or one of Georgette Heyer’s wondrous Regency Romances; a lover who would see through her quiet exterior, who would cherish and adore her…
She knew better now, and, if it was foolish of her to say to herself that, if she could not reach the stars, if she could not experience the heights of emotional intensity she had once dreamed of reaching, then she would rather not bother than settle for the kind of mundane relationship her mother had described, then only she knew of that folly.
And so she had stayed on, to smile at Gracie’s Travis, and to hide her real feelings at the astonishment on his face as he had looked from the tall, golden, glowing Blacklaw parents and his equally golden, glowing fiancée to the small, brown little creature who was their daughter and sister.
And then yesterday it had snowed enough for Gracie to insist on their digging out the old sledge and going tobogganing on the snowy fields beyond the house. Unwillingly, Emily had allowed herself to be dragged along with them. And of course it should be her luck that, instead of sledging skilfully to the bottom of the hill, she should have hit a covered root and end up soaking wet and bruised sitting in a shallow, muddy pool of water hiding beneath the ice.
What had made it even more unfortunate was that she had not brought a second skirt with her, having only intended to stay two days; and so now, instead of travelling home in her neat pleated skirt and sensible blouse and jumper, she was wearing what Gracie had described as a ‘sweatshirt’ in a shade of fuchsia pink which might suit Gracie but which she felt was hideously startling on her—and worse still there was a rather dubious slogan printed across its chest in two-inch-high letters.
To go with this, Gracie had proffered a pair of jeans, ruthlessly ignoring Emily’s protests that they were far too tight and too long, telling her that she could easily shorten them, and then immediately doing so, so that Emily had had no option but to put the things on and to leave the soaking wet skirt behind her.
Weakly she had also accepted the multicoloured and huge sweater Travis had pressed on her as a ‘present’. Gracie had plainly not told him what Emily looked like, because the sweater had obviously been designed for a woman like her sister—someone tall and self-confident enough to carry off such a very vivid and eye-catching item.
In fact, the only things she had on that were her own, apart from her underwear, were her sensible flat shoes; but, looking at them and then looking at the frighteningly fast-thickening snow, Emily was forced to acknowledge that a sturdy pair of wellington boots was likely to have been more use to her.
She had deliberately chosen to drive back to Oxford over one of the high passes to avoid the traffic. Her father, who always listened to the farming weather, had warned her that more snow had been forecast, but she had assumed that he meant further small flurries of the sort they had had over the previous two days—not this potentially life-threatening blizzard. However, there was no point in panicking. A quick glance in her rear-view mirror confirmed her opinion that she had come too far up the pass to turn back; another half-hour and she would be over the pass and down the other side, heading for the small village of Thraxton, whereas if she turned back she would have to drive for over an hour to reach the nearest town.
She frowned again as she felt her car wheels start to spin, and slowed down to a safe crawl, thanking providence that her mother’s housekeeper, Louise, had insisted on providing her with a huge flask of coffee and some sandwiches. She had a new unread paperback in her overnight case, plus the car rug she always carried with her to tuck round Uncle John’s knees. He suffered badly from arthritis now, and welcomed such small touches of extra warmth and cosseting.
If she did have to spend the night in the car, she would survive. It wouldn’t be pleasant, of course, but she was sensible enough to know that it would be far wiser for her to stay in her car than to risk exposure by getting out and going looking for help. Not that she was likely to find any. These hills were barren and uninhabited, and it was too late now to wish that she had chosen the more sensible busy route.
Although it was dark, the whiteness of the snow-covered landscape gave off an eerie light; her eyes, straining to see through the driving snow clogging the windscreen-wipers, were beginning to ache, and she was conscious of how much her car was slipping and sliding despite her low gear…How much further before she reached the highest point of the road? She tried to remember if she was right in thinking there was a small lay-by not far ahead, and whether it would be more sensible to pull in there or risk going on.
She hadn’t seen any other cars since it started to snow. Soon, with the wind, the snow would start to drift. If that happened and her car got covered…She bit her lip, telling herself stoically that nothing could be gained from letting her imagination panic her—and then, just when she was beginning to think she might make it, the car skidded violently, out of control, and plunged off the road and down into a deep snow-filled ditch.
She bumped her head as the car came to rest, the seatbelt jerking her backwards painfully, and as she moved cautiously, unfastening it and forcing open her door, she was thankful to discover that she had no real injuries.
As she climbed out of the car and into the snow and surveyed them both rather shakily, she was forced to admit what she had already known: that the only way her car was going to get out of the ditch was by being lifted out. Even with the spade she had in the boot, it would be impossible for her to dig herself out.
Biting her lip with irritation, she acknowledged that there was nothing else for it. She would have to spend the night in the car and hope that by morning the snow had gone and that she would be able to appeal to a fellow motorist for help.
She was just about to get back inside the car when, almost like a miracle, she heard the sound of another car approaching. Instinctively she stepped out into the road to attract the driver’s attention, only realising too late that the sight of her was likely to make them brake and suffer the same fate as herself.
The driver of the battered, long-wheelbase, four-wheel-drive vehicle that swung round the bend obviously thought the same thing, because he glared at her and mouthed something she suspected was far from complimentary—but he did at least stop. Although, when she saw him climbing out of his vehicle, she wondered whether that was a good thing or not. He was huge: well over six feet with shoulders to match, his features concealed by a tousled mop of black hair and an equally unprepossessing beard.
As he came towards her Emily saw that he was glowering at her. He paused frowningly a foot away from her, wiping the snow off his face with a hand that she saw was hard and scarred as though he worked outdoors a lot, and she wondered if he was a local farmer.
‘Just what in hell are you trying to do? Kill us both?’ The sharp, incisive words were not spoken with a local accent or with any kind of accent at all, Emily recognised as she assimilated his angry criticism. It had perhaps been foolish of her to stand in the road, but his anger was surely a little excessive?
‘You young kids, you’re all the same,’ he continued, still glowering. ‘Not a scrap of sense in your heads…’
Emily stared at him. Just how old did he think she was? Despite his grim appearance, she doubted that he was much more than in his early thirties; she was twenty-six—not a lot of difference, and certainly not sufficient to merit his attitude.
‘Now, just a minute—’ she began, but he immediately cut across what she had been going to say, demanding curtly, ‘Have you any idea of how easy it would be for you to freeze to death out here? Look at you, dressed in an outfit more suitable for a…a city disco than these winter hills. Have you any idea just what’s involved in mounting rescue services for idiots like you? Just what it costs in men’s time? The rescue services in these hills are run by volunteers, men already badly pressed for time—men who willingly
