Marrying His Cinderella Countess. Louise Allen

one teased anyone else, there were no hostile gibes—it was all remarkably comfortable, Blake thought. Positively domestic. He shook out the pages of the newspaper they had picked up at a stop in Birmingham and laughed at himself.

      By noon the next day they were drawing to a halt in front of the Golden Crown inn in the middle of Stoke-on-Trent to take a light luncheon.

      He watched Eleanor, worried again about how little she ate. Her lips, closing around the smooth, tight skin of a plum, were soft and pink and—

      He jerked his gaze upwards and found those wide hazel eyes were focused on his face.

      ‘Have some more.’ He passed the bowl across. ‘They are very good.’

      ‘Thank you, no. I have had enough.’

      In that steady gaze he could read discomfiture at his close attention and something else—something he could not identify. Or could he?

      Blake found he was shifting uncomfortably in his chair, grateful for the all-concealing snowy expanse of tablecloth falling to his lap.

      What? I am aroused by this woman? Damn it, celibacy—even for a few weeks—is really very bad for me indeed...

      Jonathan cleared his throat and Blake jumped. So did Eleanor, who then gave herself an almost imperceptible little shake.

      You too?

      He almost said it out loud, then made a business of helping himself to fruit instead.

      Well, why not?

      Women had urges too, and those who said they did not had obviously had very little to do with women between the sheets. Just because a woman was on the shelf it did not mean that she was sexless. And Eleanor had too much dignity and reserve to make those kind of longings plain. If he had not lost himself in those rather lovely expressive eyes just now...

      But it would be sensible to be wary. This business of chaperonage worked both ways—protecting men against scheming females just as much as it protected innocent girls from predatory men. That would be revenge for her stepbrother’s death indeed: entrapping the man she blamed for it into matrimony.

      * * *

      She would be delighted finally to arrive somewhere and be able to stop jolting around and living out of valises, Ellie concluded when they started off again.

      She stared out of the windows as a succession of smoking chimneys, grimy streets and bulbous bottle kilns gave way to open fields. On the other hand, this was more comfortable than the stagecoach would have been, and much safer, and she was in no hurry to discover what awaited her in Lancashire.

      Yesterday had been extraordinary. What had she seen in Blake’s eyes? Surely not desire? For her? There had been heat, and almost a question, rapidly followed by him diverting those penetrating grey eyes to a close study of a dish of apples.

      If she was not a victim of her own torrid imagination then she ought to be wary. Very wary. And yet she could not feel threatened by him, and that was most strange. But then he had been at a safe distance, and she’d had her Dutch courage in the shape of a glass of wine.

      The crack and the lurch came some twenty minutes after they had left the town, just as the coach turned a sharp corner going uphill.

      For a second she thought the wheel had simply slipped into a rut, but then the lurch became a slide and the carriage tipped. There was a shout from the coachman, Polly’s piercing shriek, hands reaching for her—and then the world turned upside down as the whole vehicle fell over and all went black.

      * * *

      ‘Stop screaming!’ Blake rasped, and the girl wedged against his side subsided into terrified gulps. Where the hell was Eleanor? Her silence was worse than the maid’s panic. ‘Polly? Polly, listen to me. I can’t turn over—something is on my back. Can you look up? Can you see the door?’

      ‘Yes...yes, my lord.’

      ‘Are you injured? Can you move? Climb out?’

      ‘It hurts...’ The whimper turned into a determined sniff. ‘Not anything broken, I don’t think. I can try. It’s Mr Wilton, my lord, over your back. He’s unconscious and his head’s bleeding.’ She sniffed again and her voice wavered. ‘Not...not spurting, my lord. I’ll try and wriggle past him.’

      Blake braced himself against the pain the wriggling inflicted on him—the foot against his cheekbone, the pressure on his right shoulder that already felt as though it was on fire, the strain on his half-healed bullet wound.

      Then Polly called, ‘I’m out, my lord.’

      There were voices—she was talking to someone. Help would come. He made himself think—which was difficult with Jonathan’s dead weight pressing down on him.

      Not dead, remember, he reassured himself. He’s bleeding, but not badly.

      They must have slid down almost twenty feet of steep bank, he reckoned. But Eleanor...

      She had been on his left side. Then he realised that the soft, yielding surface he was pressed down into was Eleanor’s body, and they were lying as close as lovers, as intimately as lovers, his pelvis wedged into the cradle of her thighs, his chest against her breasts.

      Thank God—she’s breathing, he thought, his nose pressed into a mass of springing, lavender-scented hair. She smells delicious... She’s alive.

      ‘Eleanor, hang on—help is coming.’

      For a moment he thought she was unconscious, and then—so suddenly that he jerked his head, banging it hard against something wooden—she heaved under him like a trapped, netted deer.

      ‘Get off me! Get off, get off, get off...!’

      She sounded like a woman in a nightmare, fighting for her life, desperate, frantic.

      ‘Eleanor, it is me—Blake. I can’t move off you. I am sorry, but we’re trapped—just for a little while. Eleanor, lie still until help comes.’

      He kept talking—repetition, reassurance, nonsense. She kept struggling. And then suddenly, with a sob that might have been sheer exhaustion, she lay still.

      ‘I can’t,’ she whispered. ‘Can’t fight...’

      ‘You don’t have to, Eleanor,’ he said, and found he was whispering too. ‘Don’t try and fight. Help will be here soon.’

      Would it? It was very quiet outside. What if Polly had got out and then collapsed? Or Frederick, his coachman, was too badly injured to go for help? What if the horses were dead or had bolted?

      Stop it. This is a well-travelled road. Someone will find us soon.

      He scrabbled with his fingertips, found wood and braced himself, lifting his weight half an inch off Eleanor’s body.

      ‘I’ll make certain you get out safely,’ he promised.

      Beneath him he could feel her vibrating like a taut wire, and he remembered a leveret he had found when he was a boy, lying still as death in its form in a wheat field. It had stared at him with the huge, mad eyes that hares had, but it hadn’t moved. Only when he’d lain his hand on it he’d been able to feel its heart pounding, feel the shivering vibration that racked it.

      He had snatched his hand away, backed into the wheat until he had no longer been able to see it. But he could not stop touching Ellie, and before much longer he was not going to be able to support himself away from her body either.

      ‘Blake?’ The voice in his ear was puzzled. ‘What the hell happened?’

      ‘Jon!’ The relief that he was well enough to speak was almost physical. ‘We went over the bank. Polly scrambled out and I heard her speaking to someone, but that was perhaps half an hour ago. Eleanor is trapped beneath me and I can’t move.’

      ‘Not surprising with me on top. Hold on. The damn writing case has landed