Emotion set in the instant he set eyes on her; the effect she had on him, the emotional turmoil she evoked, was nothing short of frightening. As for what he was doing to himself… he'd dreamed of Connor's "evil fate"; the old man's words haunted him, as he'd no doubt intended.
But he wasn't going to lose her.
Today was the day. Once he had her decision, clearly stated between them, he-they-could go on from there. After last night, she had to know that denying she loved him wasn't an option; she did-she had from the first time she'd given herself to him, and he was far too experienced not to know it. Every time she came to him, gave herself to him, she only strengthened the bond between them.
There was no further reason for her to refuse to agree. No logical reason. Her illogical reason remained, but she wasn't an unreasonable woman. She'd been weakening last night-she'd almost said yes. Today, she would.
If her father had been home, he might have asked for advice, but Arthur was not expected back for some days yet. He'd met Louise and Amanda's aunts-he knew better than to look to them for help, especially in this. They might assist if he sued for mercy, but help him avoid Amanda's demand? Not this side of hell. Which left him very much on his own as he climbed the steps of Number 12. The butler answered the door.
"Miss Amanda Cynster." He handed the man his card.
The butler glanced at it. "I'm afraid you've missed her, my lord. But she left a message."
"Missed her?"
"Indeed. She left just after luncheon, quite unexpected." The butler held open the door, Martin stepped into the hall. "Mr. Carmarthen went with her. I'm sure I saw your name on a note here…" The man hunted through a stack of invitations. "Ah, yes. I knew I wasn't mistaken, although why her ladyship left it here…"
Martin twitched the note from the butler's fingers; "Dexter" was inscribed across the front. Refusing to think, to jump to conclusions, he wrestled the neatly folded corners undone, spread out the single sheet.
His eyes scanned. His mind seized.
His blood turned to ice in his veins.
My apologies. I could not give you the answer you expect. I have taken steps to place myself beyond your reach, but I will return to town as soon as I am able, and you will have your answer then.
The missive was signed with a flourishing "A."
Martin crumpled the note in his fist. For a long moment, he stared across the hall, and saw nothing. It was as if the world had stopped, and his heart with it. Then he spoke, his voice flat. "Where did she go?"
"Why to Scotland, my lord. Didn't she say…?" His jaw set. Stuffing the note in his pocket, he turned on his heel and stalked from the house.
An hour later, he was whipping his horses up the Great North Road, cursing everything and anything that got in his way. Cursing the few minutes he'd wasted writing a short note to Devil, telling him what had occurred.
Telling him he'd bring her back.
Most of all, he cursed himself. For not saying the words she'd wanted to hear, for not having the courage to admit the truth and damn the past to perdition. He'd had the perfect opportunity last night, but had jibbed and taken the easy way out. Insisted she be the one to bend, to adjust to accepting only as much as he was willing to give. He'd had the chance to open his heart to her; instead, he'd chosen to keep it shielded. Even from her. He'd shied away from the risk-they were both close to paying the price.
His curricle flew onward, weaving around slower conveyances, racing along the flats. He changed horses at Barnet and frequently thereafter, cursing the necessity of travelling without a groom. He hadn't wanted any other witness present when he caught up with her carriage. Having to deal with Carmarthen and their coachman would be bad enough.
But she and Carmarthen wouldn't be racing, they wouldn't be constantly changing horses to keep up their pace. He'd wondered about her note, then he'd realized. It had been left to be delivered later that night, once pursuit was an impossibility. Instead, he was less than five hours behind them, and his curricle was much faster than a coach.
Fate-that fickle female-had given him one last chance. If he'd been less restless, more confident of her answer, he wouldn't have gone to Upper Brook Street at the unexpected hour of four o'clock. But he had, so he had one last opportunity to give her the words she wanted-to pay the price for her "yes." One last opportunity to convince her to be his.
And not Carmarthen's.
The light slowly faded as he flicked his whip and sent the horses careening on. He could hear Connor's cynical, mocking laugh on the wind.
