Alex woke to the scent of jasmine.
He stretched and smiled in his sleep, knowing even before he woke that the scent of jasmine meant that his love lay close beside him. He did not open his eyes but reached for her, and found only a soft pillow upon which her head had lain the night before. His eyes opened, and the room was bare.
“Catherine?”
He woke all at once, and was on his feet. The window stood open to the morning light. Someone, perhaps that damned Englishman, had somehow climbed in through the window and taken her.
Then he saw Mary Elizabeth’s hemp rope ladder clinging to its place on the sill where his sister had driven nails into the duchess’s expensive wainscoting. He swore, loudly and eloquently, for a full minute. Then he got possession of himself, and dressed in clean riding clothes.
He managed not to shriek like a fishwife in the middle of the ducal household, but walked all the way down to the breakfast room before venting his wrath.
“Mary Elizabeth,” he said, his voice cold. “You will tell me where she is, and you will tell me now.”
Robbie swallowed hard, almost choking on his toast. Mrs. Angel sat sipping her oversugared tea, regarding him passively. Mary Elizabeth was the only one who would not meet his gaze. His sister looked down at her plate, which held a single slice of barley bread with honey. She seemed fascinated with her favorite breakfast all of sudden, but he knew her well, for he had been foiling schemes of hers all her short life. As he watched, her thoughts flitted across her face as sunlight over a pane of glass. His sister was willful, headstrong, and difficult, but she was not a liar.
“She has gone to meet her Englishman,” she said at last. She faced him without flinching, her maple eyes showing no remorse, but a certain level of pity.
“God have mercy,” Mrs. Angel said. “That girl is determined to ruin her life.”
Alex did not speak, for he could not find his voice.
Mary Elizabeth found hers, as she always seemed to. “Alex, she loves you. I’m sure of that. But that Englishman has some hold over her. She feels bound to him, though I know not why.”
“She has not told you?” His question sounded like the grinding of broken glass.
“She has not confided in me,” Mary Elizabeth said. “All she told me is that she and her Englishman will be going to Gretna Green this day.”
“The folly of youth,” Mrs. Angel said at last. All the young people in the room turned to stare at her, but none of them contradicted her assertion. “Heaven save us from it.”
She lowered her teacup and filled it once more with the duchess’s finest Darjeeling. After she had over-sugared it and added three generous splashes of milk, Mrs. Angel looked at him as if he were a simpleton.
“Why are you still standing here?” she asked him.
Alex did not know what reply to make, so he made none. She spoke on.
“There is only one road to the north, is there not?”
Alex blinked at her.
“Why are you not on it?” Mrs. Angel asked.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?”
“I have told you more than once, dear boy, you must protect my daughter from herself. Kidnap her if you must, throw her over your shoulder if you will, but by all means, do not let her marry that man. It will be the ruination of her life and the devastation of her soul. If you love her, as the look on face suggests you do, hire the fastest horse you can, and lead on.”
“They can only be three hours gone,” Mary Elizabeth said.
His sister was right. His angel had slept quiet in his arms not three hours ago. They had not much of a lead at all. He would catch her and deal with the Englishman when he did.
He could not think of the bandy-legged bastard offering her more than a touch of a gloved hand. If he did, he would forget himself for the second time that morning when what he needed was his wits about him. He checked his waistcoat pocket and found the special license his uncle had sent still warm against his side.
“Are you armed?” Robbie asked.
Alex always wore his dirk, even when down south among the English—especially down south. “Of course,” he answered.
“Take a pistol, too,” Mary Elizabeth offered helpfully.
“Dear God, young man, don’t shoot him. Just fetch my daughter back.”
He glowered at Mary Elizabeth and spoke politely to Mrs. Angel. “I will not shoot him.”
“He might stab him though,” Robbie said. “It all depends on what he finds when he catches up to them.”
Alex turned his glare on his brother. Robbie did not wilt under its heat but sipped at his coffee before freshening it from the silver ducal pot.
“Whatever you do, you must find her before nightfall,” Mrs. Angel said. “Otherwise, a bad situation will only become worse.”
“And then you will have to kill him,” Robbie said with good cheer as he buttered a fresh slice of toast.
Alex ate the buttered and honeyed slice of barley cake that Mary Elizabeth thrust into his hand. She kissed him, offered him coffee, and he drank it down in one gulp. When he had his own household, his coffee cups would be large enough to hold more than two swallows.
“Ride fast, but be careful,” his sister instructed him. “Watch out for robbers. The English are everywhere.”
* * *
Catherine had never been in as comfortable a chaise carriage as Lord Farleigh’s. Arthur said nothing, and neither did she, allowing silence to descend. She had thought she might want to fling herself out of the carriage as it left London, but instead she fell asleep within half an hour. She found herself drifting almost at once, for she knew that while he was not her heart’s choice, kind Lord Farleigh would look after her.
As she slept, she dreamed that Alex and her father stood together like friends beside the river Thames, where Alex had saved Margaret’s life. Both men turned to her in her dream, and though they did not speak, the weight of their sorrow touched her.
She woke hours later, her heart heavy with the pain of loss, and the sorrow that she had disappointed her father, and left the love of her life behind. Dread threatened to overwhelm her as she blinked to get her bearings. She could not live with choice she had made, not for another moment, much less for the rest of her life. She had made a terrible mistake.
“Arthur,” she said. “Lord Farleigh,” she corrected herself. “We must stop the carriage at once.”
“Do you need the necessary?” he asked bluntly. “Fear not. We are close to the outskirts of Oxford. I took a first in literature at Queen’s College, so I am quite familiar with the town and the university both. There is a place we might stop and refresh ourselves shortly—the Maiden and the Unicorn. Quite a lovely place…”
“No, my lord. We must stop now.”
