As soon as she did, her breath caught in her lungs. She was looking into the shiny metal barrel of a gun. Her whole body went cold, the world narrowing to a barrel-sized pinpoint. Her hands seemed nerveless. She barely managed to keep hold of her glove.
“Hate to do this, sweetling,” Dorling said. “But I can perform basic mathematics. You’re offering me five hundred pounds to let you walk away, but I’ll have a hundred thousand if we marry. There’s really no comparison.” As he spoke, he reached out and plucked the roll of bills from her fingers.
“You can’t marry me at gunpoint,” Jane said.
“No.” He sounded ridiculously unhappy about that. “But I can make you leave with me. I know this looks bad, kitten, but I do mean to be a reasonable husband. You’ll forgive me eventually.”
“You mean that you’ll let me use my money to embarrass my uncle if he mistreats my sister?”
He smiled. “Ah, you must have overheard that this morning. Now it all makes sense. Sorry, darling. I gave my word to him on that point. If you couldn’t trust my word, why would you marry me at all?”
A curious question. He seemed unaware that he had just robbed her of five hundred pounds at gunpoint, that he was proposing to take her freedom by a similar method.
“How nice,” Jane said, “that you are a man of honor.”
Luckily, he didn’t hear the sarcasm in her tone. Jane glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder, but there was no sign of Oliver.
And what would he have done? She needed Dorling. He needed to disappear so that her aunt would think that Jane had eloped.
All Jane had to do was be smarter than him, and hope the opportunity presented itself quickly. Because there was only a narrow window of time they had, that time when her aunt would believe Jane was eloping rather than haring off on her own to rescue her sister.
“You leave me no choice,” Jane said.
Dorling smiled. “Good,” he said. “Then there’s no need for me to use the ether. Let’s get to the carriage.”
Ether. Jane tried not to twitch. “Of course,” she said. He took her arm—she managed not to flinch from his touch—and guided her down the hall.
She didn’t dare look back.
“Where are we going?” she asked bravely. “And what route are we taking?” The more she knew, the better she could plan.
Chapter Twenty-One
Abduction, Jane reflected several hours later, was deathly boring. Dorling sat across the carriage from her still holding his pistol. The carriage they were in was closed, the glassed windows on the door showing nothing in the night but the dark blur of woods. They’d been traveling for a good long while northward, and all Jane wanted to do was yawn.
“Is there an inn nearby?” she asked. “Are we stopping for the night?”
“Eventually,” Dorling snapped.
She yawned again and peered out the window. Silhouettes of big, knotty oaks flew past. She tried counting trees. At forty-seven, the carriage stopped—which surprised her, as there was no evidence of civilization nearby.
“What are we doing?” Jane asked.
But Dorling looked just as confused as she felt. He shook his head and gestured her back.
A few moments later, the carriage door opened. The driver was a dark, cloaked silhouette in the doorway.
“Is there a problem?” Dorling asked.
“Aye,” he responded. “One of the horses has gone lame.” The man had a broad farm accent. Jane wondered, idly, if he was bribable. There was still that roll of bills strapped to her thigh.
“God damn it.” Dorling’s nostrils flared. “Of all the times… What is wrong with you, man, that your horses go lame? This shouldn’t be happening. Now what are we going to do?”
The driver shrugged. “Come take a look.”
Dorling glanced over at Jane. “I’m not sure.”
The driver shrugged again. “Give it to me, then. I’ll watch her. You go see.” Dorling handed over the pistol and stepped out of the carriage. But the driver didn’t follow him immediately. He turned in the doorway, and then, very carefully, raised a finger to his lips.
Jane let out a breath. “Oliver,” she whispered.
“Shh. A moment longer.”
“God damn it,” Dorling’s voice came again. “One of the beasts has a stone in its hoof. I don’t think it can walk at the moment. Now what are we going to do? Do you have any idea how bloody inconvenient this is?”
