Finally, the Fates were smiling on Asher. Outside the carriage house, the pair of horses were harnessed, and Lum’s ready gig merely tied to a hitch. All he had to do was climb in and—
“And just who might you be?” asked a grizzled man in a flat felt cap and brown coat who stepped out from in front of the horse. He had a pipe clenched in his teeth and a whip at his side.
Asher offered a smile. “Well, this is my curricle.”
The man smiled back and approached him in a genial fashion, but then clamped a hard hand over his shoulder. “Nah. You see, I remember the large fellow who tossed me this false coin, and you aren’t him. But we get our share of thieves around here and we know how to deal with them. Got a set of irons next door at the smithy’s.”
Thinking fast, Asher shrugged free and took a step back with his hands raised in innocence. “As you say, the fellow who left this gig was intending to rob you, but I have coin.”
Reaching into his pocket, he withdrew the money from Winn selling her stockings.
The man took it without delay. Then he jerked his head in a nod toward the square. “That settles up with what he owes me from last night. Now be on your way before I fetch those irons.”
Bloody hell. Asher felt robbed. Then again, that was what he’d been intending to do . . .
“What about striking a wager?” he asked, desperate.
“Not the wagering sort.”
“A fair trade, then?” Glancing down, he knew his coat wouldn’t fit the man’s burly physique. “What do you think of these top boots? They’re made with the finest calf leather.”
“Don’t need fancy boots.”
Asher suddenly felt the weight of the pearl-handled knife tucked inside his boot.
To have any hope for a future, for a life he could be proud of—that didn’t include robbery, or bartering, or demeaning himself—he knew what he had to do.
On a heavy exhale, he reached down. As he stood, he gripped the knife that had been his companion for two decades, then turned the handle toward the man so that it wouldn’t appear threatening. “What about this? As you can see, it’s a fine blade. And that’s genuine gold filigree in the pearl handle.”
The man’s black-beetle eyes roved over it with interest. But then, another man—an older gentleman in a broad-brimmed hat and silver mustachios—strolled over, scrutinizing the knife.
He seemed familiar to Asher. He had a regal bearing and a finely tailored suit of clothes, like any wealthy gentleman who might stay in London for politics and gaming. Yet it was clear he kept to the country and preferred outdoor sporting, for his skin was tan, and his blue eyes were so pale and clear they appeared sun-bleached. “Pardon me, but have we met before?”
“Not as of yet,” the man articulated in a rough growl of a voice as if he were used to calling out to his dogs on a hunt.
The carriage house stablemaster handed back the knife. “Don’t need a fancy blade either. Got anything else?”
“May I?” asked the older gentleman, holding out a swarthy hand. Not having anything else to lose, Asher handed it over. And after studying it for a moment, he said, “This knife is quite rare, actually. Do you see this insignia here? Well, that indicates it was once part of a royal house. It’s worth a great deal of money.”
To Asher it was priceless.
The stablemaster scoffed. “See here, are you lot working together?”
Asher answered with an absent shake of his head, his focus on the gentleman. “Are you a collector?”
“Mmm . . . Something of that nature,” he said with a slow grin that curled his mustachios. “How much would you like for it?”
This was it. His only chance. Asher turned to the stablemaster. “How much to take this curricle?”
The man shrugged. “Five pounds for my trouble.”
Asher looked to the man with the mustachios. “Five pounds, then.”
“For a treasure like this, you could purchase this entire village square.”
“Perhaps, but if I don’t take this gig immediately, then the treasure I hold most dear will be lost.” He held out his hand. “Do we have a bargain, then?”
The man shook, his grip solid, his gaze inquisitive. Then, without delay, he delivered the coins to the other man and Asher stepped up into the bench and picked up the ribbons.
Just as he released the brake, the gentleman came up beside the gig and lifted the brim of his wide hat with the tip of the blade. “It has been a pleasure, Lord Holt.”
By the time it registered that he’d never given the man his name, Asher already had two in hand and was driving away. But in the next instant, it didn’t matter, because he saw Mr. Lum and his associate crossing the village square.
In fact, they were running from an angry Oslo, who burst out of the Grinning Boar after them. “Stop! Thief!”
Then Lum spotted Asher and all hell broke loose. His eyes gleamed with triumph as he mouthed, “Holt,” and a cruel smile split his face.
