The Vicar's Frozen Heart (2 page)

One of the men clamored down and opened the door. “’Tis cold ridin’ up there. Thought I’d get a wee bit of warmth from ye, lassie.”

Even in dark shadows there was no mistaking the lascivious look on the older man’s face.
Oh, no
. “Where are we, what is the time...wait, what are you doing?” Eliza cried.

He pushed his way into carriage, slammed the door, and banged on the roof. The carriage lurched forward, slowly at first, as if struggling to push through the snow. Unpleasant odors of sweat, whiskey, and cheap pipe tobacco filled the interior. A horrible scar down his left cheek pulled the man’s mouth into a sadistic leer. “I searched yer trunk up top. No money. Give over, lass. Where ‘tis it? Don’t be lyin’ to me, I ‘eard the whole sorry tale in the servants dinin’ ‘all. I know the old ‘ag gave ye money.” With a rough tug, he snatched the reticule from her wrist, snapping the straps. He looked inside, frowned, and with a grunt tossed it to the floor. Suddenly he pushed her down and lay on top of her, his large hands running up and down her body. Then he crammed them in her coat, searching her pockets.

Eliza shuddered in horror when the man’s erection pressed against her thigh. “Give it over or I’ll take the amount out of yer juicy cunny. ‘is young lordship left ye well oiled, I’ll be bound.”

Her eyes widened in fright.
No. Not like this. I will not allow it.
A hand closed about her throat, the callous tips of his fingers scraping her skin. Scar leaned in and whispered, his foul breath turning her stomach. “Give it to me or I’ll fook the truth from ye.” His other hand fumbled with the fall of his trousers.

No. No. No.

After pulling off one of her wool gloves with her teeth, she raked her nails over his eye and down his cheek, causing him to scream in pain and release his hold on her neck. Scrambling backward, he buried his face in his hands, droplets of blood oozed from between his meaty fingers, splashing on the floor.

The driver must have heard the screech for the carriage slowed slightly. Turning, she fumbled with the handle of the door.
I must escape!
Her heart banged against her ribs at a frightening pace. Scar recovered quickly, grabbing her arm and wrenching her shoulder, then smashed his clenched fist into her face. Bone cracked and blood trickled down over her lips.

A jolt of intense pain spiraled through her and caused her vision to blur, but she finally grasped the handle and gave it a turn, causing the door to fling open wide. The carriage was still moving.
Jump.
What choice did she have? About to lunge forward, Scar caught a fistful of her shawl and pulled her back in. Blindly she fought him, her breathing labored, landing blows where ever she could. He swore obscenely and shook her hard. In the fracas, her shawl came off.
The money!
Eliza made a desperate grab for it, but Scar shoved her and she tumbled backward out of the swaying carriage. Hitting the ground hard, she rolled and rolled, gathering cold snow as she did until she came to a halt in a ditch. Searing pain covered her entire body.

“Whoa, there.” The driver called out. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she heard snippets of conversation and raised voices wafting in the cold night air.

“What did ye do, ye great lummox! Ye were to get the money, nothin’ else.”

“Bitch fought me... she rolled down a hill, probably dead.”

“Be damned if I be checkin’. Throw her trunk off and....”

“Look, here ‘tis. Hidden in ‘er shawl. Aye, let’s ditch the trunk and ‘ead to London. I could do with a pint and a ‘ot slice of kidney pie.”

More chatter, sprinkled with smug laughter. They were going to leave her here to freeze to death. Eliza lay perfectly still in case they did come investigating. They did not. Satisfied with finding the money--
oh, my money--
she heard the trunk hit the ground with a decided thud. A snap of the reins and the men drove off.

Snowflakes gathered on her lashes. Could she stand? She groaned. Instead, she tried to crawl. Could it be light ahead amongst the trees or did her scrambled mind play tricks? Tasting blood, she pulled herself through the snow. How far, she had no idea. A white hot, stabbing ache shot through her head and everything turned black.

As of late, Tremain Colson had become a fitful sleeper. The incessant pain in his leg often woke him several times during the night since he had sworn off the laudanum. After lighting the wick in the oil lamp beside his bed, he glanced at the wall clock--half past four in the morning.

