"Even though they've seen no messenger?" Percival slid from the sleigh and waited for Fiona to disembark.
Fiona's face tightened, but she nodded. "I will make an excuse. We won't be able to take the sleigh into the town center; the snow will not be thick enough for that. But you should be able to find a hack." She paused and then pointed. "There's one."
He followed her finger. There indeed was a hack. The driver tilted his head. "Cheap rides."
"See-"
Percival sighed.
Freedom.
"Thank you for everything you've already done." Fiona's voice trembled.
Percival nodded. "You were the greatest highwaywoman a man could ask for."
Her face pinkened, and she laughed softly. Her eyes were still sad when he turned to the hack driver. He trudged through the snow, his steps slow and labored. He clutched his cane tightly as it made deep incisions in the snow. When he reached the hack and all its promises of freedom, his heart should have thudded with relief, but instead his chest tightened. He swung his gaze back to Fiona.
She was behind the others as they looked at fabric through a shop window. Her face was rigid, her spine was straight, and his heart hurt.
Blast.
He turned and headed back toward her, making his way through the slushy snow and struggling to maintain his balance.
"But sir," the hack driver called behind him, but he waved his hand.
He strode toward her, and his tongue thickened as he neared her. She wasn't expecting him.
Not that he could leave her.
"Fiona."
She spun around, and relief flooded her face. "But-"
"Let's go back," Percival said.
"But-"
"We'll make your grandmother happy. If I'm to be your fiancé, let me at least be a good one. Let's go to the ball tomorrow. I want to be remembered fondly."
"That would be . . . wonderful." Fiona smiled at him. "But you're in a rush to go to London."
Percival shrugged.
The dowager would be upset at his continued absence. He would send another note to her. His cheeks warmed at the memory of the passionate note he'd sent earlier, calling Fiona a kidnapper. He would send a note to ease any worries she might have. He needn't be a slave to society's desires. Not today. Not tomorrow.
Chapter Sixteen
The fire cooled, and the flames that leaped and swirled in the medieval fireplace before Percival's bed vanished, replaced by long strips of garnet and orange that crunched the dark logs.
His mind shifted to the day previous. The sleigh ride from Harrogate had transformed into sipping chocolate in the Great Hall, chatting with her and her grandmother. Chocolate transformed into listening to wassailers, and another sleigh ride late at night, brightened by the moon and the glimmer of frosted leaves and branches.
Something sounded on the balcony.
A bird. Or maybe some nocturnal squirrel, unfazed by the vast piles of snow.
Fiona.
His heart leaped at the thought, despite its ridiculousness. A woman might pretend to be a highwaywoman, but that did not mean she scratched on the window of a man's room.
And yet he still clambered off the bed, even though rising remained a difficult procedure. He still wrapped a robe over himself and he still headed outside, the sound of the clicking of his wooden foot loud in the morning quiet.
He unlocked the door and stepped onto the stone balcony.
Naturally she wasn't there.
The thought had been foolish, and he told himself he was relieved. His life was planned, and now was not the time for romance.
The sun journeyed up the horizon, casting long pink and orange rays over the snow-covered landscape. The sharp slopes glistened bright tangerine colors.
Everything sparkled, at variance with the dour, rain-clogged Dales he'd anticipated, where the sky and ground would share that same, muddied color.
Crisp air swept over his hair. Snowflakes continued their descents, but they tumbled slowly, twirling under the growing light, their distinctive shapes fluttering before they settled onto the piles of snow, merging forever.
Tonight was the ball, and after he would go to London. He would meet his perfect bride, adorn her with the perfect jewels with their perfect history. They would have their perfect children and lead their perfect lives.
They'd spend the season in London, summer at one of their country estates, and when they had the urge to be exciting, they might descend upon Europe, now the war was over.
He bit his lip, uncertain if Lady Cordelia favored travel. His knowledge of her was limited to her passion for needle work, though he'd never comprehended the delight for stabbing a piece of cloth repeatedly to form a rigid representation of a flower.
No matter. The sun clambered up the peaks of the Dales, and he padded farther onto the balcony. Soon uniform white buildings would form his view, their facade only varying with the choice of statue to embellish the home. Apollo or Aphrodite, Zeus or Hera, these were soon to be the large questions.
Some of the servants exited the castle, clothed in dark coats and wielding large shovels. They tackled the snow, bowing their heads down as they lifted up the white powder and flung it to the side. Eventually dark cobblestones poked through the snow, their presence confirming that there would be no cause to delay his return to London.
It was foolish to be anything else than grateful he'd return home soon. He shivered, but he couldn't solely blame the cold.
A woman like Fiona would never be comfortable on his arm. She'd not even lasted a season when she'd been a debutante.
A door creaked open, and he froze.
"Sorry-" Fiona's voice stammered an apology, and he swiveled around.
She was in her nightdress, a long flowing gown that should have afforded no view of her person, but which managed to reveal her every curve.
Or perhaps his thoughts found it natural to dwell on every lustful aspect of her.
It was easy to linger on the delightful manner in which her ivory skin melded against the satin gleam of her gown. It was easy to ponder the charming caramel-colored freckles which dotted her tiny, upturned nose, and it was easy to be drawn in by the shards of emeralds that posed as her eyes.
Her body curved appealingly, and his fingers itched to trace the line from her waist to her hips, from the curve of her neck to the slope of her bosom.
And her hair. By Zeus, her hair.
The rich auburn strands would feel rougher than the straight, silky locks of the ton he was accustomed to. The only joy there was found in undoing their chignons, though the process usually involved copious amounts of pins.
His fingers tightened, and he averted his eyes.
"Sorry!" Fiona repeated, as if she had no idea how the throaty tone of her voice affected him. "I thought no one was here. I like to watch the sun rise."
"Then we share an enjoyment of the same pastime." Percival cursed the sudden hoarseness of his voice.
She pulled her robe more tightly around her, but it only managed to more clearly reveal the curves of her body.
Percival forced his gaze away. He tried to focus on pink rays that outlined the now-white hills that had occupied his attention so thoroughly before, but the looping slopes of the Dales that men traveled far to see was no competition to the enticing curves of the woman beside him.
I'm spoken for.
A small part of him told him he wasn't spoken for yet, he wasn't actually committed, he'd simply told the dowager he would agree with what she deemed best.
She'd lost her son. He couldn't crush her further.
"I'll return inside." Fiona swiveled, and her auburn locks fluttered in the wind. Large snowflakes had fallen on her hair, sparkling and shimmering as if she were ensconced in a snow globe.
"Wait." Percival stretched out a hand to her, and then hastily dropped it, because by Zeus, it wasn't appropriate to even speak to her like this, much less act like the thought of her leaving pained him.
After all, he was counting the hours to his departure. This had been the most inconvenient incident of the year. And that included six months of battling the French. No way would he stand here in the blasted cold and ponder her beauty.
That would be ridiculous. He shifted on the snowy surface of the balcony. The thought of not spending every moment of the rest of their short time together seemed even more absurd.
He sucked in a breath of air. "I would like to see your archaeological finds."
Fiona blinked. "Are you sure? No one else-"
"I'm not no one else."
Fiona's long eyelashes swooped down, and her cheeks pinkened.
Percival cursed his intensity, and he laughed in an attempt to lighten the mood. "After all, I'm your fiancé."
Fiona's lips turned up as he expected, but no joy sparkled in her emerald eyes. His heart hammered. When he said things like that, it was all too easy to contemplate what it would be like if his words were real.