Amanda closed her eyes as the lights of Chesterfield faded behind them. She'd dozed for most of the journey; she wasn't sleepy, but Reggie, seated opposite, had shut his eyes the instant they'd left Derby. At least he'd stopped lecturing her.
She'd been waiting with her plan when Louise and Amelia had returned from Lady Hatcham's morning tea. Louise had listened, then agreed, but had stipulated she had to have company on the long trip to the Vale. Louise had glanced at Amelia-who had stared, silently, at Amanda. It was then Reggie was announced; he'd arrived to escort them to Lady Cardigan's luncheon.
The instant she applied to him, he'd stiffened his spine, and like the true friend he was, declared himself willing to journey north with her. He'd visited the Vale with them before and enjoyed it; he'd shot off home to pack his bag. She'd picked him up in the coach, and they'd headed out of town.
Only after Barnet had fallen behind them did it occur to Reggie to ask why, exactly, she was heading north so precipitously. Where was Dexter?
She'd explained-entirely unexpectedly, Reggie had taken Martin's part. He'd been as angry as she'd ever seen him; he'd lectured her for miles on her "unrealistic expectations," on why holding to such an intransigent line when Dexter had shown himself willing to accommodate her in so many ways was exceedingly bad form. He'd gone on and on and on.
Luc she'd expected, not Reggie.
She'd sat there stunned and let his words flow past her. There'd seemed little point trying to argue or defend herself. On this one point, it appeared there was a masculine view, one instantly espoused by each and every male, while the feminine stance was diametrically opposed.
Reggie had finally shut up when they'd reached Derby. They dined in silence at the Red Bells, then set off again. He'd taken his seat, folded his arms, glared coldly at her, then shut his eyes.
He hadn't opened them since; she'd heard a small snore.
The coach rocked along. It was a long, tiring journey to the Vale, but she'd made it many times in the years since Richard and Catriona had married. Then had come the twins, and they now had a second little daughter, Annabelle… her mind drifted over the happiness that stood at the heart of the Vale. What she wanted for Martin and herself had never seemed so clear.
"Hold hard!"
The shout from behind jerked her to attention, jerked Reggie from his nap. He frowned. "What the-"
The coachman hauled on the reins; the horses plunged, the coach rocked wildly, then settled. Amanda righted herself, stared, stunned, into the black night, utterly unable to believe her ears.
It couldn't be. It wasn't possible-
The carriage door flew open; a large, familiar shadow filled the gap.
"There you are!" The relief that poured through Martin nearly brought him to his knees. Evoked, instead, a need to seize. He reached out, locked his hand about Amanda's wrist and hauled her out of the carriage, into his arms.
He stepped back as she wriggled furiously.
"Martin! What the devil are you doing? Put me down!"
He set her on her feet and scowled at her. "What am I doing? It wasn't me who ran away to Scotland!
"I wasn't running away!"
"Indeed? Then perhaps you can explain-"
"If you don't mind"-Reggie's cool tones cut across their altercation-"the coachman and I don't need to be regaled with this. We'll drive on around the bend and wait there." He reached out for the carriage door.
Martin g
lanced up the road to the next bend. The curve would hide the coach from view. He looked at Reggie and nodded curtly; the other man was being remarkably understanding, but then, he'd known Amanda all her life. He pulled Amanda back from the coach. "We'll join you shortly."
"You're going to leave me here, alone with him?" Amanda's astonishment, and her rising temper, rang in her tone.
"Yes." Reggie frowned at her. "With luck, you'll come to your senses." He shut the door; reluctantly, the coachman flicked his reins and the carriage slowly rumbled on.
Amanda stared after it, then turned on Martin, eyes narrowing. With regal disdain, she looked down-to where his fingers encircled her wrist. "Kindly unhand me."
He set his jaw. "No."
She looked him in the eye… her eyes narrowed even further…
The growl that issued from his throat was entirely instinctive; glowering back at her, he eased his grip, forced his fingers from her skin.