Rubbing his eyes, he tried to recall what sort of racket awoke him. The whinny of horses and men’s voices raised in excitement and anger. What brain-addled individuals would be out traveling at this time of night, and in inclement weather no less? A thud, as though something had been tossed to the ground, invaded his quiet room. The temptation to roll over and attempt further slumber crossed his mind, but something kept nudging him to investigate. Tremain would receive no peace until he did. That something being tossed to the ground could be human, and no one could survive for long in these conditions.

Tremain swung his legs around the side of the bed with an exasperated sigh and sat upright, grunting at the twinge that shot up his right limb. Pushing his nude self slowly into a standing position, he moved to his small wardrobe and dressed as quickly as he could. Glancing at his silver-knobbed cane standing by the night table, he decided he would have to struggle on without it. Tremain limped down the hall, found a lantern and lit it. After slipping on his wool greatcoat and gloves he wrapped a thick scarf about his head and face, then ventured outside. A blast of icy wind slammed into him, seizing the breath from his body.

Holding the light aloft, he cautiously ventured across his property. A large trunk lay upside down in a drift. The deep ruts left behind by a carriage were already filling in. Snow swirled all about him as the wind howled with a woeful wail. Turning in a circle, he looked about. Nothing but white as far as the eye could see. His gaze skirted across a large mound then came back to settle on it. There in the ditch a bare hand lay exposed.

Tremain lurched toward the trench, taking his time as the ground inclined downward. Sitting the lantern at his feet, he swiped away all the loose snow from the top of the mound. Good God, an unconscious woman. Blood covered the lower part of her face, which turned the nearby snow crimson. At that moment, a gust of wind blew out the lantern and complete darkness descended.

Good thing he knew his way back. He’d have to carry her, and her weight would place ungodly pressure on his mangled leg, but there was not much else he could do. With great effort he managed to slip the woman over his shoulder, and when he tried to straighten, his right leg turned numb and started to buckle under him.
Good God.
He went down like a sack of potatoes, yet kept his grip on the lady.

Taking several deep breaths and then exhaling forcefully, he tried again, and after a couple of attempts, stood on his feet. To hell with the lantern, he’d fetch it later. Same with the trunk. With great care, he made his way toward his residence, carried the lady to his room, and then collapsed on his bed with a great groan. Tremain landed on her, but the woman did not stir. Out of breath, he sat back, taking in the vision before him.

A female in his bed. How long had it been? More than three years. Leave it to him to think amorous thoughts when in fact she needed his assistance. Shaking his head, he removed her bonnet and auburn curls spilled into his hands. Her hairstyle was askew, pins hanging from the long, luxuriant locks. Unbuttoning her wet, wool coat, he nearly groaned at the ample curves clearly evident even with her shapeless gray wool skirt and starched blouse buttoned to her neck. The collar was stained with numerous droplets of blood.

After he regained his breath, he collected a basin of warm water and a cloth, then began to wipe away the dried, frozen blood. Bruises were already visible and her nose appeared to be broken. Tremain concluded someone punched her square in the face. Beaten, perhaps robbed--or worse--and left to perish in the snow.

Glancing downward, it appeared her lower garments were not torn. Hopefully she’d been spared the horrific indignity of rape. From what he could perceive the young woman was certainly attractive enough and he would hazard to guess when she opened her eyes they would be a beguiling shade of green. If she opened her eyes. Her chest rose and fell, proof she still lived. He watched, fascinated, as her ample breasts moved with every breath. Tremain shook his head. No, he would not allow his thoughts to drift in that direction.

After building up the fire, he made his way to the kitchen. After locating his first aid kit and flask of brandy, he headed back to his room. The woman still lay unconscious and no doubt would for a while yet. He tended to the cuts on her face by placing plasters on them, and did the same with her nose. Thankfully it seemed to reset perfectly. After elevating her head with an extra pillow and opening the first couple of buttons of her blouse, he stepped outside the front door. Icicles hung down from the roof and he reached for one, breaking it free before smashing it into pieces and wrapping it in a cloth.

