Page 66 of The Wedding Challenge

There was no sign of the woman who had opened the door, but Callie shrieked for help anyway. She could hear Bromwell running down the hall after her, heard him curse and call her name. She flung open the door and raced outside, then came to a dead halt.

The carriage was gone.

Panicked, she looked to the right and the left, but there was no sign of it anywhere. Clearly it had left as soon as she went inside. No doubt the driver had had instructions to do so. Probably Mrs. Farmington had gone with them—and even if she had not, Callie had no hope that she would help her. Sobs rose up in her chest, threatening to burst out, but Callie shoved them down.

She started to run.

“Callie!” Bromwell, who had come to a halt in the doorway behind her as she stared around the yard, started after her again. “Come back here!”

It was raining harder now, pelting onto her head, stingingly cold, but she did not bother to pull up her hood. She simply lifted her skirts up to her knees and ran as fast as she could. He had been drinking, she thought; perhaps he would not be able to catch her. He might stumble and fall. If she could reach the trees, perhaps she could elude him.

She quickly realized the futility of her hopes. Within a few yards, he had caught up with her, and he grabbed her arm, pulling her to a stop. Callie twisted and pulled, trying vainly to tear herself from his grasp.

“Let go of me!” she cried, blinking back her tears, as much from anger and frustration now as from sorrow. “Rochford will kill you! Nay, I will kill you myself!” She reached over with her other hand and scratched at his arm, digging in her nails.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed, grabbing her other wrist and pulling it away from his arm. “What the devil is wrong with you? Have you gone mad?”

“I never would have believed this of you!” she spat. “I never would have thought that you would stoop this low!” She struggled against him wildly, shrieking wordlessly as she twisted and pulled, lashing out at him with her feet. She managed to jerk one of her arms free, not even noticing the pain, and swung at him, hitting his cheek.

“Blast it! Callie, stop this!” He whirled her around and wrapped his arms around her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides, and lifted her from her feet.

She struggled for a moment longer, but the sobs she had fought against could no longer be held back, and she began to cry in great, gulping breaths and finally went limp in his arms. The chilling rain poured down over them, soaking them.

Bromwell set her down and swept her up in his arms like a child. He bent his head to hers, murmuring, “Callie…sweetheart…”

His lips brushed her hair for an instant. Then he turned and carried her back into the house. She lay against him, weak and unresisting, chilled to the bone and numbed from the onslaught of emotions.

Inside the house, he set her on her feet, calling, “Mrs. Farmington!”

He unfastened Callie’s sodden cloak and let it fall to the flagstone floor. Her hair was wet and had fallen from its pins during their struggle, and now it fell over her shoulders, water dripping from it. Beneath the cloak, her dress had gotten wet, as well, and her boots were covered in mud.

“Mrs. Farmington!” he shouted again. “Blast it, where is the woman?”

He was even wetter than Callie, for he had worn no outer garment. His white shirt clung to him, soaked through, and his hair was plastered to his head. He shivered, his fingers trembling as he reached out to unfasten the buttons of her dress.

“Here, you must get out of this dress,” he told her.

“No!” She jerked away from him, though she was too weary to run or fight any longer.

He sighed. “Then sit down on this bench.”

He took her arms and hauled her over to the wooden bench that sat to one side of the entry. He pushed her down onto the seat, none too gently.

“Stay here,” he ordered.

Callie would have liked to disobey him, just for principle’s sake, but she found it too hard to move. She leaned her head back against the wall. She was terribly cold, she knew, but she felt too numb and disconnected to do anything about it. She shuddered, her teeth beginning to chatter.

Bromwell reappeared, holding a knitted throw, which he wrapped around her tightly. “There. That should warm you up a bit.”

He stripped off his wet shirt and waistcoat, and tossed them onto the floor. Callie’s eyes widened warily. But he made no move toward her, only wrapped another afghan around himself like a shawl. It made such a comical picture that in any other circumstances she would have been tempted to laugh.

He slicked his hair back, squeezing the water from it, then reached down to do the same to Callie’s hair. She raised her hands to push his hands away, but there was little strength in her, and he ignored her feeble attempts. Then he knelt in front of her and began to unlace her boots.

“Stop,” she said.

“Hush. You are freezing and wet, and I refuse to let you catch your death of cold simply because you have run mad.”

“I have not run mad,” she protested weakly.