The Rake's Rainbow Read Free Page A

she refused to question why she would be the fourth to hold the position this year alone. An involuntary shudder raced down her spine, which she immediately attributed to the cold and damp.
    A loud belch spewed brandy fumes in her face, effectively masking the farm couple’s stench and directing her thoughts toward her immediate problem. Again she tried to push the drunk from her numbed shoulder. His hat rolled onto the floor, disclosing that the moisture seeping through her cloak was wine. His hair was soaked with it. What could possibly make this journey worse? 
    Hardly had she formulated the question when the coach lurched sharply over a series of ruts, bucking like a boat on a storm-tossed sea. The drunkard lunged across her, threw open the window, and barely shoved his head out before casting up his accounts. His stomach heaved against her hips. Swallowing her own reaction, she tried to hold the sweating, shaking body away as he continued his endless retching. Finally, one hand dug into her arm and he dragged himself back inside.
    “S-sorry,” he whispered shakily, then collapsed onto her lap, his dark curls now dripping from the pelting rain.
    “Serves you right for drinking so much,” she snapped angrily but he had passed out. She exchanged an exasperated glance with the spinster, who sniffed loudly and turned to glare out her own window.
    Lacking the strength to move him, she closed the window, resigned to the most uncomfortable night of her life. Please, Lord, don’t let this journey be a portent of my new life, she prayed silently.
    * * * *
    An especially bad bump jarred Caroline awake. Amazingly, she had dozed off. The drunkard still sprawled across her lap, her hand unaccountably holding him in place. Judging from the numbness in her legs, several hours must have elapsed. Even the spinster was asleep.
    She shivered. Water had seeped through both cloak and dress, chilling her as the temperature approached freezing. Damp gloves offered little protection for her fingers. Half-boots did nothing to warm her toes. A glance at the window showed rain falling harder than ever.
    Surely even mail coaches slowed in such weather… But the driver was loudly urging his horses faster. The wheels skidded sideways, sending her heart into her throat. Another lurch dug the farmer’s elbow into his wife and she gasped.
    “Harry!” she screamed, shaking him violently. “Wake up!  Something’s mighty wrong.”
    Snorts and wheezes were his only response.
    Was some young sprig tooling the mail coach?  Caroline sobbed in terror while the fat lady continued her exhortations of Harry. Though common on the stage, such irregularities were supposed to never happen on the King’s mail. But their increasingly reckless pace convinced her that they were victim to just such a prank. No professional driver would handle the ribbons with this reckless abandon.
    They swung wildly around a curve, the drunk’s weight crushing her into the corner, his pressure making it difficult to breathe. The spinster’s piercing screech woke Harry and the clerk.
    “Stop, I say!” shouted Harry, pounding on the panel separating them from the driver’s box.
    “We’ll all die!” sobbed his wife, burying her head in his shoulder.
    “Imbecile!  Stop, or I’ll report you at the next posting inn!” he continued loudly, to no avail. He opened the window to repeat his demands, now punctuated by obscenities, but accomplished nothing beyond admitting freezing rain and wind into the coach.
    The drunk groaned, his hand pawing at Caroline’s bosom before he again passed out.
    “Wouldn’t do no good if ye did report the bloody bastard. Who’d believe ye?  He must be mad,” muttered the clerk, his face gray with fear, both hands exerting a death grip on the strap.
    “Watch your language, young man,” demanded the spinster. “There is a lady present.”
    Another sharp bump slammed Caroline’s head into the roof, but failed to dislodge the beast in