"And why didn't you ask me this when you met me?"
"Would you have helped me?"
He sighed. He wouldn't have. He would have laughed and waved her away, leaving her standing on the side of the road. "But pretending to be a highwaywoman-"
"It was an accident." Fiona's thick eyelashes swung down. "The driver assumed I was one, because of my dirty clothes, but really, I was just trying to warn about the tree. I didn't put it there."
"You sure?"
Her voice quieted. "Naturally."
"But I heard gunshots."
"Peasants. Shooting for Christmas dinner."
With effort, Percival swallowed the anger surging through him. He relaxed his shoulders and strove to emulate the nonchalance of a man approaching a country party, and not that of a man discovering some spinster had kidnapped him.
The solution to not having a fiancé was not to kidnap an innocent passerby.
Percival crossed his arms. He'd been outwitted. He'd have to face the dowager, have to apologize for arriving late. He'd have to listen to her tell him that her son, the man who would be Duke if he hadn't saved Percival in a moment of insanity, would never have been late like this.
And she would be correct.
Percival exhaled. Loudly. "Is there anything else I should know?"
Fiona shook her head. "The main thing is to keep Grandmother happy. You can speak in moon-like tones about gardening or about setting up some parish somewhere. You needn't mention anything glamorous, and if Lady Mulbourne is here, I'm sure she won't be particularly impressed, but that doesn't matter."
"It seems like just the fact you have a fiancé will be sufficient cause of rejoicing for them," Percival said.
Fiona stiffened.
"And just who is Lady Mulbourne? And what absurd standards does she possess?" Percival normally prided himself on his calm, but normally he wasn't faced with maniac women of means in want of fiancés.
"Oh, she's very important." Fiona nodded. "She's my cousin and she thinks she's in charge of this district, though that's not entirely incorrect. But she's married to a baron. He's of great importance. He's one of the greatest art critics England has ever had. You should read the reflective, thoughtful articles he composes on a range of subjects that would astound you."
Percival scowled. "I see nothing worthy of laudation in a person who devotes himself to the study of inanimate objects."
"Even important objects of cultural significance? Possibly historical significance?"
"There's nothing important about art."
Fiona stiffened. "One favor. A few minutes. Please? And then I'll tell the groom to prepare the coach for you and give you back the jewels. You'll be able to travel to London in far greater style than that mail coach."
"One day later," Percival grumbled.
"Please. If you could be so kind."
Percival raised his eyebrows.
Fiona's face fell. "Forgive me, I was absurd to link ‘kind' and ‘you' in a single sentence."
"Yes." Percival smiled tightly. "Rather unfortunate for you that I'm not more suitable for your needs. You don't know what kind of uncultured louts lacking gallantry you find in carriages these days. Damned shame."
"Please?"
"I won't be subjected to some strange child's play."
"I'm not a child!" Fiona's voice was outraged.
Good.
"You are worse than a child!" Percival declared. "A child contents herself to demand pretty dresses." He paused to scan her ragged cloak. "You haven't even the sense to ask for the latter."
Percival laughed, or at least attempted to. "So I'd . . . er . . . better get going then. I'll just drive this sleigh back to the inn and get a horse from there to go to London. I don't need your coach."
"But just a few minutes-" A pink tinge lined the woman's cheekbones. "Please."
Her voice quivered, and Percival tightened his fists, as if that gesture alone would be sufficient to tighten his resolve. "You cannot force me. I'll go back to London and-"
"Propose? Won't you need a ring?" Fiona's voice was all innocence.
"I-"
Blast. His shoulders sank. She was right. He needed to do this.
"You bloody bastard," Percival swore, not caring that he was breaching all rules of propriety. "Where the hell is it?"
Fiona blinked. "I hope you don't mean to speak like that in front of my Grandmother."
Percival stiffened and scrunched his fists together. His heart thundered against his chest. He'd begun to care for her; his gaze pulled to hers with too much frequency, as if she were the bloody sun.
But she was not a highwaywoman, not desperate in the traditional sense, not in the least. The manor house enlarged as the horses trotted on, oblivious to the tumult in the sleigh. The façade was more intricate and the statues more sophisticated than even his family's original estate, had dear old Bernard not died and left him a whole dukedom.
She was a wallflower. Even after they'd kissed, after the world had tilted and swirled and it took everything in him to pretend that nothing between them had actually changed after their lips touched, she hadn't confided in him. She'd stayed up in the night instead and stolen his jewels, proving that the dowager was right, and he wasn't a man anymore. He couldn't protect a tiny packet from a chit.
"Look." Fiona swallowed hard. "You pose as my fiancé, and I'll give you your ring and those other jewels back. Just introduce yourself to my grandmother as Captain Knightley and say you've been away at war and that you're looking forward to our impending marriage."
"I hope you haven't arranged that already, too," Percival grumbled.
"Of course not," Fiona exclaimed. "But if she asks, say we'll need to delay our wedding. Maybe you can make another excuse?" She tilted her head. "I suppose you don't think it's likely that Bonaparte will make his escape from St. Helena?"
Percival narrowed his eyes. "No."
She sighed, and he tapped his fingers against the edge of the sleigh. Finally, he smiled. He was practiced at smiling after all. He excelled at turning his lips up when greeting pompous people, and on feigning a pleasant demeanor even when his leg ached from standing. When one smiled long enough, eventually one was even prone to believing the veracity of one's joyous demeanor. "Very well."
Fiona exhaled in obvious relief. The sleigh neared the manor house. She glanced to him, her forehead crinkling. Clearly the woman was more discerning than he'd given her credit for. "Most people would be complimenting the stone facade and the fountains now."
Fiona pulled the horses before the entrance, and Percival staggered from the sleigh and offered his hand to her. In the old days he might have given her a bow, but at the moment he felt sufficiently courteous. His other arm rested firmly on the side of the sleigh. "Let me escort you, my betrothed."
She hurried from the sleigh, decidedly not grasping his hand. "I'm not asking you to be my fiancé for any personal reasons."
Of course she wouldn't really want him. His leg was ruined. He forced his mind from lingering on searing lips, a gentle touch, and soft, luscious curves.
He abhorred her. Utterly and completely.
He followed her gaze to the manor house. A stout, stone fish with well-defined carved scales and speckled with spots of green discoloration squatted in the center of an icy sheet. His head-Percival didn't want to ascribe such an unattractive appearance to a female fish-was directed upward to the grey, cloudy sky. One could almost imagine water spurting from the thick lips of the statue's mouth.
"It is perhaps more stunning in the summer," Fiona said.
"It's divine." A house like that was sure to be filled with people.
Chapter Twelve
Servants peeked from the windows with their heads tilted and their eyebrows raised, and Fiona's heart sped. Sweat prickled the back of her neck, and though she'd kidnapped him for just this moment, fear spread through her.
Percival stumbled beside her, and a strange gleam shone in his eyes, seeming to grow stronger with each step toward Cloudbridge Castle.
Goodness. What in heaven's name had she done?
"Don't attempt anything," she murmured through gritted teeth.
He answered her with a laugh, a low relaxed rumble the man was probably accustomed to emitting in smoky clubs filled with copious supplies of brandy.
Drat.
She needed to speak to Grandmother before this man entered. She hurried forward. Or as fast as one could dash while still attempting to maintain a portion of one's dignity, conscious of various curtains being drawn back in the house. The maids were cleaning, and clearly her late appearance was of greater interest than poking about sooty fireplaces.