Oliver turned to the man. “Yes,” he said in his normal voice, “I do. Because I hadn’t planned on riding double back to town.”
There was a long pause. “What?’ Dorling asked.
“Riding double,” Oliver said. “You would not believe how fortuitous your appearance was. I was looking for transportation, and there, just outside the hall, was a man who had transportation—transportation that I knew he wouldn’t be needing. Imagine my delight.” He shook his head. “It was a good thing I managed to make another arrangement with the driver.”
“I don’t understand,” Dorling said. “Who are you?”
“I had planned to jettison you a little farther from civilization, but this will have to do. Stay with the cart, and the driver will come pick you up mid-afternoon tomorrow. You’ll be back in Nottingham by night, which I presume will give us enough time.” Oliver walked to the back and began to rummage in the boot. “There are blankets and wine and some spare food back here, so you won’t be too uncomfortable.”
“You can’t make me! I have a—” He started to brandish his empty hand and then stared at it.
“Yes.” Oliver’s voice came from behind the carriage. “A little advice: Next time you try an abduction, don’t give your weapon to someone you don’t know.”
Jane smirked.
“This is outrageous!” Dorling said. “Who are you, and what have you done with my cart driver?”
Oliver came back from the boot carrying a saddle. “Jane, I’m sorry to say that we’re going to have to ride double. Are you game?”
Jane found herself smiling. “How did you know? How did you do this?”
“Simple,” he said. “I told you you weren’t alone. Did you really think I would leave you?”
She didn’t know what to say. She just shook her head and watched him saddle the horse. It was the first time she’d ever seen him do anything physical, and he did it so swiftly and so smoothly that she was reminded that he’d grown up on a farm. He could argue politics and rescue impossible girls and saddle a horse with equal ease.
She’d spent months thinking about him. Thinking about what she might have said to him if only she’d been brave enough.
She wouldn’t let it go unsaid much longer.
“We don’t have much time,” he said, “but it will be enough.” He mounted the horse, and then held out his hand to Jane. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” she said. “The weapon, if you please.”
He held it out to her without asking. Jane turned, and Dorling’s face went white. “Please,” he said. “Don’t… You don’t need to…”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Oh, stop blubbering. I want my five hundred pounds back.”
“But it means nothing to you! To me, it would be…”
“Yes,” Jane said. “I know what it would mean to you.” She pointed the pistol directly at his forehead. “That’s why I want it back.”
Two people, both in evening dress, could not ride comfortably on one horse. Oliver cinched his arm around Jane for the fifteenth time in four minutes and shifted in the saddle behind her.
Jane’s skirts flapped voluminously in the breeze. Something sharp and protuberant in her skirts jabbed his thigh. And the beads sewn into her gown were itchy and uncomfortable.
Still, it wasn’t wholly awful. After all, Jane was warm and soft, and it was all too easy to breath in the scent of her. She smelled of familiar soap.
Twenty-four hours ago, he’d been reading in a comfortable chair at Clermont house, thinking
about how to exert influence on the Members of Parliament that he knew.
Now he was on a horse, God knew how far from civilization, with an heiress of dubious reputation, plotting to kidnap a nineteen-year-old girl from her guardian. It was as if he had exited reality and found himself plopped into the middle of some kind of medieval tale of chivalry, one where he needed his wits and his sword to survive.
He’d planned out the course of his life years ago—quiet service, eventual recognition, a slow rise to power. There was no room in that story for the ridiculously impulsive actions he’d taken today: leaving London on a bare half hour’s notice, finding Jane, foiling abduction plots against impossible odds.
There would be plenty of time to come to his senses. He tightened his arms briefly around Jane, thinking of that dazzling moment when he’d first seen her on the stairs.
He had all the right emotions. He’d expected to fall in love one day. Just not like this. Not with her. He was in the wrong story with the wrong lady. Someone had made a mistake…and he very much feared it was him.
