Page 24 of The Scarred Lyon

“Is that necessary?” she whispered.

“I am not taking any chances. I do not trust our hosts.”

“Your experience in the army?”

“Quite so.” Duncan covered her with the other quilt and their coats. He gingerly crawled in beside her and pulled her close with his free arm.

“I am sorry about Mr. Briggs.”

“As am I. His fate will stay with me for a long time to come.”

“It was no one’s fault. How were we to know such a storm would befall our journey?”

“Still, I should have—”

Augusta took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “Do not blame yourself. Try to rest. You need the sleep.” After all, it was as much her fault as his. If she’d been able to travel, they might not have driven right into this storm.

But she couldn’t change what had happened, and feeling bad about it would only make this situation worse.

Augusta sighed contentedly, feeling warm and safe. Duncan was already breathing deeply. Her thoughts turned to her son. This was the longest she had been away from him since he was born, and she missed him terribly. Reese’s sunny disposition always brightened her day. So far, he was nothing like Southen. That was a mercy. He did not look like him either. How would her son adjust to this new chapter in their lives? Would he accept Duncan into their family?

Those concerns could wait. For now, more urgent issues needed attention: the accident and the storm. Whatever happened, Augusta trusted Duncan’s strength, skill, and resilience. It was notable trust, especially since they had only just met.

What a day. What a start to their lives together.

At last, sleep overtook her. She would dream of her new husband. For the entire night.

Chapter Eleven

Duncan woke with a start. Since leaving the army, he hadn’t been much of a deep sleeper, and the squeak of a boot against wood meant someone was on the stairs. He lay perfectly still, listening.

A few frantic whispers were followed by the turning of the handle. He was glad he’d pushed the empty trunk against the door to alert him if anyone tried to come in. The trunk shifted slightly. The door shut with a muted sound, and Duncan heard footsteps hurriedly going down the stairs.

Robbery? It was possible.

Hansen probably figured that if Duncan had easily parted with ten guineas, there had to be more. But Duncan kept his money well hidden. Duncan listened intently for a long time but heard no further rustling. His eyelids grew heavy, and he fell asleep.

He awoke again. This time, to silence. Augusta slept peacefully in his arms, and he took a moment in the flickering candlelight to admire his bride, not only for her beauty but also for her fortitude. Most people would have been hysterical after such a carriage catastrophe. Augusta kept her head and helped formulate a plan.

How odd. The small room wasn’t as warm as it had been. Had Hansen let the fire die down? He had better look into it. Duncan carefully extricated himself from Augusta’s warm softness and, with great effort, stood. He ached all over. The willow bark powder had taken the edge off, but not enough to ease the intense throbbing. With his free arm, he touched his side and winced. Badly bruised, indeed.

He took his coat from the pile of bedding, biting his lip to keep from groaning, and draped it over his shoulders. He grabbed the book of matches from the top of the hamper, slipped it into his sling, then, as quietly as possible, moved the trunk enough to slip through the door.

The downstairs was shrouded in darkness, and as he descended, he saw the fire was all but extinguished. When Duncan had first entered the small cabin, he’d taken note of the layout. A soldier always looks for escape routes and hiding places. He’d never thought he would have to use his soldier training again. He remembered there was a candle on the table. Was it still there? He felt his way toward the table, found the candle, and used the concealed matches to light it, then stuffed the matches into his vest pocket. With the candle in hand, he headed toward the rear, where he assumed the Hansens slept.

The pallet bed was unoccupied. Duncan moved deeper into the room. A small chest of drawers sat nearby, its drawers open. It looked as if they had packed in haste, with clothes spilling out onto the floor. No wonder the fire was out. The Hansens had obviously made their escape several hours earlier. But to where? Duncan recalled Patrick mentioning a cluster of cottages five miles from where they had come.

He took his watch from his vest pocket and snapped it open. It was barely past eleven. He and Augusta had gone upstairs around seven. They fell asleep shortly after. No doubt, after trying to access the attic room, the Hansens had decided to leave. He stuffed his watch back into his pocket and walked toward the main room, leaving the candle on the table. The wind rattled the loose clapboards, and when Duncan opened the back door, a squall of wind and snow hit his face with considerable force.

Sputtering, he stepped outside and closed the door behind him. Might as well use the privy while he was there. After he finished, he made his way toward the barn structure. Already, the snow was past his calves, with some drifts past his knees. If this continued through the night, they could very well be stuck in that cabin for days. Duncan shook the worrying observation from his mind.

He opened the barn door, and the stench of animal manure assaulted his senses. Right. The Hansens had a mule. They must have used it for transportation, as the stall was empty. In a dark corner, he heard a few chickens clucking. In the morning, he would check for eggs. Any additional food would be welcome. He stepped inside, and hay crunched under his boots.

A soft nicker came from the rear. It was hard to see, but he made his way toward the sound. Dawn immediately laid his head on Duncan’s shoulder, gently nibbling on his coat.

“There, my lad. All will be well. I promise,” Duncan soothed as he petted the horse’s neck.

Dawn let out what sounded like a deep sigh.