Wicked Nights With a Lover (11 page)

“Just seeing that you keep your word,” he had archly reminded her when she protested.

Blast her for promising to consider his offer! “I retract my promise. Take me home.”

Those dark eyes of his had drilled into her so darkly then, flat and motionless as a midnight sea. She’d strained for a glimpse of something beneath the liquid dark, a flicker of his thoughts. “Is that honor to you? Making promises and then discarding them when convenient?”

Rather than scream, she had looked away then, reminding herself that she was not a woman given to tantrums. They had not spoken since.

She supposed an ordinary woman might have accepted her fate. It wasn’t as though she was being forced to wed a hideous figure of a man, after all. He was handsome. He possessed funds enough to outfit her in a lifestyle she never dared dream for herself.

And yet, ever since her collision with Madame Foster, her life had taken a decidedly extraordinary turn.

Ash seemed to relax as London fell farther and farther behind. His shoulders lost some of their rigidity. Not that she thought anyone would follow them. Certainly, the father she had yet to meet would care little for the daughter who failed to fall in line with his schemes.

Courtland’s growing ease would be to her advantage. She was resourceful. She had not survived years at Penwich without using her wits. She’d outsmart Ash yet. She could still break free and find her way back to London, back to Roger. Once she explained everything, he would doubtless reschedule their adventure. There was still time.

“A village lies ahead. We’ll rest and dine there while we change out the horses.”

She nodded, a cloud of breath fogging at her lips. Winter managed to penetrate the well-appointed carriage. She couldn’t imagine the level of cold she’d be enduring if she weren’t traveling in such comfort. Heated bricks warmed her feet and a thick blanket covered her lap. Every morning he draped the blanket on her lap, tucking it around her as if she were a child. She always sat still, astounded at the care he took, struggling to refrain from softening toward him. She couldn’t forget this was the same ruthless man who had abducted her.

She flexed her gloved fingers inside the soft ermine muff atop her lap and stared at him, searching for something unlikeable in his handsome face. A hard-eyed cruelty, a tight-lipped savagery ready to unleash itself on her. Not that she wanted to be harmed … she simply wanted him to be less …
appealing.

He’d found her appropriate attire for the cold climate and days of hard travel. That he had taken such consideration of her added to her unease.

No one had ever taken care of her before. Her earliest memories were of spending all her energies on her mother, seeing that she did not languish in the neglect of Jack Hadley. It was a full-time occupation, keeping Mama from wilting and withering away entirely between her visits to Jack.

Marguerite was good at taking care of others. It’s what she did, after all. All she knew how to do.

But
this?
A man caring for her …

She shook her head, refusing to let that affect her. Tender feelings for Courtland would only weaken her from her purpose. From what she must do. As enticing as his offer was, she could not risk marriage to him. In-name-only or not.

She hardened her heart, warning herself not to be duped into liking him because he provided her with clothes and a blanket. He likely had no wish for her to die from exposure. She moved her gaze from the window, studying his profile.

Aside of his kind gestures, his sound arguments, he’d held himself distant as they traveled north. She was certain it was what she had said that first night at the inn.

What on earth makes you think I would want some blackguard from St. Giles to place his hands upon me?

Ever since she’d flung that insult in a desperate attempt to remove his person from her, he’d held himself aloof. Distant. She’d struck a nerve. Who he was, what he was, where he came from … apparently, those were sensitive points for him.

Or it could just be that he offered her a marriage founded in cool practicality, and he felt no emotion regarding the matter. Regarding her.

The carriage came to a stop. Frigid wind buffeted her as she stepped down. With every mile north they plunged deeper into the teeth of winter.

She shivered and burrowed into her cloak and hood. Walking alongside Courtland, she paused to watch a family walking past with arms full of greenery. For boughs, she assumed, recalling that it was Christmastime. The mother exclaimed as the youngest tripped and fell into his armload of pine and holly. She and the older two children hurried over to the little one, dusting the needles off him and putting a stop to the tears.

“Come,” Courtland tugged on her arm. “There’s a fire inside.”