But Jane leaned back against him, and even though he could have written a list about all the ways that she was a mistake, she didn’t feel like one.
“It’s not fair,” Jane said, echoing his feelings so closely that he sucked in a breath. “This is supposed to be romantic. What woman does not want to have a man rush to her aid and sweep her away on his fiery stallion?”
Yes, they had definitely found themselves in the wrong story. “I would refer to this particular steed more as a ‘placid gelding’ than a ‘fiery stallion,’” Oliver said. “That’s the first problem.”
“In the books,” Jane said, “the man always clasps the woman lovingly to him, and she melts in his embrace.”
“My embrace isn’t loving enough for you?”
His arm was around her. But no matter his intentions and his emotions—and God, what a morass those were—he couldn’t call his clasp loving. It was more like a desperate attempt to keep her from sliding off the seat.
“I can’t speak for your embrace,” she replied. “But I don’t think my body is melting into yours. I feel more like a ship being tossed against the rocks.”
Oliver smiled again. “Friction is the very devil,” he replied. “Also, women who want loving embraces ought not to wear an arsenal of beads. Then there’s that thing that’s poking into my thigh.”
“Hmm?”
“Hard to think of romance with something that uncomfortable so close to my delicate parts,” Oliver said. “In fact, I have to exert some substantial effort just to make sure that my voice doesn’t go up an octave. That sharp pokey thing in your skirts is threatening to unman me.”
“What do you mean?” She reached behind her and groped his thigh—an action he wished he was in a better position to appreciate. “Oh. That’s just five hundred pounds in a roll. Stop whining, Oliver; it’s better than having it stuffed down a corset.” She sighed. “The stories never mention that saddles built for one rather than two make your backside go numb. Also” —she turned in the saddle, just enough that he had to hold her more tightly to keep from slipping—“did you know that your thighs are extremely hard? And I thought the squabs of the carriage were uncomfortable.”
“You’d like it even less if I had pillowy thighs,” Oliver replied.
She leaned back against him. “Mmm. Pillowy thighs. Those would be lovely right now. Thighs that I could shut my eyes and sink into. Your thighs are like oak logs. Very unrestful.”
“Yes, but here’s the problem. If I had pillowy thighs, I would have reached down to swing you atop my fiery gelding, and when I tried to heft you in the air, I would have dropped you. ‘Damn it!’ I’d proclaim. ‘I just threw out my back!’”
She laughed softly.
“All the stories are wrong,” he told her.
He meant it just how he said it—they were filled with falsehoods and euphemisms. But he also meant it how he didn’t say it: that they were wrong to be here.
“Impossible girl.” But his lips were so close to her neck that even that whispered label felt like an endearment, rather than a reminder.
There was a long pause. And then…
“Thank you. I didn’t say that before, did I? I was too flabbergasted that you arrived, and then everything seemed to get away from me. Including myself. I’m afraid I’ve been horribly rude, and for once I didn’t intend it.”
She’d turned to him again—or at least, had turned her head toward him as best as she could manage on a moving horse. Despite the discomfort of it all, he was enjoying holding her. She felt lovely in his arms, a bundle of complex scents. Lavender and rose and a clean, citrus smell that reminded him of home.
She sighed. “And here I am, talking again. I don’t know what it is about you. How is it that every time you’re near, I can’t seem to keep quiet?”
His arms were already around her. He could have set his chin on her shoulder if he’d leaned down a few inches. All the stories were wrong, but one thing seemed absolutely right.
“It’s because you’re thinking about this,” he said, and kissed her.
There was no good way to kiss a woman who was sharing his saddle. His neck crooked awkwardly, and he had to hold tight to keep her from slipping off. But it didn’t matter. All those months disappeared—those long, dark months without her there, when he could have been doing this. Holding her. Kissing her. Exploring her mouth, inch by luscious inch.
