My Husband Locked Me Out in a Blizzard on Our Wedding Night — He Had No Idea Who Found Me

Part 2

He hauled me off the frozen pavement, the ruined silk of my wedding gown tearing loudly as it stuck stubbornly to the ice.

I was deadweight in his arms, awkwardly stiff and entirely incapable of assisting him in any meaningful way.

He carried me toward an enclosed carriage waiting a hundred yards down the lane, its lanterns casting long, eerie shadows across the snow.

His coachman yanked the heavy wooden door open, staring at my battered form with wide, absolute disbelief.

The man shoved me inside the dark interior, the movement entirely lacking in any gentle bedside manner.

My shoulder caught the hard edge of the doorframe with a dull thud, but I was too numb to even register the pain.

“Drive back to the estate,” he commanded the coachman, his voice slicing easily through the howling, violent wind. “Fast.”

The carriage lurched forward violently before the heavy oak door even had a chance to latch shut.

Inside, the cramped space was pitch black and smelled overwhelmingly of stale tobacco, damp leather, and wet wool.

He dragged me onto the bench beside him, my heavy head lolling helplessly onto his solid, unyielding thigh.

The violent rocking of the carriage jarred my frozen bones, sending sharp spikes of phantom pain shooting through my limbs.

I tried to pull away from him, a sudden surge of blind, primal panic momentarily overriding my deep hypothermia.

I kicked out weakly, my frozen satin slipper scraping uselessly against the thick fabric of his shin.

He caught both of my flailing wrists in one massive hand, pinning them firmly against his broad chest.

“You are safe,” he said flatly, the absolute lack of emotion in his voice somehow far more terrifying than a direct threat. “Stop moving.”

As my mind fought desperately through the thick haze of the cold and the throbbing concussion, my gaze locked onto his face in the dim light.

Dan.

The man whose family had been locked in a bitter, blood-soaked feud with my husband’s family for generations.

He was notoriously ruthless, a man who fought for land and power with zero regard for polite society’s unwritten rules.

“Why did you bring me here?” I managed to croak, my throat dry and my voice sounding exactly like crushed glass.

“You hate him,” I rasped, struggling immensely to draw a full, deep breath of the stale air. “You could have easily let me die at his gates.”

He stared at me, his rough thumb resting casually against my icy, unresponsive knuckles.

“I could have,” he agreed casually, as if discussing the weather. “But unfortunately for both of us, I prefer my vengeance breathing.”

He wasn’t acting out of chivalry or some deeply buried sense of moral duty.

He had seen a golden opportunity to strike a devastating blow against his hated rival, and I was the perfect ammunition.

As the carriage wheels ground to a harsh halt against the cobblestones of his heavily guarded courtyard, a new, terrifying realization settled over me.

If my husband discovered I had survived the brutal night in the bed of his sworn enemy, he would use the scandal to completely destroy my reputation and take my inheritance anyway.

I was entirely trapped between a man who actively wanted me dead and a man who simply wanted to use me as convenient bait.

How exactly does a ruined bride destroy a powerful Earl when the law is entirely on his side?