Page 62 of Snowbound Surrender

THE SNOWY SOLUTION

LAURA TRENTHAM

CHAPTER 1

December 1821

Warlock, Northumberland

“It might bea while before I’m back this way,” the driver said as Eleanor climbed down from the mail coach. She was the lone remaining passenger. The others had disembarked in the bustling market town of Alnwick. A fellow widow had tried to dissuade her from continuing on to Warlock, warning her of the isolation.

As she turned to look up at him, her back twinged from sitting so long. “Excuse me?”

He removed the stick of licorice root he was chewing to point at the gray sky. “Snow, and lots of it, is on the way before the fortnight is over. Mark my words. It’s a bleak place in the winter.”

Eleanor shook out her heavy shirts and stared up at the sky. “It is December in the north. Snow is not unheard of. Anyway, I am not planning on leaving until spring at the earliest. I have family here.”

“Good luck to you then.” He shook his head and jammed the licorice root back between his stained teeth as if she were too ignorant to spend any more time on.

One did not need to be Nostradamus to predict snow would be likely in Northumberland in the winter. Her sister Charlotte had written letters about changeable weather since settling in the village of Warlock after her marriage. Eleanor had hoped Charlotte would have returned to the family home in the temperate climes of Hertfordshire after being widowed so early in her marriage, but she had chosen to remain in Warlock.

Three years earlier, Eleanor had visited Charlotte while her husband Daniel still lived and found her sister… not deliriously happy like Eleanor imagined marriage to be at that time but at least content. Daniel MacGrath had been pleasant and kind. Not the picture of a dashing romantic hero, but now that Eleanor was older—wiser was still out for debate considering her current predicament—she understood heroes to be in short supply or altogether extinct.

The mail coach had dropped her in front of an inn at the end of a deserted street. No one was about on the dreary day. Even the inn looked sparsely filled. She stood for a moment to get her bearings. A cold breeze snaked its way under the collar of her dark gray broadcloth dress. It was an even more depressing gray than the sky.

The afternoon was brisk but not the bone-chilling cold she had feared the farther north she had traveled. Her last visit had been at the height of spring with a balmy breeze and riotous flowers to welcome her.

If she recalled correctly, her sister’s cottage was at the opposite end of the village. Before she could unfurl her cloak to settle it around her shoulders, she heard her maiden name said with no small amount of consternation.

“Miss Eleanor Hannings?” The voice was as low and gruff as she remembered and sent a shiver up her spine.

Not that she had thought about Callum Paxton in the years since her visit to Warlock. Granted, she hadn’t been able to stop the man from traipsing through her dreams on occasion. Although why such a boorish lout, even if he was heir to a baronetcy, had made a permanent impression on her psyche, she could not fathom.

Yes, they had shared a kiss. Her first (and a few others besides). Now that she had some experience, perhaps his kisses even qualified as her best. That was embarrassing to admit even to herself. But he had thrown her over with a rudeness that still chafed her pride.

She turned to face him, readying a tart reply, but her lips did not form words, only a whispered “oh.”

He was much changed in the three years since they’d spent time walking, talking, and flirting with one another. His dark hair was longer, and the beginnings of a beard stubbled his cheeks. Whereas before the light of mischief had made his dark brown eyes sparkle, now there was a depthless lack of warmth. Compared to the finely carved patrician mien of her late husband, Callum was rough-hewn, his features blunt and masculine. His jaw was square and his lips firm.

In her memories, he had been tall and lanky with the grace of a greyhound. Now he was more like a mastiff. The black greatcoat flung around his shoulders emphasized their broadness. It was unclasped and showcased a chest that was deep and thick. He wore no collar or cravat. His neck was a strong column and tanned even in December. His waistcoat was a serviceable russet broadcloth that any gentleman farmer might own. His limbs were encased in a pair of patched buckskins that fit him well.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that he looked older, but it was more than just a few years’ growth he wore. He was no longer a boy but a full-grown man. A man who had experienced more than some did in a lifetime, although she could not hazard a guess at what had caused such a transformation.

Was he drawing similar conclusions about her? She was certainly no longer the dewy-eyed girl full of unrealistic dreams he had teased and kissed senseless. (Why could she not stop thinking about his kisses?) How did the intervening years sit on her? She was afraid to examine herself in a looking glass for fear of seeing her unhappy experiences writ large.

“It’s Mrs. Denholm now.” She used to say it with pride, but now the admission was distasteful.

“Ah, I see.” Callum inclined his head and glanced to either side of her, no doubt looking for Mr. Denholm.

If he knew what had happened, no doubt he would have a cutting aside to make. She had had enough of those to last a lifetime. Correcting him would mean delving a toe into the sordid truth, which was exactly what she was trying to escape.

“I’m here to visit my sister,” she said simply.

“Of course. Is this your trunk?” He pointed to the case sitting beside her.

“Yes, but?—”

Before she could finish her protest, he lifted the case to rest on his shoulder. “I’ll walk you down to Mrs. MacGrath’s cottage.”