“Stop! Thief!” Lum shouted, pointing to Asher.
The villagers wore confused expressions but started to crowd toward the carriage.
Recalling many of the faces from the tavern last night, Asher was forced to slow the horse to keep from injuring anyone.
“Thief! Thief!”
This time, the shout came from a lilting feminine voice he knew quite well.
And when he looked across the square, there was Winn beside Oslo’s wife, pointing at Lum and Jamey. “Those are the highwaymen who robbed my husband and me. Stop them! Please, stop them!”
Those same villagers who’d been about to corral Asher suddenly turned their glaring attention to the henchmen.
They both stopped and Lum stripped off his hat, placing it over his heart. “We’re the innocent ones. The chit’s lying! That’s our gig. Just ask the man from the carriage house.”
The stablemaster pulled his pipe from his teeth and Asher held his breath.
“The lady’s right. Them’s the two thieves.”
Oslo came up behind Lum and Jamey and clamped hands on their shoulders. “Been paying with brass farthings, they have. Where’s the smithy?”
Relief rushed through Asher, but he knew they weren’t out of danger yet. Without wasting time, he drove the horses around the blockade and toward Winn.
“You promised to wait,” he said with a grin as she took his hand and climbed up to the curricle’s black-painted bench situated beneath the curved hood.
She blinked innocently, holding the shawl on her lap. “I was waiting in the general vicinity. Someone had to watch over you, after all.”
He was so busy grinning like a fool that he almost didn’t see Lum and Jamey break free from the jeering crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, he witnessed them push an old man aside and appropriate his horse cart.
“Hold on, crumpet,” Asher said and snapped the reins, spurring the horses forward and jolting them both back against the hard bench.
The henchmen were rounding the well, kicking at the villagers who tried to stop them.
“Did you steal it?” Winn asked in a scandalized stage whisper laced liberally with excitement. Someday he would have to chide his little heiress for her criminal predilections.
“Not exactly.”
“Don’t tell me you gambled this morning.”
“I didn’t gamble,” he said absently, trying to focus on finding a path out of the square.
The sun was bright, cresting the trees just enough to blind him. Squinting, he turned through a shaded opening that he thought was the way to the main road.
It wasn’t.
Instead, he found himself in a small grassy paddock, charging toward an open gate on the other side. Beyond that was a cottage with a yard full of chickens and a woman bent over a tub, scrubbing clothes beside a wash line tied between two trees.
Winn swatted his arm. “Well? How did you acquire this curricle, then?”
“You could say that I . . . bartered for it.”
“With only the few coins that I—” She gasped, covering her mouth. “Oh, Asher, not your knife.”
He swallowed. “There was no other way.”
With a glance, he saw her eyes flood with tears, her bottom lip trembling. Then she buried her face against his shoulder and cried. “This is all my fault.”
“Of course it isn’t,” he crooned, turning his head to press a kiss to the top of hers. “Waiting outside the church to kidnap you has been the best—”
The rest of his words were drowned out by a bucket of dirty water that slapped him in the face. He sputtered and spat, wishing he would have been paying closer attention as he passed the washer woman.
Coughing, his mouth filled with the bitter taste of potash and . . . well . . . he didn’t want to think about the rest. His eyes stung, too, and he squeezed them closed to stop them from burning. But that was a mistake.
Squinting at the narrow path between the cottage and the paddock fence, he barely caught sight of another woman, and this one was shaking out a rug from the first-floor window. All the dust and filth fell on him, sticking to his skin and eyelashes.
He couldn’t see a thing.
He sneezed and coughed again, slowing the horses.
“Why are we . . .” Her question trailed off as she lifted her head and began to pat his coat. “Whatever did you drive us through? A storm cloud and an ash heap? You’re positively filthy! And half of my dress is speckled and dirty.”
“Winn, are there men still chasing us in a horse cart?” Using one hand, he began to untie his cravat since his handkerchief was tied around her shoe. “Because if they are, perhaps we can talk about this later.”
“Then let me drive,” she said with impatience.
“Do you know how to drive?”
She was already taking the reins from him as he slid the cravat from his collar. “Of course. After all, how difficult could it be?”
Alarm jolted through him at the same time she spurred the horses, catching Asher off balance. He nearly lost his seat.
“Apologies,” she said in singsong, giving the lead another flick and spurring the horses faster. “You’d best hold on tightly.”
