How to Capture a Duke(8)

       
           



       

"We have to go." She turned to him, and her arms dropped down. She  glowed under the wobbly light of the lantern, and she appeared far more  regal than a thief had any right to appear.

"I've no desire to be dragged to whatever low-level place you frequent."

Her eyes flashed. "You don't have a choice."

"You can steal from me here!" He removed a satchel. "No need to travel  with you to do it. Just . . . er . . . let me take the coach somewhere. I  don't fancy my chances of standing here in the cold."

"I don't want your coins."

He raised his eyebrows, and her cheeks flushed.

"I mean I can steal from you later." She glanced toward the road, and her teeth pressed against her bottom lip. "Let's go."

He followed her glance to the empty road and then understood. She  probably worried that Graeme would drag the magistrate and all the  magistrate's burliest helpers with him in pursuit of her. She was  probably overestimating Graeme's heroism, as much as he claimed to  admire the army.

But maybe-maybe if he managed to stall. Maybe Graeme might venture into the forest with help after all.

"Your colleagues aren't here," he said.

"They're here. Though maybe you're right. Maybe they went after Graeme."  She leaned toward him, and her eyes were round. "If they haven't killed  him already."

He stiffened, and she brushed his cravat with her knife. "You drive. I  trust your arms are still sufficiently strong to handle reins."

"Of course." And he'd take them right back to the nearest inn.

"I'll sit beside you." She tapped the handle of her knife. "With this."

"You're mad!" he murmured, taking her in.

She laughed and tossed her hair. "Maybe."





Chapter Six




The cold wind brushed against Fiona, and she pulled her hood over her  head. Pink and orange streaked the sky, and the trees cast long shadows  on the dirt lane. She stepped into the coach, flickered her eye over a  stack of suitcases, and grabbed a blanket. She rushed back outside and  dangled the bright fabric between two trees that arched over the road.  Hopefully it would serve as a beacon to warn any other people of the  tree.

She sprinted back to the coach as her locks tumbled and blew around her.  She pulled herself up onto the seat, and the handsome man slid away.  His eyes rounded, and he flickered a nervous glance at her.

"You can drive a carriage, can't you?"

"Woman, I battled the French. Of course I can." The man grabbed hold of  the leather reins, and with a jerk the horses trotted forward.

"You'll need to rotate the coach. The tree-"

"I've heard enough about that tree," the man growled, but he coaxed the  horses to turn, maneuvering the reins with deftness. "Your men shouldn't  have cut it down."

Fiona remained silent and fixed her gaze on the horses. They were good  and solid, sturdier built than the sleek Arabians she rode at  Cloudbridge. The carriage wheels crunched over the fallen leaves, and  she swiveled her gaze back, half-anticipating the coach driver to  re-appear, gun cocked.

They had to leave.

If only the tree hadn't fallen. They couldn't return to the manor house  the way she had come. Certainly this man would be of little assistance  in moving the tree. Fiona's desire was to flee as far from here as  possible. They would need to take the long way to Cloudbridge Castle.

The cheerful forest she remembered from the summer, filled with lush  green grass, a multitude of flowers, and trees bearing pleasing shades  of leaves, had vanished, and this place, filled with naked white and  brown branches jutting from muddied ground, was still foreign to her.

Feet pattered behind her, and she tensed. Graeme.

She swung around, but the sound swishing over the ground was only a badger. But she couldn't allow herself to relax yet.

Not now, not until she'd introduced this strange man to Grandmother, so  she might send him from her life with as much swiftness as he'd entered  it.

Fresh air swept around her, and the carriage jostled over the lane.  Something tinkled and chimed beside her, and she frowned when she  spotted the offending item.

The man followed her gaze to the bell, and a small smile grew on his stubbled face. "Not an admirer of Christmas?"

"Not anymore."

"Some wassailers with poor pitch? A bad mulled wine experience?" He chuckled, and her shoulders relaxed.

The bells rang out beside her, an up-tempo melody that matched the speed  of the coach. The sound was festive, lacking in seriousness. She  sighed. Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps the man would be less  likely to attack her that way.                       
       
           



       

For as much as she strove to mirror the appearance of a true highwaywoman, she would not be using a weapon on him.

She concentrated on the horses and how their sturdy forms tramped  steadily. The orange and pink streaks sank, abandoning the sky to  darkness and stars that twinkled in familiar clusters she recognized but  hadn't seen in a long time.

Though Harrogate lay nearby, its pump-rooms and assembling halls  attracting people from much farther distances, Fiona ventured there  infrequently. Her parents' last lesson to her had been of the dangers of  coach travel, and Fiona was too timid to enjoy the bustle of a large  town.

She clutched the knife in her hands and allowed her gaze to wander to  the heavens above. The outside world was grander than she remembered.

She mulled over the manner in which the man beside her held the reins.  The action was gentler than she had anticipated, not as if he lacked  control, but as if the welfare of the horses was actually of concern to  him.

Goodness, spending time with a man was an unfamiliar practice. Certainly  she had no regular acquaintance with any man who wasn't gray with age,  proudly displaying a hoary beard, or employed to serve her family's  needs.

But this wasn't one of her pompous uncles. This wasn't the meek,  round-faced cleric who frequented Cloudbridge Castle in the guise of  checking up on his congregation, only to spend more time finding delight  in Cook's sugar concoctions. This person resembled the smartly dressed  men she'd seen during her one, shortened season. This was the type of  man she'd seen from afar, the type of man who would dance with women  like Madeline, but who would never deign to dance with her.

It wasn't the first time she'd ridden with a man. She'd ridden in a  carriage in Hyde Park before with a man more interested in racing than  in her. She recalled the sharp swerves, the pounding of galloping  horses' hooves, and the blur of men and women in expensive clothes  unsuited to the muddy park. Many women wore white despite the weather,  flaunting the light garments as badges to display they had maids to  sufficiently clean the delicate fabrics, despite the stains that might  be cast on them by London's infamous rain.

"You're cold." The man's deep voice, velvety and warm like chocolate, interrupted her musings.

She shook herself. "Nonsense."

"Your teeth are chattering. I can hear you." His tone sounded more  amused than it should. Didn't he realize she was kidnapping him?

"I'm fine." She glanced up at him, but his gaze was once again focused before him.

The man must be frightened, but his posture was more relaxed now, and he  radiated a quiet calm. Her gaze flickered to his foot. It must be hard  to have a leg missing. She couldn't imagine the physical agony he must  have experienced as the army surgeon sawed off the leg. And here she was  dragging him into the unknown.

"You have a destination in mind?" The man tilted his head toward her, his blue eyes probing hers, and she averted her gaze.

"Just continue North."

"To?"

She paused. "I'll guide you."

No need to let him know their destination yet. Some things could be  postponed. It would be better if he were to continue to feel uneasy  around her. Because once he found out she was just a wealthy woman from  the ton, there wasn't a chance he would respect her. She would be  labeled a foolish chit, and even though her issues meant everything to  her, they would be dismissed. She shouldn't be faulted for the  narrowness of her world. She'd had no opportunity to join the war, to  arrive home sullen and scarred like him.

She tapped her feet against the hot brick. She needed to ensure he did  her this favor. At the very least, once they arrived at the castle, he  wouldn't be able to leave without her approval. These horses would be  exhausted, and she could direct the servants to keep him there. The  place was too isolated for him to wander away from it on foot, and he  might find it simpler to consent to playing her fiancé for a few  minutes.

"How did you injure yourself?"

He stiffened. "Doing something many would see as dutiful-battling Bonaparte's army."