Snowbound With The Baronet Page 8

  Imogene hovered behind her. “Did you bring the luggage?”

  Brandon replied with a weary nod. “We would not have dared come back without it.”

  “You returned safe and sound,” said Cassandra as she hung up his coat. “That is all that matters.”

  She was not pretending to care about his safe return. Brandon’s intuition assured him without the slightest qualm of doubt. Perhaps when he recovered his strength, he could persuade himself otherwise. For the moment he was more than content to bask in the delightful warmth of her welcome.

  Chapter Seven

  HARD AS SHE tried to keep the perilous surge of happiness from overwhelming her, Cassandra found it impossible.

  Brandon had returned safe. Just then, nothing else mattered. Her regrets about the past dwindled into insignificance. So did her fear that he might discover the truth about her feelings or her circumstances. What a relief it was to have their weight lifted from her heart, buoyed by a rising tide of uncomplicated joy.

  She pulled a chair close to the parlor fire and gave him a gentle push onto it. As she pried off his boots and chafed his icy feet, she soaked up every instant of contact between them. Mrs. Martin and Mrs. Davis tended to the other men with motherly solicitude for which Cassandra was thankful. Otherwise her actions might have betrayed her feelings to everyone present... not that it would have stopped her.

  “You will need something stronger than tea to warm you,” Mrs. Martin declared. “More mulled cider should do the trick.”

  Cassandra flew to the kitchen and fetched a tall mug of cider for Brandon. Then she hovered nearby as he drank.

  After a few moments, he looked up at her with a wry grin that made her insides quiver. “You are showing remarkable restraint, Lady Cassandra.”

  “I... I am?” Was he mocking her? The way she’d fussed over him had not been restrained in the least. “In what way?”

  His blue eyes twinkled. “By refraining from reminding me that you warned against venturing out in the storm. You were right. It was not worth the risk of three lives... four if you count the horse.”

  Cassandra shook her head. “You will hear no reproaches from me. I should have held my tongue. Then you might have reconsidered the idea for yourself rather than becoming all the more determined to go.”

  “Are you trying to say it is your fault I am a stubborn ass?”

  “Yes... I mean... no!” she stammered while the others laughed. “That is... I should have borne in mind your headstrong nature when I tried to dissuade you.”

  “You did what you could to prevent us from going.” All the levity disappeared from his gaze, replaced by sincere gratitude that absolved her self-blame. “I should have thanked you for your concern instead of scoffing at your warnings.”

  It was a good thing he had absolved her of responsibility, because the other two men began to talk about their ordeal. They spoke of icy wind that cut through many layers of clothing, and deep, shifting snow that was like wading through quicksand. Swirling, fast-falling flakes had made it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction. Though they were safe now, it sickened Cassandra to think how easily they might have been lost.

  It made her want to cling to Brandon, though she knew she had no right, to satisfy herself that he was safe and well. Deeply ingrained propriety kept her from hurling herself into his arms, but she could not prevent her gaze from lingering upon him and her ears from straining to catch the sound of his voice.

  To her disappointment, he did not have much to add to the other men’s account. Now that the danger had passed, they seemed eager to recount every harrowing detail. Did it remind him of the danger they’d faced, magnifying his sense of responsibility?

  After a time, Mr. Martin and the other men came in from the barn. Cassandra and Mrs. Davis withdrew to the kitchen to help Mrs. Martin get dinner on the table. Miss Calvert remained behind in the parlor, begging their host to have her small trunk of absolute necessities brought into the house. By the time everyone crowded around the kitchen table for a meal of hearty stew, the lady had won his reluctant consent.

  “I suppose there might be room for the ladies’ luggage,” said Mr. Martin, clearly not wishing to favor Miss Calvert over the others.

  Cassandra shook her head. “Mine can stay in the barn. Whatever I need, I can fetch from there. The fresh air will do me good.”

  Miss Calvert wrinkled up her nose. “Aren’t you worried your clothes will smell of the barn?”