She pulled her gaze from the mother and children and permitted him to guide her inside the inn, holding silent as they were shown to their room.
Her
room rather. Since that first night when she’d insulted him, he didn’t so much as step inside her room. She supposed she should feel relieved.

The few times she’d tried to leave her room, she’d opened the door only to find someone standing guard. The groom, the driver, a barmaid. Never him though. And she couldn’t help wondering where he spent his nights.

Did he bed down with a willing female? One of the many maids who followed him hungrily with their eyes? She shouldn’t care, but the notion pricked at her.

His deep voice rumbled over the air. “I’ll have a tray sent up.” The same words he’d uttered the last several nights. “Do you need anything?” He asked that each time, too.

She moved to the center of the room, rotating in a small circle to face him.

He didn’t bother moving deeper into the room. Standing with one hand on the door latch, he waited for her response, appearing anxious to escape her company.

Rubbing her arms, she lifted her chin and stared at him coolly. “My freedom would be nice.”

His lips twitched and for a moment she thought his implacable exterior might crack, that he might actually smile. Then his lips stilled, his mouth a hard line again.

She hugged herself, shivering.

“Are you cold?” he asked, his gaze flickering to the smoldering fire in the hearth. “I’ll have someone fetch more wood.”

“Where are you going?” she asked abruptly.

He stared at her with his black gaze. “Why? Will you miss me?” There was no teasing in the question, no humor. His intense stare only made her flinch.

“Of course not,” she replied, her voice quick, overly loud. “Why should I care?”

“It’s not unheard of for a woman to care about the whereabouts of her soon-to-be husband.”

“Indeed, a wife
would
care. But according to you, I shall be a wife in name only.”

He cocked his head, dark eyes glinting. “You accept my proposal then?”

“I did not say that,” she retorted, cheeks warming. It did sound as though she were relenting. Her gaze drifted over the long length of him, standing so strong in the threshold. Perhaps she was.

She could not deny that he drew her, affected that part of her she had thought immune to men. The secret part that longed to know the mysteries that passed between a man and a woman. Except, according to Madame Foster, experiencing those mysteries with her husband would lead only to her demise.

Fortunate for her he did not appear the least inclined to make their union anything more than the business arrangement he proposed. She swallowed against the bitter taste in her mouth.

“You need to decide. We’ll reach Scotland tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

She shrugged, pretending not to care, pretending that his announcement had not spiked her pulse against her throat. “I’ll decide tomorrow then.”

He cocked his golden-dark head. The move struck her as somehow dangerous, menacing, like a predator evaluating its prey before the final pounce. How was she to trust him? If she were wrong … the price was too high. How was she to believe he would return her to London if she refused him? Or try not to seduce her if they wed?

As little as she knew her father, he’d taught her much about men. They were not to be relied upon for anything.

She inhaled a wet breath, a sob caught thickly in her throat. Nothing about this was simple. Her head pounded. She pressed her fingertips to her temples, where the dull ache throbbed.

She only wished she knew whether marrying him would set her on a course to certain death.

If she wasn’t so convinced he would stick her in an asylum, she would explain everything to him. Except she wasn’t so certain she wasn’t mad to believe it all herself.

“Tomorrow then.” With a nod, he pulled the door shut after him, leaving her with the image of his handsome face. Her thoughts a wild jumble, she paced the small space. Tossing her muff down, she pulled a glove free and began gnawing at the edge of her thumb.

She couldn’t marry him. Nor could she refuse him and trust him to accept her refusal. There was doubtless any number of unscrupulous reverends that wouldn’t bat an eye over a reticent bride.

She didn’t bother trying for the door. Her gaze flicked along its length reproachfully. It would be pointless. Someone likely already guarded the outside.

But she would escape. Tonight was her last chance. She moved to the window, wiping her bare hand over the frosted panes with a squeak, clearing it enough to peer outside.

The back of the inn loomed beneath her, bare mostly, except for a shed and a pen with four fat hogs.

