Read Coach and Four: Allisandra's Tale for Free Online Page B

her head upon him. “You must calm yourself,” he said, encouragingly.
     
She was so ill that she ignored the impropriety of having her head upon him. She tried to ignore everything that was happening, to imagine it all away. Even if just for a moment, knowing she must focus on regaining her breath. Her strength. Her wits. And slowly, she did. Little by little, her breaths came in more measured intervals, and were deeper.
     
The lamp had been lit, and she looked curiously at the aristocratic face above her. Oh, yes—it was Dorchester all right. She remembered the smooth skin, dark, long locks, a fine nose and mouth, well-shaven jaw and piercing dark eyes. Dark eyes that met hers. Returning her gaze. Allisandra coloured and sat up. She resumed her place against the cold side of the coach, wrapping her arms around herself, and huddling.
     
“My lady,” he said, lightly. She stiffened involuntarily but turned her head towards him —just enough to show she had heard, but no more.
     
He reached into a hidden pocket of his waistcoat. Allisandra's curiosity was piqued, and so she watched. He found the desired item and pulled it forth—a small flask. He undid the cap and passed it immediately in her direction. She was thirsty, but eyed it warily.
     
“This will do much to improve your constitution,” he said encouragingly, holding it out for her to take. Reluctantly she did so, and sniffed at its open mouth cautiously. She quickly thrust back the flask, crying, “Spirits! No, I thank you!”
     
He shifted in his seat but would not take it back. “You are not well, my lady. What's more, you are cold, and possibly hungry, and tired—a few sips of this, and you will feel greatly restored, I give you my word.”
     
“ Your word! ” she shot out, not to his surprise, only.
     
In a somber tone, he repeated, “I give you—my—word.”
     
“You evidently know little of me,” Allisandra began. She was going to inform him of her scruples against spirits, but he shot back, “I know all about you! I am not proposing that you take up brandy as a past-time; I am suggesting that a small, harmless amount of the stuff will do you some good, and, what's more, you need it. Do not think I am unaware of the degree of your discomfort. Unfortunately, it could not be avoided, for I had precious little time to rescue you.”
     
“Rescue me! Rescue me ?” Allisandra was speechless for a moment. “What can you mean, sir?” He had her full attention.
     
But he merely looked meaningfully at the flask. “Take a drink, and we'll talk later.”
     
Allisandra, who had drunk nothing but the weakest wine all her life (requiring special permission of the King, in fact, for everyone else at his table drank whatever he offered them) looked doubtfully at the container, wrinkled her nose at the smell, and forced down a swallow. She immediately coughed, looking accusingly at her companion, and hurriedly handed back the vile libation.
     
He murmured, “Very good,” and then took a deep gulp, letting the fluid run smoothly down his throat, as one accustomed to it. But he stopped at that, re-capped the flask, and put it into the pocket of his frock-coat.
     
For a few seconds Allisandra heartily regretted her sip, when suddenly she felt a strange but nice sort of sensation. It was warmth that was spreading throughout her limbs, seeming to come from her stomach or throat area. To her astonishment, his lordship had been right—she could feel the effect of this drink, and it was not a disagreeable thing. She felt warmer and more relaxed. The feeling spread to her face, which was now rosy. She stretched her neck and shifted a bit on her seat, relaxing into the upholstery. Dorchester noticed and suddenly the flask was there, in front of her again, and he said, “Go on, once more. You'll feel better, yet,” in his low but hearty tone.
     
She hesitated, but decided that just one more small sip could not do her harm; did not even the king's