The horse, sensing Oliver’s inattention, slowed to an amble. Even that damned sharp thing in her skirts stopped being so noticeable. There was nothing but her and the night around them. Crickets chirped somewhere; a bird that hadn’t yet noticed that night had fallen called out. His hands were full of her. If he let go, she might slip bonelessly off the horse.
If he stopped kissing her, he might have to think about the future. He didn’t want to contemplate a world away from this road, away from her kiss. So he didn’t stop. He simply held her close and tasted her.
“Oh,” she said, when he finally raised his head, subtly stretching out the kink in his neck.
But she didn’t ask any questions. Instead, she leaned back against him. Her hair was beginning to fall out of its heavy coiffure. If this were a story, little curls would be coming undone, little tendrils of hair escaping down her back. Instead, the mass of her hair leaned to one side, canting like a half-uprooted tree. Occasionally, she’d reach up and do her best to adjust it back to straight, but inevitably, it would start falling once more. When he wasn’t careful, her hairpins jabbed him.
“I suppose,” she finally said, “that makes up for your horrible, hard thighs.”
He smiled. “I would say that you’ve made up for your money, but that would be a lie. You’ve a long way to go.”
She met his eyes over her shoulder. “How long a way?”
“Miles,” he told her. “Miles and miles of kisses, taken at an amble like this. Maybe once we’ve made it to the Stag and Hounds, I’ll be ready to stop.”
Maybe they’d never make it there. Maybe the rest of the world could be held at bay, and they might spend forever uninterrupted in this darkness with nothing to do but kiss. Maybe that was all this story would be—a nightlong kiss, one where dawn never came.
“Then we must get started immediately.” She tilted her head to his once more.
This time, the horse came to a complete stop. He held her in place with one firm hand at her waist, and let the other skitter down her shoulder, stroking her lightly, playing with the lace at her neckline, the fabric under it. Her skin underneath was warm and soft. When he skimmed the tops of her breasts, she let out a little gasp.
God, he hadn’t wanted to know that she was that responsive. He hadn’t wanted to know it, but now that he did, he couldn’t stop himself from exploring. He wanted to hear her breathing arrest as he explored the soft curve of her breast. Holding her this close, he could feel that almost-inaudible moan she made. It was a vibration deep in her
rib cage, one he sensed in the palms of his hands. He slid his fingers farther under her neckline, under her corset, until he found the place where her skin changed from the softness of her breast to the hard nub of her nipple.
She gave out a soft cry.
“There’s only so much I can do on a horse,” he murmured in her ear. “And perhaps it’s just as well, because if I had you in a bed tonight, I don’t think I could keep my mouth from taking the place of my hands.”
He slid his finger in another circle around her breast.
She swept her hand down his shoulder. Not skimming the fabric. Not even dipping tentatively below the lapels of his coat. Her palm conformed to his chest, seeking out the shape of his muscles, as if the fabric were not even there.
It didn’t matter where they were. What they were doing. That she wore a ball gown, that there were layers of silk and wool separating their skin. He burned for her, burned to kiss every last inch of her. He burned to touch the places he couldn’t reach at this moment.
“God, Jane. God. Tell me not to pull you off this horse.”
She did no such thing. She simply tangled her hand in his coat and pulled him closer.
He was not going to have her in the underbrush at the side of the road. He wasn’t. But God, he wanted it. He wanted her, and he couldn’t even remember why it was a bad idea any longer.
“Oliver.” She said his name on a gasp, and it drove him wild.
“God, I love when you say my name like that.”
She shifted, and her bottom rubbed against his groin as she did. He rolled her nipple between his fingers.
“Oliver,” she moaned, and he kissed her harder. “Oliver. I’m not trying to say your name.”
He pulled back, breathing hard.
“It’s just, that’s the third raindrop I’ve felt.”
“Oh, damnation.” He didn’t want to be interrupted, not for rain, not for thunder, not for a flood sweeping down on them. He didn’t want this to end. Once it did, he wasn’t sure when it would ever start again.