“You’ve changed your mind, then?”
“I’m sorry, my lord. But I have.”
Lord Farleigh smiled at her and pressed her hand. She was not sure, but she thought that her runaway would-be bridegroom looked relieved.
He was a good man, to suffer her madcap ways with such patience. His blond hair was perfect, as were his traveling clothes of charcoal gray. Catherine felt foolish and rumpled beside him. She did not know how she would repay him, or how she would survive the complete and total loss of her honor. But she must climb out of that carriage within the next moment, or suffocate in its stifling confines.
As if by magic, the carriage stopped of its own accord.
Catherine had enough presence of mind to know that carriages did not stop on their own. Someone had stopped it. She reached into her reticule and closed her fingers around a throwing knife.
The driver shouted at someone outside, his voice filled with fear. Lord Farleigh looked not in the least perturbed, but merely curious, as if the idea that anyone might have the audacity to stop his conveyance without his consent was simply beyond the pale of thought.
She would have only one chance. She drew her knife out, and saw Lord Farleigh’s eyes widen even farther. “Miss Middlebrook, please, put that away.”
She did not heed him or even look at him again, but kept her eyes on the door. As she heard the sound of the knob turning, she let her knife fly.
Unfortunately, the opposite door was the one that opened.
Her knife buried itself in the still-closed door across the carriage, while Alexander Waters filled the other with his Highland bulk.
She had never been so happy to see him in her life. A smile of unadulterated joy broke over her face, and she reached for him, but he shrugged her off. He did not look at her at all but hauled Arthur from the carriage unceremoniously, like a sack of grain.
“Alex!” she said. “Don’t!”
She was not sure he even heard her. She climbed out after him, only to find Arthur up against the side of his lacquered coach, Alex’s dagger at his throat. The driver had his gun drawn by this time, and had it trained on Alex’s head.
“No, please!” she said, raising one hand to the driver in supplication. He did not heed her, so she drew out a second knife, ready to throw it at him. She was not sure she could even hit his shooting arm, much less strike before his bullet hit home. She started to pray.
Alex noticed neither she nor the driver nor the gun in the driver’s hand. He only had eyes for Arthur.
“Did you touch her?” he asked, his voice strangely calm for a demented Scotsman.
“I beg your pardon,” Lord Farleigh said. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. Did you touch her?”
Catherine prayed then that Arthur would have the good sense to omit the chaste kiss he had given her in his drawing room.
“I handed her into the coach,” he said.
“With gloves on?”
“I am wearing them, as you see. She came to me this morning without gloves and a bonnet.”
“I didn’t ask anything about her.”
“Mr. Waters, I am baffled. Why are you holding a knife at my throat? I had planned to escort Miss Middlebrook to Gretna Green, at her request, but she has since changed her mind.”
“She changed her mind, you say? How can you tell?” Alex asked.
Lord Farleigh smiled in the face of the angry Scot and his knife. Clearly, he had more courage than she had known. “She told me so just now.”
Alex dropped his knife hand, and slid the wicked-looking blade back beneath his coat. The driver did not lower his weapon, so neither did Catherine.
Alex looked to her then, and saw the blade in her hand. A smile flitted across his face. “Do you mean to skewer me, angel?”
“No,” she answered. “It is for him.”
She nodded to the driver, who still did not waver. Alex took him in, along with his gun, and just as quickly dismissed him. “Put your knife away, angel. I can’t have you stabbing men over me.”
“Indeed not, Miss Middlebrook. There is no need for anyone to be stabbed.” Lord Farleigh turned to Alex. “You say you wish to marry Miss Middlebrook?”
“I do.”
“And you have her mother’s consent?”
Catherine was beginning to respect Lord Farleigh more as each moment passed, but Alex’s face darkened. “I do. Which is more than I can say for you.”
“Mr. Waters, you are in the right. True love is a rare and precious thing. It is time I retire from the field, and leave you to your fiancée.” Arthur Farleigh bowed to her as if they stood in her mother’s drawing room and not in the dust of the roadside. “Miss Middlebrook, may I be the first to wish you happy.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
She reached into her reticule, slipped in her borrowed knife, and drew out his mother’s ring. The pearls and silver gleamed in the sunlight. Lord Farleigh stepped forward, bowed from the neck, and accepted his ring back.
“I thank you,” he said, his hand closing around the ring convulsively, as if he was secretly glad to have it back. Catherine did not know him well, but there seemed to be a newfound joy in his face, as if he had just been released from prison. She wondered if she should feel insulted, but he smiled at her and she knew that she had found a friend. She would pay him back for the mortgage money somehow. Alex and his family would help her. Then she would set herself to finding the right girl for him—one who could make him forget his lost love as she had not. Perhaps Mary Elizabeth had some ideas of a girl who might suit.
Lord Farleigh seemed to remember Alex at last, for he nodded to him as well. “I bid you both good day.”
He climbed back into his carriage as if no one had drawn a knife on him in his life. His driver, satisfied at last that all was well, put his gun down and called to the horses. Catherine was covered in road dust as the carriage pulled away, heading still toward Oxford town. No doubt Lord Farleigh would take his ease at the Maiden and the Unicorn, and soundly curse her name.
“I must write him a note of apology,” she said. “And his mother, too.”
“And what of me, Catherine? By God, I told you last night you are mine, and no other’s. That did not mean until the sun rose. That meant until the sun sets on my life.”
She stepped toward him, and pressed her hand against his heart. He did not stay still under her palm, but picked her up, much as he had Lord Farleigh. He swung her into his arms as if they were a sling, one behind her knees, another at her back, and hoisted her high onto his horse.
He did not speak again, but climbed up behind her, and turned his horse’s head not toward London, but up the North Road, following in Lord Farleigh’s carriage’s dusty wake.