Chapter Eleven

Edwina’s slippers had not been made for running, and especially not through snow. Her beautiful gown, of which she had been so proud when she donned it, gave no protection from the wind. She knew Julian, advantaged by the horse, would pursue her. She should get off the road and hide, but in this cold she suspected it would mean certain death.

Certain death, or marriage to Julian… As she pelted along, she weighed the two in her mind. How could all of this have gone so wrong? A Christmas gathering, her father had proposed, a feast at which you shall have the opportunity to see the best of our local gentry and choose one for husband.

A Christmas wedding, her mother had enthused. Could anything be more romantic?

Struggling through the icy darkness did not feel romantic, nor did straining her ears for sounds of pursuit above the wind. But oh, swirling in the arms of her fool among those kinder snowflakes had.

And perhaps all this peril made a fair exchange for one kiss from him.

Upon that thought she heard it, faint below the gusting of the wind—the sound of a horse coming up behind. That had not taken long.

She had to get off the road, find a cottage or hut where she might beg shelter.

But before she could, a huge dark shape loomed above her out of the storm. She screamed and the figure—another horse—reared, held in check by a smaller figure. A man swore and then spoke in a voice she knew.

“Edwina?”

“Thorstan!” He had come, oh, he had! All at once she wanted to weep, but there was no time. She could barely see her love between the driving snowflakes. But his hands caught her shoulders before he tore the black cape from his back and thrust it at her.

“Here—wrap that round you. Where is he?”

“Coming. I got away, but—”

“Up on the horse with you. Ride.”

“No.” Tears clogged Edwina’s throat. “Not unless you come with me.”

“I will. You ride ahead.”

“Thors—” The word broke when he covered her lips with his, a quick, bruising kiss that, there in the cold darkness, managed to convey all he felt for her. His strength lay in it, which stiffened her spine, fired her intent.

“Go,” he told her then.

Aye, he might love her—she believed to her toes that he did—but he little knew her yet. It would take far more than cold and darkness to make her abandon him.

“Go,” he repeated. “Your father is on his way.”

She mounted his horse, one of her father’s sturdy ponies, but did not move away. Before she could reconcile her own defiance, Lord Julian appeared from the midst of the white, wind-driven vortex, leading his mount.

“You!” he cried as he dropped the lead and raised his sword. “Misbegotten buffoon!”

And, just like that, the two men engaged one another. No careful, deliberate contest this, such as they had staged in her father’s hall. This was swift and deadly battle and, clear from the outset, a matter of kill or be killed. Edwina blinked desperately and strove to see through the snowflakes that half blinded her. Thorstan’s black costume made a stark silhouette against the white snow; Lord Julian, harder to see, fought like a ghost half hidden by the storm.

Edwina’s pony danced nervously beneath her, and her heart lodged in her throat as the swords screeched together again and again. The cold nearly forgotten, she urged her reluctant mount closer. Should Thorstan fall, she would charge Lord Julian, if need be, and use her pony as a weapon.

A quick flurry, a desperate movement, a cry, and a gust of wind that made Edwina shut her eyes and turn her head.

Both combatants were now so plastered with snow she could barely tell them apart. When she looked again, blinking madly, she saw one of them lay in the road and the other stood above him, sword to his defeated opponent’s chest.

But which of them had won? Edwina knew she should ride and swiftly, in case the white-shrouded form even now stalking toward her proved to be Julian. But oh, what did her safety matter if her love lay there in the road?

Hands reached up and seized the reins, pried them from her suddenly limp fingers.

“I thought,” Thorstan said, amusement lying beneath the strain in his voice, “I bade you ride.”

Relief swept Edwina, staggering in its intensity.

“Ah, but as you shall discover,” she told him with regret, “I am rarely obedient.”

And her fool told her, “I can hardly wait.”