A servant girl emerged, dumping a bucket full of scraps into a bowl near the shed. Two dogs snarled at each other for the fine fare. The girl’s voice lifted on the evening air with hard words of reprimand for the scrapping mongrels.

Marguerite eyed the sloping porch swooping out beneath her window. Even if she fell off the edge, it wouldn’t be such a steep drop. She couldn’t injure herself. Much.

She nodded determinedly. She’d do it. Time had run out.

A knock alerted her that her dinner had arrived. Turning, she bade entrance, a calmness suffusing her that hadn’t been there before, a peace with the decision she’d reached.

She’d be sure to eat every bite. She’d need her strength for what lay ahead.

Chapter 11

A
sh sat at a table alone the following morning, staring through the window at the flurrying fall of white, wondering if the snowfall would delay their journey.

“Can I get you anything else, sir?” He turned at the sound of the hopeful voice. It was the same saucy barmaid from the night before. She’d been most solicitous, offering more than a warm meal as she repeatedly leaned close, revealing a view down her cleavage.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Dropping several coins on the table for her, he stood, stretching his tight muscles. No doubt he would have slept more peaceably with a certain raven-haired imp in his bed. Shaking his head, he cautioned himself. Their marriage would not involve any of that.

Deciding it time to collect Marguerite and be on his way, he asked, “Have you already delivered a breakfast tray upstairs then?”

“Oh, yes, but the lady wasn’t there.”

Ice shot through his veins at this bit of news delivered so blithely. “What do you mean, she wasn’t there?”

She shrugged, looking annoyed. “The room was empty—”

“Bloody hell.” He stormed up the stairs, his boots pounding on the steps. It must be a mistake. Marguerite couldn’t have gotten past the guard.

He didn’t bother knocking. Storming past the groom, he flung open the door. Immediately, the chill of the room hit him, whipped straight through his clothes, biting into his flesh and sinking into his bones. The curtains at the window fluttered in the wind, taunting bits of lace damp with snow. He strode ahead. Gripping the sill in numb hands, he glared down at the yard, staring at the sloping roof with reproach.

Damn her.

He shook his head. God help her when he caught up with her. He’d been patient with her, extended her every courtesy and believed her sincere when she claimed to consider his offer. The female lacked all sanity. She would rather jump from a window than face him with her refusal. Did she think he would drag her by her hair to the altar?

With a curse, he pushed off the sill and stalked from the room, barking for the wide-eyed groom to follow. Hopefully, someone saw something. A female like Marguerite would stand out. She held herself with a quiet grace. Her raven-winged hair and whiskey eyes gave her an otherworldly quality, feylike. As though she sprang from earth and woods. She could not go unnoticed. Useful for him to trail her, but not good for her. Not good for her at all.

Buried within his anger lurked fear. Metallic and bitter on his tongue, he worried that she would come to harm without an escort. He knew firsthand how rough and merciless the world could be. A woman alone was especially vulnerable. No more so than in this part of the country, thick with thieves and highwaymen and all manner of desperate individuals.

Swallowing down his apprehension, he told himself she couldn’t have gotten far. He would find her soon, and make her regret she ever toyed with him.

Marguerite woke with a start, disoriented, surrounded in a blanket of darkness, pricked and scratched on every side. She swatted at the offending bramble scraping her face and wondered wildly if she had woken within a thornbush.

Then she heard the driver call out and the horses’ responding whinnies. The wagon pulled to a stop, wheels creaking. She stilled, ceasing her squirming as she recalled that she had stowed away in the back of the wagon.

She’d slipped from the inn window after dinner and spent the night hiding from sight, awaiting her chance, eyeing all the travelers passing through the village. That chance arrived in the early hours of dawn when she spotted a farmer rolling through the village with his wagon of hay. He hadn’t spotted her. Not even when she slipped into the back of his wagon, folding herself carefully beneath the hay.

She blew at a particularly thick piece of hay stabbing her lip, hoping to dislodge it. Had she thought hay soft? The stuff felt like needles pricking her flesh.