He sat up in bed at once. “No, no. I’ll fetch it.”
“You can’t mean to go out like that.” She smiled.
Lord, he was magnificent by daylight. She gazed at his nakedness, observing the many shades of his body, from sun-bronzed to snowy white. The dark hair on his chest narrowed to an arrow-straight trail bisecting his abdomen.
And at the end of the trail . . .
His manhood stirred. She stood transfixed, watching it swell and stiffen to a ruddy, arcing column of flesh. As if she’d commanded him to rise.
A heady feeling of power suffused her.
She’d done that.
“Come back to bed and join me.” He reached out and caught a handful of her skirt.
Oh, no. She whirled away from him with a laugh. They’d never leave at this rate.
Before he could reach her, she was out the door.
The sun was already up, warming the earth. The tree branches dripped overhead, releasing little missiles of water to pierce holes in the crusted blanket of snow.
Her heart lightened. Perhaps the coachman would be on his way soon. This could prove a fine day for traveling.
She made it to the road easily. More difficult, however, was unsecuring her trunk from the carriage’s rack. The rain had soaked the knotted rope, and then the sun had shrunk the knots. She pulled off her gloves and attacked them with vigor.
“You must admit,” a man said, “that was a bloody good time.”
Nora looked up from her struggle with the knots. She spied four gentlemen approaching from the west, walking four horses behind them. Two wore the red coats of officers. As they approached, she could see the other two were dressed in expensive clothes—but they were all looking rather worse for wear.
“You were brilliant with that saber,” an officer said to one of the finely dressed men.
“I liked the part where Thorne cracked their heads together.”
The handsomest among them flipped the end of his knitted scarf. “And who knew this hideous muffler would make such an effective garrote?”
The one leading the group caught sight of her and stopped in the road. “I don’t suppose you’re Miss Elinora Browning?”
“Yes,” she said, amazed. “Yes, I’m Miss Browning.”
“Oh, thank God,” said the one with the lethal muffler.
The larger officer only blinked. And loomed, disconcertingly.
“Don’t be alarmed,” his friend said. “We’re harmless. Unless you happen to be part of a smuggling ring.”
Nora didn’t know what to think.
“Allow us to begin anew. I’m Griffin York, the Duke of Halford. My wife is proprietress of the Two Sisters subscription library in Spindle Cove. She was distressed when the weather turned yesterday and was concerned that you might have been waylaid.”
“We’re your search party,” finished the handsome one.
“Oh,” Nora said. “That’s wonderful. Our coach skidded off the road. The splinter bar was broken, so the coachman took the horses back to the inn.”
“And you stayed in the coach?”
“No, there.” She looked toward the tiny herder’s hut, just visible through the trees. “But how did you cross the river?”
“The usual way,” the duke replied.
“I thought the bridge was out at Rye. Has it already been repaired?”
The men looked from one to another. “I don’t recall seeing any damaged bridge, do you?”
His friend shook his head. “None. Not between here and Spindle Cove.”
One of the officers examined the carriage hitch. “I thought you said the splinter bar was broken. This looks to be fine to me.”
“But that can’t be,” Nora said. “Unless . . .”
Unless the bridge had never truly been out. And the coach had never truly suffered a broken hitch.
Unless Dash had lied to her. About everything.
Oh, God.
Oh, no.
He had to have lied to her. That was the only explanation.
Her heart plummeted to her boots. Their entire night together—their lovemaking, their laughter, their friendship—was nothing but a sham?
As the gentlemen began untying her trunk from the top of the coach, Nora stood aside, quietly reeling.
Why, Dash? Why?
Revenge, she supposed. He never wanted her to reach Spindle Cove. If she failed to appear, she wouldn’t be able to speak against him. Then word would spread quickly, questions would be asked. Soon everyone would know that she’d been compromised. Humiliated. Discredited. Her image as a bastion of defiant spinsterhood would be destroyed. He would be free to pursue his career. His plans to marry. Unencumbered by Nora.
The bastard.
The smug, cunning, seducing bastard.
