Читать книгу Winter's Bride - Catherine Archer - Страница 8

England 1458

Benedict urged his mount to a faster and still faster pace, even though the heavy snowfall made doing so extremely unwise. He had to reach his brother—and his brother’s mistress—before it was too late.

Tristan could not be allowed to tie himself to the wench, whose family supported Lancaster. She may have convinced Tristan that the whelp she carried was his, but Benedict was skeptical. He knew the repute of her family, knew that lying to get what they wanted was not above them. And it was most likely the case with their only offspring.

Benedict had lessoned his own siblings to a higher standard, which was why Tristan held such faith in this girl. He judged her by his own intent. Benedict was less naive. He had been left to look after himself and his three brothers when their parents died, and that he would do, no matter how determinedly Tristan resisted him.

He prodded the stallion again as another wave of trepidation took him. There was more to his haste than his desire to save his brother from such a marriage. Some time ago, he had seen the Grays’ own coach approach the crossroads to Westchurch just as he himself had come from the opposite direction. Their driver had taken no notice of him, a lone rider on the darkened road. They searched for a coach.

Even though the conditions of this stormy night did not favor such haste, Benedict had been able to press his mount to a gallop and thus outdistance whomever else sought the lovers. And even resorting to such dangerous speed might not gain him enough time. He must get to his brother and away before the girl’s family did. He had no wish for this folly to cost Tristan his life.

In that instant he was distracted from his thoughts by a dark shape in the road far ahead of him. His breath caught as he realized that it was an overturned carriage.

Even after telling himself that it could be anyone, he was not able to still the throb of anxiety in his chest as he approached. The Ainsworth arms on the side of the carriage confirmed his deepest fear. It was indeed his own family’s conveyance. The driver lay crumpled beside it.

Benedict pulled the reins so hard he brought his mount to a rearing halt. He leaped to the ground, his hands searching for and finding no signs of life in the poor fellow. He had no time to mourn, turning to open the door of the overturned carriage even as an unfamiliar sound prodded at his consciousness. It was a weak and reedy, high-pitched wailing. The sound of a babe crying.

Grimly, Benedict raked the inside of the carriage with his eyes. He was intent now not only on helping his brother but also in ascertaining the source of that feeble cry.

The inside of the red-velvet-lined coach was drifted with snow, and he realized the window must have broken out. His horrified gaze lit first upon his brother. Tristan lay in a crumpled heap against the opposite door, unmoving. Even in unconsciousness he kept his arms about the form of a young woman, who was clothed in a diaphanous white gown. There was no sound other than the crying of the babe, which seemed to be coming from somewhere in the area of the woman’s lap.

Benedict’s gaze flew back to his brother, and his heart swelled up into his throat as he noticed the spreading red color on the snow. It also darkened Tristan’s gray coat and the white fabric of the girl’s gown, which partially covered his brother as he held her close to him. Both of them lay far too still.

Benedict leaped inside.

As he raised Tristan’s wrist, he also looked to the woman. His lips thinned as he searched the white face, which had been hidden by the folds of her gown from his previous vantage. There was no hint of color. Indeed, she was as white as the snow and her own gown.

Concentrating then on his brother, Benedict closed his eyes in relief as he felt the faint pulse of his blood. But that relief was only momentary. Such a faint pulse meant that though there was life in him yet, it hung by a tenuous thread.

All of this he realized in the space of a heartbeat, after which he quickly knelt and moved aside the girl’s skirts until he found the form of the mewling child. It was so small and blue, so cool to the touch. Fear for the babe shot through him. It was not likely to last the night if he did not get it in from this storm. Even if the child were not his brother’s he could not abandon it here, in the hope that the other coach would arrive in time. Lifting the little one into his arms, he then felt for the pulse of its mother. He was not surprised to find no sign of life.

Quickly he made the sign of the cross on her forehead. Though he had not wanted Tristan to be duped by her, he had wished her no such ill as this. His heart was heavy that one so young and beautiful had met such a tragic end. Then there was no more time for mourning the loss of one he had not even known, when he must certainly act now or lose his own brother.

Only moments later he was riding away, the unconscious Tristan laid across the horse before him, the still-crying babe in his arms. He cast one last glance over his shoulder toward the poor creature who had died this night, before urging his horse to a gallop.

He did feel sympathy for her and for the family who would soon mourn her loss, but he must now think about the two who had survived and keep them alive.