"Thank you." She drew in a quick breath. "And now, if you please, you can explain what you think you're doing, dragging me out of my parents' coach in the middle of nowhere in the depths of the night!"
"What I'm doing?" He aimed a finger at her nose. "You were supposed to give me an answer tonight!"
"I explained! I left you a note."
He searched in his pocket. "You mean this?" He brandished the crumpled sheet in her face.
She grabbed it, smoothed it out. "Yes. As I'm sure Mama explained when she gave it to you-"
"Your mother didn't give it to me-your butler did."
"Colthorpe?" Amanda stared at him. "Colthorpe gave it to you? Oh." Her face blanked. "That's why you caught us-"
"This side of the border. Luckily for us all, because I would have damned well caught up with you at Gretna Green or later, and that wouldn't have been pretty."
Her eyes only got rounder. "Gretna Green?"
Her stunned look had him frowning. "God only knows why you thought tying the knot with dear Reggie was a good idea-"
"We weren't going to Gretna Green-and I would never marry Reggie. Why on earth did you think that?"
She was telling the bald truth-the fact was written all over her face.
His frown turned to a scowl. "The note-what you wrote. What else did you mean if not that?" He was starting to feel as lost as she looked.
She glanced at the note, read the few lines, then grimaced. "Mama asked me to write a note so she had something from me to give you-it was supposed to be read once she'd explained. It wasn't supposed to be a communication in itself."
Disgruntlement swept over him. "Well, what the hell was I supposed to think?" He ran his fingers through his hair, drew in a huge breath for what felt like the first time in hours. She hadn't been about to marry Reggie. He blinked, then scowled at her again. "Where the devil are you heading then, if not to Gretna Green?"
Her pert nose rose. "There is more to Scotland beyond Gretna Green."
"But not much is habitable. Why the devil do you need to travel all the way up there?"
She narrowed her eyes at him. "I'm going to visit Richard and Catriona. They live in the Vale of Casphaim, north of Carlisle." She swung on her heel and stalked toward his curricle.
He fell in beside her; his mind supplied a picture of an exquisite, flame-haired young matron-Richard's wife. Supplied all he'd heard of her… eyes narrowing to shards, he glanced at the woman walking by his side. "Catriona… isn't she a witch?"
She nodded. "A wise woman-a very wise woman."
"One who works with herbs, and other medicinal plants?"
She went to nod, then halted, looked at him. Astonished anew. Then her lips thinned. "I am not going to Catriona for any… herbal remedy! As if I would! Oh!" Hands flying as if to push him away, she turned and stalked on. Shaking her head furiously. "You are impossible!"
"I'm impossible! You haven't yet told me why-"
"All right!" She swung to face him, jabbed a finger into his chest. "I needed time to think away from you! I was trying to make the decision you wanted me to make, but… I needed time, and calm, and a little peace, for goodness sake!" She waved her hands, blinked rapidly. "I can't afford to make the wrong decision. And Catriona is very good at listening…" She turned to the curricle. "Anyway, that's where I'm going."
He handed her up to the seat, then hesitated, his head for once level with hers. Then he blew out a breath. "I'll come with you."
She fixed him with a strait look. "That would defeat the purpose."
"No. It won't." He returned her gaze steadily. "If this Vale and Catriona are as good as you say… perhaps she can help me, too."
She stilled; he remained were he was, their gazes locked, her eyes searching his, verifying his meaning… hesitantly, she reached out one hand.
He did the same.
Their fingers touched, slid, twined.
A detonation ripped through the night.
Chapter 18
Amanda's fingers clutched Martin's; his hand locked over hers. They stared up the road to the bend around which the coach had gone. Another shot rang out, hard on the echoes of the first, shredding the silence.
Martin cursed and clambered into the curricle.
"Reggie!" Amanda's eyes were wide.
"Hold on!' He glanced to make sure she had before slapping the reins to the leader's rump.
The team bolted, but he held them, steered the curricle at top speed toward the bend, checked only at the last minute to trot smartly around it.
