Mischief and Mistletoe by Mary Jo Putney

Author:Mary Jo Putney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Kensington Publishing Corp.
Published: 2013-08-23T16:00:00+00:00

ON A WICKED WINTER’S NIGHT

Nicola Cornick

Chapter 1

Newport, Pembrokeshire, Wales—December 1814

It was a stormy night, black as pitch, the wind high in the branches of the bare trees and the sleet drifting like a ghost across the road. Some way back they had passed an inn, the only sign of life in a landscape as bleak as the night. He had pulled aside the curtain and for one brief moment the carriage lamps had illuminated the sign swinging in the wind: THE SILENT WENCH. There had been a picture of Queen Anne Boleyn, smiling demurely, and behind her the shadow of the executioner. Someone in this godforsaken place, Johnny thought, had a dark sense of humor.

Surely it could not be much farther to Newport Castle. He had traveled for three days over roads that the mild winter rain had set awash, staying in execrable coaching inns with flea-infested beds, feeling as though he were journeying to the end of the world. The weather had turned colder as they traveled west. The driver was probably frozen to his box by now. They should have spent the night in St. David’s and covered the final few miles in the morning. Or, preferably, stayed in London. He remembered with astonishment that only four days ago he had been filled with ennui for the city. London could be damnably tedious for a viscount who could buy anything he wanted and had done so, repeatedly, over the past few years. Nevertheless it was surely preferable to this wasteland.

It was his wasteland now. Conscience pricked him. His uncle had been an absentee landlord. He had no intention of following in the old man’s footsteps.

The carriage was picking up speed as it rolled downhill, rocking, creaking, the axles straining. It was too fast. A notable whip, Johnny recognized the precise moment the coachman lost control. He braced himself for the crash, heard wood snap like a gunshot, felt the first dreadful lurch as coach and horses parted company, and then he was falling while the world smashed and broke around him, tumbling over like a cork in a stormy sea.

Johnny was not sure how long it took for the carriage to steady and come to rest, canted over at what felt like a dizzying angle. It was impossible to stand, for the floor sloped away sharply. Instead he slid with more speed than elegance out of the space where the door had once been.

Ice cracked. He landed in freezing water up to his knees. He swore, pulled himself out of the ditch and up onto the track. It was perishing cold and the snow swirled, thicker now. Almost at once he found himself surrounded.

“We’ve come to rescue you, sir, take you to the inn.”

They swarmed around him, boys scarcely into their teens. How had they appeared so swiftly, so late, and in such a benighted place? Two of them were calming the horses with impressive efficiency. Another pair supported the dazed groom and coachman. Three more encircled Johnny, inspecting him.

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