Free Shackles of Honor by Marcia Lynn McClure

leaned inward, rain streaming from his clothing.
    “My man, Fieves, the driver…he is ill,” he panted. Cassidy felt a blush of humiliation rise to her cheeks as she thought of her own petty inward whining about their traveling conditions when the men without, Mason included, were enduring such weather virtually unprotected. “I’ve no wish to worsen his condition, Milady Shea.” He addressed Cassidy’s mother, though his eyes rested angrily on Cassidy for a moment.
    “Certainly not, Mason!” Cassidy’s mother exclaimed. “What say you?”
    “Fieves refuses to let me drive the carriage and come shelter within. Therefore, would it be acceptable to you if we were to stop at Tatiana’s Way…a town a mere five miles before us ? We could weather the night at the inn there and make for Carlisle Manor in the morning.”
    “Of course, Mason! Of course!” Cylia agreed instantly.
    “The…the accommodations may not be of the variety to which you are accustomed when you travel, milady.” Mason lifted a hand, removed his glove , and put a cold fist to his lips, blowing warm air there. He was obviously quite chilled.
    “Mason, I’m nothing if not able to weather as needs be,” Cylia assured him.
    “I apologize, Milady Shea…for the great inconvenience to you…both,” he added, closing the carriage door securely upon his exit.
    
    Within the hour , the coach stopped before a small, rather ominous - looking establishment. A man came out into the rain to greet them. Mason dismounted before him immediately, handing the reins of his own mount to a rough - looking man that appeared from around a nearby corner. Though Cassidy could not hear their words, she assumed the rather frightening man was a stablehand and the other man the innkeeper. Nodding and turning toward the coach, Mason opened the door, reaching inside and offering Cylia his hand.
    A person could not lie to oneself forever about the fact that Mason Carlisle’s manners were impeccable. Cassidy watched as he politely and protectively escorted her mother to the inn, helping her remove her dampened coat as soon as they crossed the threshold. He was ever the perfect gentleman, bowing slightly as her mother obviously thanked him, though Cassidy could hear no words from them above the storm. His attention then turned back to her, for she remained seated in the coach, not out of expectation of his doing the same for her but rather because she had been so entranced in watching him assist her mother that all thought of her own comfort had been obliterated.
    As he approached, walking tall and straightly erect even for the heavy downpour upon his head and mud beneath his feet, she felt herself shake her head quickly and put up a gloved palm toward him, indicating that she did not want his assistance.
    “I am perfectly capable of…” she began. But no sooner had the words escaped her trembling lips, for it was ever so damp and cold, that she gasped as he rather roughly took hold of her arm, pulling her from the doorway of the coach, gathering her none too gently in his arms, one placed firmly around her back, the other beneath the bend of her knees. Never since she was a child had anyone carried her in such a manner. She was angry with him for his boldness, yet pleasantly disturbed by being so completely in his power.
    “Come along, Fieves,” he shouted over his shoulder to the coachman. “Get within and warm yourself with something.”
    Cassidy, trying to gracefully spit out the rainwater that had found itself into her astonished and gaping mouth, reached up, securing her hat to her head, and looked back to see Fieves climb down from the coach and begin to follow them. It was in looking back that she noticed her other arm lay firmly on Mason’s shoulder, her hand resting at the back of his neck. She thought of moving it, for it certainly gave the appearance that she was embracing him somehow, but there was nowhere whatsoever for her arm to go save across the