  The others laughed but Brandon cast his cousin a reproachful look.

  “There are far worse smells they could pick up,” Cassandra replied, anxious to lessen any insult to their hosts. “My father used to smoke and the odor from it clung to everything in the house.”

  Conversation soon returned to the expedition to fetch their luggage. The older men were anxious to hear the story and Sir Brandon’s companions seemed pleased to be the center of attention. Cassandra half-wished he would join in their tale so she could hear his voice and have an excuse to look at him with more than furtive glances.

  “It was the most miserable weather I have ever been out in,” concluded the young footman. “What about you, Sir Brandon?”

  The question seemed to catch the baronet off-guard. He gave a mild start, as if roused from thoughts that preoccupied him. Then, to Cassandra’s surprise, he shook his head. “This afternoon was a pleasant winter frolic compared to the British retreat from Tordesillas last year.”

  As soon as Sir Brandon spoke, he seemed to regret it. He seized his cider mug and took a long drink, perhaps to keep from saying more. But it was too late.

  Mr. Martin perked up at the mention of the battle. “Were you in Spain with General Wellington?”

  Brandon gave a grim nod. “I was there from shortly before the Battle of Talavera until Vitoria last spring. It has been a hard campaign, but Bonaparte’s troops are on the run at last. I should not be surprised if the war is successfully concluded in a few months’ time.”

  “Tell us about that Tortoise place,” urged the stagecoach guard. “Did it snow there as well?”

  The man sounded eager to hear more, as if he envied the baronet’s participation in some great adventure. Cassandra’s reaction was quite the opposite. She could not forget Mrs. Martin’s suggestion that Brandon might have enlisted in the army because she’d rejected his offer of marriage.

  “We might have been better off if it had snowed.” The baronet replied with an air of reluctance. “Then the roads might have frozen into a firm surface we could have walked on instead of slogging through clay mud thick enough to suck a man’s boots off. The rain was nearly as cold as snow. It soaked us to the skin, making the wind chill us all the worse.”

  Even in the snug, dry kitchen with a roaring fire at his back, the memory made Brandon shiver. He glanced down at his empty plate. “I would have paid a king’s ransom for a bit of bread on that cursed march. The quartermaster sent our supplies by the wrong road, so we lived on roasted acorns and a pig we caught foraging. We lost as many men from cold and hunger on that retreat as we might have fighting a battle, with nothing to show for it in the end.”

  As he spoke, vivid, accusing images flooded Cassandra’s mind. Brandon had assured her she was not responsible for sending him out into discomfort and danger today. But what about four years ago? Whatever she’d meant to spare him by rejecting his proposal, it could not have been worse than what he’d suffered during his military service on the Peninsula.

  Brandon glanced toward her then with a look that seemed to hold her accountable for what he’d endured. Or was it only her own conscience accusing her?

  “One of the lads from the village was lost in the war about that time,” Mr. Martin mused. “I thought he must have been killed in battle. Now I wonder if he perished on that retreat, poor fellow.”

  “Well, there will be no starving here tonight.” Mrs. Martin did not sound as if she approved of the somber turn the conversation had taken. “I’ve
made a lovely pudding and I hope you’ve all saved room for it.”

  “Oh, aye.” “Yes indeed.” The others replied in various ways that signaled their eagerness.

  Were they only grateful for Mrs. Martin’s toothsome pudding, or for an opportunity to lift the mood around the table as well?

  Cassandra welcomed the excuse to rise from her place and help Mrs. Martin serve out hearty slabs of the dense, raisin-studded pudding. When she slid a piece onto Brandon’s plate, he murmured his thanks and cast her a look she could not properly interpret.

  The rest of the party began to discuss the hopeful turn the war had taken during the past year. Brandon did not join in, though he must be the most knowledgeable on the subject. Instead he seemed to sink back into his thoughts.

