Page 112 of The Winter Companion

The bolts slid back and the doors to the loose box swung open.

Maggie Honeywell stood there, the dearest sight in the whole world.

She was wrapped in a red woolen cloak, and her dark hair, unpinned, tumbled about her shoulders in magnificent disarray. She held a lamp aloft in one hand, illuminating her pale, fiercely determined face.

He closed the short distance between them.

She set the lantern on the ground as he approached. And then her arms were around his neck, and Nicholas was embracing her so tightly that he feared he might crush her.

When he at last loosened his hold, she drew back just enough to bring her hands to his bloodied face. With excruciating care, she inspected him for injury, her hands moving lightly from his forehead, to his jaw, to his broad shoulders and chest.

“My God,” she breathed. “What has he done to you?”

Nicholas caught her busy hands and held them firmly in his, preventing her from delving beneath his torn shirt. To his mortification, he felt tears stinging at the backs of his eyes. No one, not even his mother, had ever shown him the tenderness and concern that Maggie Honeywell did. “How did you know where to find me?”

She gave his hands a reassuring squeeze. “Do you remember my telling you that the vicar’s wife was coming to dinner? Well, Aunt Daphne invited her to stay the night, and after I retired to bed, the two of them must have dipped into the sherry. I could hear them laughing and carrying on all the way upstairs. And thank heaven I did, for when I went down to the drawing room to see what all the noise was about, I overheard my aunt talking about what had happened with you, and Fred, and my jewelry. I came as fast as I could.”

“I swear I didn’t steal anything from you. Fred must have taken your jewelry and hidden it in my room. How else would he have known where to look for it? He wanted to catch me with it. To get me out of your life once and for all. I saw it in his eyes when he found us dancing in Burton Wood. He wants me to be hanged or transported for life, anything to—”

“There’s no time for that,” Maggie said. “I’ve come to set you free. To help you get away before the magistrate comes.”

Nicholas took a step toward her, his grasp on her small, slender hands tightening. “You have to believe me. I’d never steal anything of yours. Say you believe me!”

“Of course I do. And if I thought it would do any good, I’d proclaim your innocence to Aunt Daphne and the magistrate and anyone else who would listen. But they won’t listen to me. You know they won’t. They’ll say our friendship has blinded me to your true nature, or some such nonsense. And then they’ll accuse me of impugning Fred’s honor by doubting his word as a gentleman.”

Abruptly Nicholas let her go, not trusting himself to touch her any longer. “A gentleman. Your future husband, you mean.”

Maggie’s eyes blazed. “Why do you always bring that up? As if I want to marry Frederick Burton-Smythe.”

“Look at what he did to me tonight.” Nicholas drew aside the collar of his shirt, revealing the deep gash of blood running from the side of his neck down to the top of his chest. “I ask you, is this the work of a gentleman?”

Maggie’s eyes widened. “Good grief! Did Fred do that?”

“Who else?”

“But why?”

“Do you think I’d just let him lock me up in here without a fight? He pulled me from my room after he found your jewelry. We were struggling with each other all the way down the stairs. I might have beaten him if he’d fought fair. Instead, when I drew back to hit him again, he lashed out at me with that blasted whip he’s always carrying. I should have expected it. After all these years, I should have known…” He raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. “But I wasn’t prepared, damn me. I fell backward into the loose box, and before I could regain my feet, he’d bolted the door.”

“The blackguard!” Maggie’s low voice trembled with fury. “The confounded coward! I shall show him what it feels like to be struck with a whip. When Papa returns from London, I’ll—” She broke off with a muttered oath. “Devil take it, there’s not even enough time for me to dress your wound. You must go, Nick. You must hide yourself from Fred and the magistrate until my father returns next week, and then, when you come back, we shall go to Papa together and explain—”

“Why should I come back?” Nicholas spat in a sudden burst of anger. “I hate this cursed place.”

Maggie shook her head, denying the truth of his words. “Don’t say that.”

“I hate everything about it. I hate Sir Roderick and I hate Fred Burton-Smythe. I hate the vicar’s wife and your Aunt Daphne. I despise working in this damned stable and—”

“What about me?” she asked.

He felt a spasm of deep anguish. “How can one good thing outweigh all of this misery?”

“Well, you can’t go away and never come back. As horrible as everything else is, Jenny’s here, and I’m here, and you have someplace to sleep, and a chance to earn your living—”

“Earn my living? As what? A groom in your father’s stable?” Nicholas laughed bitterly. “I’ll never be a gentleman if I remain here. No matter how much you teach me about books and music and dancing. Bastards and commoners can never be made into gentlefolk, by no miracle. I’ll never be anything more than a servant to you. And one day…” He looked at her, his chest constricting with torment. “One day you’ll marry Fred Burton-Smythe, and you’ll forget I ever meant anything to you.”

“I would never!”

“I can’t be here when that day comes, Maggie. I’d rather be dead. And if I remain here, I might as well be. There’s no future for me as a servant at Beasley Park. Can’t you understand that?”