Pandemonium lay ahead. The coach lay slewed across the road, the horses screaming, kicking, half out of the traces. The coachman, one arm tucked to his body, was hanging onto the harness with his good arm.
He saw them; face pinched with pain, he nodded at the coach. "The gen'leman…"
Martin halted his horses, swiftly tied the reins, then leapt down and raced to the carriage. Amanda all but fell out of the curricle, then she was on his heels. "Reggie!"
Moonlight played on one white hand, palm up, fingers gently curled, resting, lifeless, on the edge of the open window set in the carriage door.
Martin reached the coach. He lifted the hand, opened the door.
"My God!" Amanda stared past him at a scene beyond a nightmare. Eyes shut, Reggie lay slumped back, half on and half off the seat. All around him, black pools gleamed dully in the poor light. Blood. Everywhere.
"Watch out." Martin hauled himself up by the doorframe; he stepped over Reggie, then bent over him, pushing aside Reggie's cravat.
"He's alive."
Amanda's breath left her in a rush; she felt giddy but fought off her faintness. Frothing up her skirt, she grabbed her petticoats and started ripping. Martin grabbed the first long strip she pulled off. He'd untied his cravat, folded it into a pad; he bound it into place with Amanda's strip.
"It's a head wound. Looks like the ball hit him above the temple-high enough, thank God. It's ripped a groove along his skull but didn't lodge."
"But the blood." Amanda kept ripping and handing strips up; Martin used them to secure his makeshift bandage.
"That's the danger. Head wounds always bleed profusely." He tied a knot, waved aside her next strip. "We may need it later."
He straightened as far as he could in the confines of the coach. Amanda crowded the door; reaching in, she took Reggie's hand. Closed both her hands around it. "He's so cold."
"Shock combined with blood loss." Martin pulled down folded blankets from the rack above the seat. "Thankfully, you came prepared for Scotland."
He shook out one blanket and laid it over the other seat. From the door, Amanda helped straighten it, fighting to keep her lip from trembling.
Martin shot her a glance. "I'm going to lift him across, then we'll wrap him in the blankets. You stay with him while I help the coachman, all right?"
She nodded.
"You won't faint because of the blood?"
The look she threw him told him not to be daft. Martin read it with relief. He was going to need her help; hyste
rics, Reggie couldn't afford. He lifted Reggie, angling his body, an awkward maneuver in the limited space. The instant he laid him down, Amanda was up in the carriage beside him, shaking the second blanket out and tucking it about Reggie's still form.
He glanced at her face, saw grim resolution. Squeezing her shoulder, he edged past her and jumped down.
The horses were quiet, but the coachman was sagging. He hadn't been able to free the beasts, just calm them. "Mr. Carmarthen?" he asked.
"He's alive. Here-sit down." Martin caught the man, helping him to the rising bank, keeping one eye on the restive horses. "How's your arm?"
"Shot went right through. Missed the bone, thank God. I tied my kerchief 'round the hole. Painful, but I'll live."
Martin checked the wound; satisfied, he asked, "What happened?"
"Highwayman."
Straightening, Martin returned to the horses, crooning, soothing; he set to work disentangling their harness. He glanced back at the coachman. "Think back-describe what happened, step by step."
The coachman sighed. "He must'a been waiting for us-can't see how it could'a been otherwise. We came round the bend, and I saw him there-"
The man nodded; Martin glanced over the horses' backs to the entrance of a lane leading east. A bigger lane lay to the west; he didn't look that way.
"He was sitting his horse, calm an' patient. Couldn't tell he was a highwayman. He just looked like a gen'leman waiting for someone. Mr. Carmarthen had told me to stop there, so I slowed. The bugger waited'til we was almost level, then he reached under his greatcoat, came out with a pistol and shot me. No warning, nothing. Cool as you please."
Frowning, Martin unravelled a tangled rein. "What happened next?"
"I yelled, grabbed my arm and fell off the box. Then I heard the second shot." The coachman paused, then added, "After that, all I heard was the horses' screaming, and the horseman galloping away."
"He didn't come up to the carriage?"