  Had the events of the afternoon and the recent conversation roused disturbing memories of his experiences during the War? Were those the stories with which he had not wanted to bore her when they’d spoken together that morning? Perhaps it would have been more apt to say he had not wanted to horrify her.

  What had provoked him to bring up that miserable business of the retreat from Tordesillas? Brandon chided himself as the party retired to the parlor after dinner. The wretched details were hardly the stuff of polite mealtime conversation. The pallor that had come over Cassandra’s face as he spoke, and the stricken look in her dark eyes, had reproached him for his lack of consideration.

  But when the coach guard had inquired about the retreat in a tone that suggested war was some kind of romantic adventure, Brandon could not permit such a popular misconception to go unchallenged. He was sorry to have distressed Cassandra, though, particularly after the worry he’d caused her earlier.

  Yesterday he would not have believed Lady Cassandra Whitney capable of caring about the fate of nameless soldiers who had lost their lives on that terrible march. Now, he began to suspect her experiences during the past four years had changed Cassandra, as his had changed him. That did not make her any less dangerous to his hard-won peace of mind, yet the thought still soothed him somehow. It made him want to talk to her again, the way they had that morning, even if it meant she might ask questions he did not wish to answer.

  She and Mrs. Davis had stayed behind in the kitchen to help Mrs. Martin clear the table and wash the dishes. The other two women now rejoined the party in the parlor, but there was no sign of Cassandra.

  “Can I fetch you a drop more cider, Sir Brandon?” Mrs. Martin inquired.

  “You have done more than enough to see to my comfort for one day, ma’am,” he replied. “You should take a seat and enjoy a few minutes of well-deserved leisure. If it would not be imposing upon your hospitality, I will help myself to a bit more of your excellent cider, along with anyone else who would care to have their cup refilled.”

  He thought Mrs. Martin might insist on doing the honors, but instead she sank onto an empty chair and lavished him with a grateful smile. “You would not be imposing in the least, sir. While you and the others are our guests, we would like you to make yourselves quite at home. I would not refuse a drink while you are fetching more for yourself.”

  Brandon asked the others but no one else seemed thirsty at the moment. So he strode off to the kitchen with the assurance of having a good excuse to take him there. He thought back to the previous night when he had surprised Cassandra alone in the kitchen and suggested they treat one another like new acquaintances. His attitude had altered so much since then that he found it hard to believe only twenty-four hours had passed.

  After his recent trek through the snow, he had serious doubts they would be going their separate ways any time soon. Trying to forget their past connection was not a workable solution if they were to remain snowbound together for much longer. A more sensible course might be to face their past with the benefit of hindsight and greater maturity. Perhaps if they could talk over what had happened between them, and acknowledge its effects on their hearts and their lives, they could truly put it behind them once and for all.

  He ignored a tempting whisper in the back of his mind that questioned whether an older and wiser Lady Cassandra might regard him more favorably than the headstrong debutante of four years ago. He had learned his lesson. Once bitten, twice shy, as the saying went. Her rejection had dealt his heart a wound that had taken longer than expected to heal. He could not afford to risk another.

  He entered the kitchen, expecting to find Cassandra bustling about to keep herself occupied. Instead he discovered her sitting at the table with her face buried in her folded arms. For an instant he wondered if she’d fallen asleep. After all, she had risen very early that morning.

  Then her shoulders heaved and a silent shudder ran through her willowy frame. The sight of her weeping demolished all Brandon’s sensible intentions. A pair of powerful, invisible hands seemed to tighten around his throat. The only way to break their hold was to do anything in his power to relieve her distress.

  He covered the distance between them in two swift strides and knelt beside her. Caution warned that the last time he’d gone down on his knees in her presence, it had not ended well. But its bleating alarm was drowned out by a roar of concern for Cassandra.

  The sound of his footsteps made her glance up just as he reached her. She gave a violent start at the sight of him. But when he opened his arms, she did not shrink from him. Instead, she flung herself into his embrace, her head pressed against his shoulder.