Nora still had time. She could outrun the prospect of ruin, with luck. So long as she arrived in Spindle Cove for her reading today, no one would ever be the wiser.
“I don’t suppose we could use the coach?” she asked the duke hopefully.
He shook his head. “We haven’t the right tackle or horses, I’m afraid. But if you can ride with me, we’ll just make it.”
She looked at the horse, her stomach turning. Inside her chest, her fear did furious battle with her anger. Could she manage it?
“Nora!”
The deep call rang out from the direction of the herder’s hut.
She clenched her jaw.
“Nora!” Dash had pulled on his clothing and started to walk toward the road. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called again. “Nora!”
“Who’s that man?” the duke asked.
“No one important,” Nora replied.
“He seems to know you.”
“He’s a fellow traveler. He helped me find shelter last night. But he was highly unpleasant and presumptuous. I’m glad to be quit of him, truth be told.”
She went to the duke’s horse and mustered all her courage before accepting his help in mounting the beast. As she settled sideways on the saddle, her stomach skipped about her chest.
“Nora, wait!” Dash had started running now, charging across the fields with his shirt collar open and his trousers held up with one hand. “Don’t leave! I can explain everything.”
So, he admitted it was all a ruse.
The shameless rogue. The liar.
“Do you want us to thrash him for you?” the duke offered. “We’re rather good at it, thrashing blackguards.”
The other men nodded in agreement.
“We’ve a sort of gang,” the handsome one said. “Legendary in these parts. You might have heard of us. Lords of Perdition.”
The largest—Captain Thorne, was it?—cracked his neck in an ominous way.
“That’s tempting,” she said, imagining Dash’s neck constricted by an ugly striped muffler. Very, very tempting. “But no. Let’s just be off.”
The duke mounted behind her. As the horse kicked into a canter, Nora held tight to the pommel and blinked a stupid tear from her eye. She would not cry. Instead, she took comfort in the same knowledge that had steadied her once before:
Lord Dashwood had missed out.
Again.
And this time, Nora wouldn’t look back.
The day looked a good deal brighter than Pauline felt.
She and Daniela had gone about the morning as if all were fine and going as planned, partly to keep Daniela happy and partly because Pauline didn’t know what else to do with herself.
She was worried about Miss Browning. The author in question had as yet failed to appear.
But most of all, she was worried for Griff.
Charlotte Highwood breezed through the library’s front door, drawing at once to Pauline’s side and putting an arm about her shoulders. “Do cease making fretful faces, Your Grace. You’ll smudge the windowpane.”
“Your mother decided to let you attend?” Pauline asked. “Or did you come without her approval?”
“She sent me over. There was never any question.” Charlotte plucked a volume from the shelf of new arrivals and cracked the spine. “This is Spindle Cove. Mama always says, you never know when a wealthy, handsome gentleman might appear.”
Something out the window caught Pauline’s eye. “Your mother might be more clever than we give her credit for.”
Because not one, but four such gentleman appeared at that moment, emerging over the distant rise like legends. Heroes, come home from war. Walking their horses behind them and passing a flask from one to another.
Griff.
She dashed out the door, not caring about the puddles that muddied her boots and hem. She scarcely even saw the other three men. Her eyes were for her husband alone.
She ran to him and flung her arms around his neck. The greeting wasn’t very duchessly, perhaps, but it was entirely sincere. His arms came around her tight.
Nothing else mattered but this.
When she managed to pull back, Pauline noticed that her husband was wearing an appalling amount of mud, and one or two fresh rents in his clothing—in addition to his boyish grin.
And on his cheek, was that . . . blood?
“Sorry we’re late,” he said, eyes gleaming with mischief. “It took us some time to find her, what with the storm.”
“But you did find her?”
“Of course. I promised she’d be here in time.” He looked over his shoulder.
It was only then that Pauline noticed a pale, blue-clad young lady perched on his gelding. Lord Payne helped her to dismount. Miss Browning looked extremely happy to be reacquainted with solid ground.