Tremain sat by the bed, holding the icepack to her nose. The noticeable swelling did dissipate somewhat. What should he do next? Remove the wet clothes? For she would catch a chill if he didn’t. A strange mixture of anticipation and dread spread through him. Perhaps he over-thought it. It’s not as if he possessed anything as base as human feelings or desires. He could approach this in a cold and calculated manner as he did everything else in his life.

Her skin was chilled to the touch and despite his best effort to remain detached, his cock responded to the lovely vision before him. He cursed inwardly at his lack of control, decided to ignore his growing erection, and complete the task at hand. With great effort on his part, he stripped her down to her shift and thought he’d better leave it at that.

Once he covered her with two thick woolen blankets, he slumped back into the chair and exhaled. As he surmised, her figure was lush and her curves soft, just the way he liked it.
Used
to like it.
He wondered what in hell he was going to do with her. The storm could continue for another day yet. In fact, in the nearby village of Hawksgreen, one of the local farmers predicted this storm by the direction of his weathervane and his trusty Farmer’s Almanac. Considering the man had not been wrong yet, Tremain had stocked up with extra food. Good thing he did since he had an unexpected--and for the most part--unwanted guest.

Tremain frowned. He did not want company. Actually, he looked forward to the solitude for however long the storm would last. To be free from duty and service for forty-eight hours was a pleasant prospect. He slanted his glance at the clock: close to six. No more sleep for him, as he was wide awake. Reaching for the flask of brandy on the table, he opened it and took a deep drink, letting the comforting, slow burn curl its way down his throat.

And how would he, of all people, explain the presence of a woman in his residence? Especially an auburn-haired lady with a siren’s body and no doubt seductive, green-as-grass eyes. The situation should prove to be interesting, if nothing else. No two ways about it. When the weather broke, she could not linger regardless of her injuries.

Tremain watched her. And would continue to until she awoke. As soon as the storm dissipated he would see her on her way, and then he could return to his self-imposed, semi-isolated chosen life.

Searing pain. That was the first sensation Eliza experienced as the hazy fog cleared from her mind. She blinked and tried to focus. Since she clutched a fistful of wool blanket, she surmised she lay in a bed
. Oh, thank God.
The thought of freezing in a snow-covered ditch was horrific, not that she would have known the difference.

Who had rescued her? She tried to raise her head but another bolt of agony tore through her. She laid her head back down and glanced about the room. A man’s private lair, as evidenced by the dark wood walls and deep green and brown colors of the curtains and bedding. On one wall was a tall bookcase, stuffed with tomes. In the hearth a fire crackled, and off to the side stood a large, comfortable overstuffed chair. A pair of silver spectacles lay on a table nearby and a black waistcoat hung on a hook. Perhaps a kindly, elderly man had come to her rescue; considering the books, glasses, and plain clothing, she assumed as much. A grandfatherly type with balding white hair and apple cheeks who would take pity on her in her dire situation. She brought the blanket to her nose and sniffed. A spicy, masculine scent, and not at all unpleasant. Enticing cologne, not one she would imagine an older man wearing.

Eliza’s entire body throbbed with pain. The fall from the carriage no doubt did damage as she’d rolled down a slight embankment, landing in a ditch. That much she did remember. Groaning, she tried to lift her arms. No luck.

The door swung open and banged against the wall, startling her. A tiny squeak escaped her chapped lips. A tall, imposing man, leaning heavily on a cane, crossed the threshold. Dressed entirely in black, he hobbled closer to the bed. All at once she was struck by his austere face. Deep frown lines were etched on either side of his mouth, which was turned down in a fierce scowl. Here stood a man the furthest thing from a kind, older grandfather, more like a man of thirty-odd years. He would be considered handsome, she supposed, with his thick, raven-black hair and sculpted cheekbones, but the chilled expression he gave evoked no warmth at all and his silver-gray eyes held the shade of chips of ice from a frozen lake. Rather frightening and much like a stern schoolmaster or unforgiving, sober priest, both of which Eliza had enough of in her life.

“You’re awake then?” The words were clipped and precise.

“Tha...thank you, sir,” she croaked. “Your name?”

The cane thumped heavily on the floor as he made his way to stand at her bedside. “Tremain Colson.”