“Why is that?”
“Well, there’s a narrow turn up ahead. But I think I see the road.”
“What do you mean, you think—”
All at once he felt, rather than saw, the curricle lifting onto one wheel as they made the turn.
When it slammed back down on two wheels, Winn laughed with pure, throaty joy. “I love driving!”
He was terrified but caught himself smiling like a fool as he wiped filth from his eyes. Looking at her and seeing her so free and uninhibited, he couldn’t help but marvel at her. She had such zest for adventure. For life.
Was it any wonder that he’d fallen irrevocably in love with her?
* * *
“Apparently, we missed quite the show this morning, Lord Waldenfield. I just finished tying up the trunks when I heard all about a pair of thieves who went on a rampage through the square. Half the village has gone after them.”
As his driver spoke, Julian scanned the cobblestone square with a more critical eye, glad it was Imogene’s habit to take an age to ready her toilet in the mornings. Even when they were in a rush. “Any other news to report?”
“Well, my lord,” he said, lowering his voice. “I kept a keen ear out and dropped Holt’s name a few times in conversation, but no one’s heard of him.”
“Very good, Bastion.”
The driver cleared his throat and shifted from one foot to the other. “There’s news of high waters in a few places along our route, my lord.”
“And?”
“Well, with all the additional weight from the trunks . . .”
“Yes, yes.” Lifting his gaze to the luggage, Julian knew he should have refused Imogene’s demand to take all of them. But this cumbersome mountain was a clear representation of how he was unable to refuse her. “Just drive us there as quickly as possible.”
Inside the inn once again, he mounted the stairs to the rooms, passing a maid in the hall who’d left Imogene’s door ajar. He had no intention to invade her privacy, but she caught him watching her tie a heathered gray ribbon beneath her chin. And like him, she let her gaze skim over his form with familiarity.
“Did you have someone brush out your coat?” she asked, stepping into the corridor.
He looked down, inspecting the green wool for a flaw. “I managed it on my own, but a boy came by this morning to polish my boots.”
“You do quite well for a gentleman traveling without a valet.”
He inclined his head casually to accept the compliment, concealing the fact that his pulse quickened. It was one of the most intimate exchanges they’d had in ages. And the saddest part was that he’d specifically worn the green coat for the journey because, years ago, she’d told him how much she liked the color on him. “Did you manage to sleep last night?”
“Some,” she said. “It was kind of you to have a tray of milk and brandy sent up. I didn’t think you’d have remembered.”
She averted her gaze to fuss with her gloves, but there was a distinct tinge of color rising to her cheeks.
“You always had trouble sleeping in a strange place. I hope the revelry belowstairs into the wee hours didn’t bother you.”
She glanced up at him with a quizzical smile. “Peculiarly, I found comfort in the quaint country music. I even thought that the girl’s tone had a similar quality to our Winnifred’s. Though I suppose that was simply brought on by missing her. If not for the exuberant performance to serve as a distraction, I might have lingered all night in the quiet over my thoughts and worries.”
Seeing the strained fragility in her gaze, he wanted to reach out to her, to offer his hand in something other than assistance into or out of a carriage.
“Imogene, I hope you know that—”
The maid appeared again, interrupting to tell them that the carriage was waiting out front.
Once she was gone, Imogene asked, “What were you about to say just then?”
He was going to tell her that she never needed to worry alone. That he’d never deny any request of hers, no matter what state their marriage was in at the time.
The sentiment seemed far too flowery now that he thought about it.
So Julian merely swallowed and shook his head. “It’s not important. Shall we?”
He proffered his arm, and they walked downstairs and out to the pavement. But at the carriage door, she stopped and lifted a troubled gaze to him.
“Julian, what if we don’t find her waiting at your sister’s?”
“Then we’ll go to Gretna Green.”
“And if she isn’t there?”
“I’ll find her, Imogene,” he said. “I promise.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a handsome, mustachioed man looking their way with suspicious interest. Reflexively, he crowded closer to Imogene and handed her into the carriage.
Once safely inside, she cast a curious gaze over his shoulder and then back to him. “I know you will. You have always been a fine protector.”
For an instant, he felt a stirring of hope that, perhaps, they could start again and reclaim what they’d lost so long ago.
Yet as he felt her fingertips slip from his own, he thought to himself, Not always.