  In that instant, every particle of tension that had built up inside of Brandon over the past four years seemed to melt away. The throttling grip around his throat released and he drew his first truly easy breath in a very long while.

  “There now,” he whispered, savoring the silken caress of her hair against his cheek. “What is the matter? What can I do to help?”

  “N-nothing.” All the tension that had bled out of Brandon seemed to soak into Cassandra and crystallize. She pulled away as abruptly as she had thrown herself at him, but not before Brandon inhaled her scent into the deepest recesses of his lungs. “I don’t know what came over me.”

  She dashed the tears from her eyes as if she despised herself for giving in to them. “Perhaps I am overtired. I began thinking of my sisters and how worried they will be about me, especially Viola. I wish I could get a message to them that I am safe.”

  Brandon recalled Cassandra’s gentle, fair-haired sister whom many considered the beauty of the Whitney family. Much as he admired the lady, he could not agree.

  “I suppose Lady Viola must be married now.” He took out his handkerchief and offered it to Cassandra. “Did Lord Gilchrist secure her or did she make a better match?”

  After a moment’s hesitation, Cassandra seized his handkerchief and dried her eyes with it. In answer to his question, she shook her head. “My sister is not married.”

  The information puzzled Brandon but the lady’s tone did not encourage further inquiry.

  Instead a different question burst out before he could prevent it. “Are you certain it was only the thought of your sisters that upset you? You looked troubled when I spoke about the war earlier. Forgive me. I did not mean to upset you. I should have held my tongue.”

  “No, you should not!” She glanced up at Brandon through her lush fringe of black lashes, to which tiny beads of moisture clung. That look penetrated his defenses with the force and precision of a well-aimed rifle shot.

  “How can I shrink from hearing of your experiences in the war when you had the courage to endure them?” she continued. “What distressed me more than learning what you suffered was the thought that I might have pushed you into taking up a commission. Admit it—you would never have gone to war if I had accepted your marriage proposal.”

  Brandon was not without his own pride, which now urged him to deny the charge. Confessing to it would only betray the depth of his heartbreak. But how could he claim otherwise? Truth was a rigorous taskmaster, which demanded its due even when the tribute was not pleasant or convenient.

  �
�That cannot come as any great surprise, surely?” He might not be able to refute her assertion outright, but he could try to make light of it. “What man with any sense would leave his bride to go off to war unless he was compelled to? If you had accepted my proposal, I would have been more agreeably employed beginning our married life together. But since I had no such ties to prevent me, I decided I should do my duty for King and Country.”

  That explanation sounded impersonal and almost noble. Brandon knew his decision had been neither. “Besides, there are few situations better calculated to make a fellow forget his romantic troubles than facing enemy fire.”

  His attempt at levity failed miserably.

  Cassandra pressed his handkerchief to her lips. Though she managed to hold back a fresh effusion of weeping, her whole demeanor suggested misery too deep for tears.

  “No wonder you hate me.” She spat out the words as if they were choking her. “I drove you away to war. You might have been wounded, even... k-killed and it would have been my fault.”

  “I do not hate you!” The vehement denial burst out before Brandon could judge whether or not it was true. But once he’d spoken, he realized he meant it. There was a time when he’d tried to hate Cassandra Whitney, but he had not succeeded. “Furthermore, any harm that might have come to me in Spain would have been the doing of Napoleon’s army, not you.”

  His reassurances did not persuade her. “I might as well have pushed you in front of their bullets... or bayonets. If I had only known...”

  At that moment Brandon could not abide the word if. It taunted him with too many images of what might have been.

  “What would you have done?” He rose from the floor and stalked off to peer out the kitchen window. He did not trust himself so near Cassandra now that he’d been reminded how it felt to hold her in his arms. “If I had threatened to go to war unless you accepted my proposal, would you have given in to such blackmail? Would you have agreed to wed me in spite of your feelings, or lack of them? You would not have done either of us a service if you had. A union on that basis would have been doomed to the worst kind of failure.”