Page 108 of All I Want for Christmas… Is You
But God in heaven, poor Grim!
She’d always rather liked Grim. That is, she hadn’twantedto like him. She’d done her best to find him as tiresome as she did most people, but it hadn’t worked. It was a great nuisance, really, but disliking Grim was rather like disliking iced teacakes, or puppies, or roaring fires on a frigid winter’s night.
It just wasn’t done.
When she saw Grim lying motionless on the ground, she’d feared the worst, but the doctor didn’t expect him to suffer any lasting effects from his injuries. Still, Grim was obliged to remain in bed while he healed, and so Dinah and Oliver had left him under the sympathetic eye of Mrs. Claridge and Sarah Edwards. He’d follow them to Cliff’s Edge in a few days, when he was able to travel.
Dinah might scoff at the idea of ghosts in general, and Viking ghosts in particular, but when they’d come upon Grim half buried in the mud, clutching his shoulder with his face twisted in pain, even her stoicism had deserted her.
She sighed, her head falling back against the squabs. A dislocated shoulder and a mild concussion, the doctor had said. Poor Grim was facing a Christmas spent in an unfamiliar bed, surrounded by people he didn’t know. The Edwards were very kind, but they were still strangers.
She wriggled her feet inside her boots to thaw her frozen toes. If she was as cold as this, what must Oliver be feeling right now?
He’d seen Dinah safely settled inside the carriage with half a dozen rugs to warm her, then he’d climbed onto the box without a word of complaint and pointed the horses’ heads toward Southend-on-Sea.
And that, seemingly, was that. They’d arrive at Cliff’s Edge in the early morning hours, and Dinah would have fulfilled her promise to Penelope. She was pleased about it, of course. Very pleased, indeed. It was what she’d wanted all along, only…
It was so dreadfully cold outside, and it seemed to be growing more so by the mile. The icy rain would likely turn to snow soon enough, making a mess of the roads, and God knew the horses were fussy enough as it was.
Well, it couldn’t be helped. Dinah held onto that thought as she stretched out on the seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Perhaps if she lay all the way down…ah, yes, that was much better. She balanced the pup on her chest and closed her eyes, determined to fall asleep.
Less than ten seconds later her eyes popped open again. Had the wind just picked up? It seemed to be blowing with unusual force now, and what was that dreadful cracking sound? Had a rock or tree limb hit the carriage? Had it hurt Oliver? He was already injured, his face battered and bruised. Could he even see out of that black eye? Or was he struggling through the darkness half-blind?
She threw her limbs this way and that, squirming and cursing the carriage springs—springs that had been perfectly comfortable until this moment—and the pup tumbled off her chest and onto the floor with a protesting yelp.
“You needn’t look so judgmental,” Dinah scolded, frowning down into the puppy’s reproachful blue eyes. “It wasn’tmewho injured Grim. It was the Viking ghost.”
The pup didn’t appear to be impressed with this argument. He stared up at her, his eyes growing more mournful by the second.
“I know what you’re thinking. I was the one who suggested we come to Canvey Island.” Dinah scooped up the pup and laid him on his back across her knees. “If you insist on looking at it that way, youcouldargue I’m at fault for everything that followed.”
The pup wriggled and squirmed and kicked his furry legs.
Dinah tucked the pup into the curve of her shoulder with a sigh. “There’s some merit to your argument, I suppose.”
Oliver hadn’t said so, but given the injuries on his face it stood to reason he was bruised and aching all over, and now he was doomed to spend the darkest hours of the night alone on the box with freezing rain dripping down his neck. If he caught his death of a cold and expired from fever, it would be all Dinah’s fault.
At least, according to the puppy’s logic, it would be.
Well, that decided it, then. She refused to have Oliver’s death on her conscience.
Dinah patted and crooned to the pup until he grew drowsy, then she settled him on the seat, made a nest of carriage rugs around him, and banged her fist against the roof.
The carriage slowed at once, then stopped and sagged to the side as Oliver jumped down from the box. A moment later his face appeared at the open door. “What’s the trouble, Miss Bishop? Are you unwell?”
His cheeks were reddened with wind and cold and his hat and coat looked to be soaked through. Some troubling emotion burned through Dinah—regret, perhaps, or worse, tenderness. “No trouble. I’m perfectly well. I signaled you to stop because I’m joining you on the box.”
Oliver’s eyebrows shot so high they disappeared under the brim of his hat. “Have you lost your wits?”
It was a fair question. Dinah was half-convinced shehadlost them, but her mind, such as it was, was made up. She slid across the seat to the carriage door and gestured for Oliver to move aside. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”
He didn’t stir a step. “You’re not riding on the box. It’s wet and miserable. You’ll freeze.”
“If you can tolerate it, then so can I.”
Dinah waved him aside again, but Oliver braced his feet and crossed his arms over his chest. She tried to dart past him, but he blocked her, and a push against his shoulder proved equally ineffectual. She may as well try to push the carriage over as move a man Oliver’s size.
He smirked. “Are you quite finished? Because we’ve miles ahead of us still, and you’re wasting our—”
