right away.”

“I agree.” Colin raised his hands and pushed on the door overhead.

It wouldn’t open.

With a curse, he caught the door latch and rattled it violently. “Open, damn you,” he muttered. “Open.”

“It’s all right,” she said, trying to keep him calm. “We’re not trapped. If you break the window, I can crawl through and open it from the outside.”

“Right. You always were the clever one. Move aside and cover your head.”

When she’d obeyed, he took a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wrapped it tight about his knuckles. Then he grabbed the pistol by the barrel and used it to smash at the windowpane. Two good swings, and he had it cracked.

Small bits of glass rained down on Minerva’s bowed head and shoulders. When the shower of glass had ceased and true raindrops made their way inside, it seemed safe to look up. She glimpsed him clearing the few remaining jagged shards from the edges of the window opening.

“Here.” He cupped one hand and held it out. “You put your boot in my hand and your hand on my shoulder. I’ll lift you up.”

She nodded.

As her head and shoulders emerged through the small opening, Minerva braced her hands on either side of the makeshift hatch. She hauled the rest of her body up and through. Rain doused her instantly, plastering her hair to her neck and brow. She swiped it away, impatient.

Once she had her entire body outside the carriage, she knelt on the top—which had recently been the side—and pulled at the door latch with both hands, rattling and cursing the twisted bit of metal.

“Drat. The latch is jammed from this side, too.” She peered down at him. “Just come through the window, like I did. It will be a tight squeeze, but you’ll fit.”

“I’ll fit. But Francine won’t.” He hefted the trunk with both hands, lifting it above the water. It was far too big to fit through the window. “Go on. Take shelter under some trees. I’ll keep her dry until the rain lets up.”

“You want me to leave you here? Alone?”

A flicker of some emotion passed over his features, but he squelched it. “I’ll be fine. We’ll stay within shouting distance. You know our system, M. Tallyho, and all that.”

She shook her head. Impossible man. Not five minutes ago, he’d clutched her in his arms and begged her to never leave him. Pledged to follow her to the grave, if it came to that. He honestly thought she would abandon him now? Leave him trapped in a darkened carriage, alone, on these same roads that had claimed his parents’ lives?

He truly was cracked.

“I’m not leaving you in there.”

“Well, I’m not leaving this trunk.”

She rattled at the door latch again. It still refused to budge. “Perhaps I can break it open. Hand me the pistol, will you?”

Reaching up through the broken window, he handed her the weapon. She unwrapped it, slid her palm around the grip . . .

And then leveled it at him.