The Adventurous Bride. Miranda Jarrett

this day had been one tedious delay after another. One of the four post horses slated for their team had turned up lame before he’d even been put in the traces, and they’d been forced to wait until another could be brought.

      Lord John had predicted that the large English coach would be too unwieldy on more narrow roads, and he’d unfortunately proved an accurate prophet. Over and over again they’d come up behind a farmer’s wagon, and it had taken considerable quarreling between their driver and the farmer, and then even more considerable wrangling of the wagon with the coach before they could pass. There’d even been one time where they’d been stopped for a herd of cattle to be driven from one pasture to the next.

      The day had been very warm, too, the sun hot on the coach’s lacquered roof, and the leather cushions had soon grown sticky to the touch. The sweat had collected beneath Mary’s hat and down her neck, sliding down to dampen her shift and stays, and trickled down the back of her legs above her garters, until all she could think of was reaching the next inn and shedding every stitch of her hot, confining clothing, no matter how indecorous or untoward.

      Now with their lanterns lit, the driver was striving to make up the lost time with his weary team, driving them as fast as he dared through the dark so they could reach their inn for supper, and the night.

      The coach bumped over a rut in the road, waking Mary enough that she pushed herself upright and stretched her arms before her. As sleepy as she was, she sensed that something was different with the coach. She could hear the a new tension in the driver’s voice as he shouted to the postilions, and the way the men riding on top of the coach were moving around, talking sharply to one another. Shaking off her sleep, she slid along the seat to the window, pushing aside the curtain to peer out into the night.