Henri wanted to refuse, to throw his food back in his face, but hunger and cold were making her weak. She ate awkwardly, all the while studying her captor’s profile and trying to understand what had transformed the reserved but courteous gentleman she knew into this mysterious figure.
Lord Trenwith mumbled about seeing to his cattle before producing thick woolen horse rugs and leaving the carriage briefly. He returned without the rugs and took up the seat across from her once more.
Hours passed. The storm showed no signs of abating, and the temperature inside the carriage continued to drop. Henri found herself shivering uncontrollably, her teeth chattering so violently she could barely speak.
“This is intolerable,” Lord Trenwith muttered, watching her struggle against the cold. “We shall both perish if this continues.”
To Henri’s shock, he moved to sit beside her on the narrow seat, removed his greatcoat, and pulled the greatcoat and blanket around both of them, drawing her against his side. She stiffened, every propriety screaming against such intimacy, but the warmth radiating from his body was too tempting to resist.
“Miss Bigsby.” His breath stirred the hair at her temple. “I know this seems unconscionable, but it is a matter of survival. We must share heat or risk freezing.”
Henri wanted to protest, to maintain her dignity and her anger, but she was so cold and so tired that she found herself relaxing against him despite her better judgment. He was solid and warm, his arm around her shoulders providing a sense of security that her rational mind knew was false but that her body craved nonetheless.
“I still do not understand,” she whispered, muffled against his coat. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Sleep, Miss Bigsby,” he replied, his voice gentler than it had been all day. “Perhaps things will be clearer in the morning.”
Henri closed her eyes, knowing she should resist this treacherous comfort but finding herself unable to do so. She was dismayed to discover how much she enjoyed his proximity, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the way his hand moved soothingly against her arm. Even stranded and helpless, even furious and frightened, some traitorous part of her felt safer in his arms than she had since this nightmare began.
She fell asleep pressed against Lord Trenwith’s side, miserable and cold and thoroughly confused, but more comfortable than she had been in hours. And if she dreamed of kind hazel eyes and gentle hands, of a different version of this journey where she was not a captive but a willing companion, she told herself it was merely the delirium brought on by cold and exhaustion.
Nothing more.
JANUARY 26, 1822
Gabriel sat in the darkness of the storm-bound carriage, holding Miss Bigsby’s sleeping form against his side, and found himself wrestling with thoughts he could barely comprehend. She had asked for an explanation, had demanded to know why he was subjecting her to this ordeal, and he wished desperately that he could tell her what was happening. But even if he was not bound by oath, how could he explain what he himself could scarcely believe?
He was cursing himself for the decision to bring her with him, though it was far too late to reconsider his actions now. The shock of recognizing her in that library had clouded his judgment completely. His primary concern had been the negotiations. If Miss Bigsby returned to London with tales of encountering Viscount Trenwith under mysterious circumstances, examining stolen manuscripts and subduing armed men, word would reach Paris within days. Étienne would realize Gabriel had abandoned his post, and loyal English agents would pay the price.
That singular focus on preserving his mission’s secrecy had led him to make a catastrophic error. In truth, he had only delayed the inevitable. It was certain that Étienne would learn of his betrayal when word of Miss Bigsby’s disappearance reached the proper circles, and she resurfaced as his bride. His French counterpart was no fool and would piece together the sequence of events, realizing that Gabriel had abandoned the negotiations at their most crucial point to pursue personal matters.
And to make things worse, in his panic over Miss Bigsby’s presence, he had allowed that villain to escape. The man who might have provided answers about Horace’s murder, who could have led Gabriel to the heart of whatever conspiracy had takenhis beloved tutor’s life, had slipped away while Gabriel grappled with the impossible situation her recognition had created.
He could have solved everything in that moment. Captured the assassin, forced him to reveal his masters, perhaps even uncovered the truth aboutRegis Aeternithat Horace had died for. Instead, he had been so consumed with containing the crisis that he had let the greatest lead in his investigation vanish into the winter afternoon.
While it was true that leaving Miss Bigsby at Danbury’s estate might have exposed her to further risk from whatever forces had sent that armed man, Gabriel could no longer lie to himself about his motives. A more troubling concern whispered that perhaps, despite all his warnings to himself to remain aloof, he had chosen this course because some traitorous part of him had desired it.
Had he truly rescued Miss Bigsby, or had he simply used the threat to her as an excuse to claim what he had secretly wanted for two years? He was afraid that rather than being decisive, he had merely been rash. A rashness that may have been brought on by his desire for Miss Bigsby, compromising his usually precise mind.
The thought made Gabriel’s stomach twist with self-loathing. He had prided himself on his control, on his ability to keep his emotions contained, yet here he sat with the most dangerous woman in London pressed against his chest, her soft breathing stirring something fierce and protective in his soul.
And he admitted to himself that in his swift action to safeguard the agents and preserve the delicate balance of their exchange, Gabriel feared he might have made everything infinitely worse.
Men would suffer for his weakness. Their families would continue to endure separation because Gabriel had been unableto resist the pull of personal justice and, subsequently, if he was being honest with himself, personal desire.
Despite the cold seeping through the carriage walls, despite the gravity of their situation, Gabriel found himself enjoying the simple act of holding Miss Bigsby more than he cared to admit. She fit against him perfectly, her slight frame tucked beneath his arm as if she belonged there. The scent of lavender that clung to her hair, the way her hand had unconsciously curled against his chest in sleep. It was torment and bliss combined.
Gabriel allowed himself to imagine, just for a moment, what it might be like to wake up to Miss Bigsby every morning. To see those remarkable amber eyes open with affection instead of accusation, to have the right to hold her without the weight of kidnapping and coercion between them. To be the man she turned to for comfort rather than the one she needed protection from.
The fantasy was so vivid, so achingly appealing, that Gabriel had to force himself to quell such sentiments before they overwhelmed what remained of his rational mind. He had no right to such dreams, no claim to the woman in his arms. She would hate him for this, and rightly so. When the truth came out, and it would come out, she would see him for exactly what he was—a man who had used his strength to claim what he had not earned honestly.
As exhaustion finally claimed him, Gabriel fell into a troubled sleep filled with dark, fractured dreams. He found himself standing once again in his grandfather’s study, five years old and tear-stained, reaching out for comfort that would never come.
“Weakness,”the old viscount’s sermon echoed as if he were standing in a great hall.“Unseemly emotion from a Strathmore. You will learn to control yourself, boy, or you will bring shame upon this family.”
The scene twisted and shifted, and suddenly, it was Miss Bigsby standing before him, her amber eyes filled with the same cold contempt that had marked his grandfather’s features. But where the old man had merely been disgusted by a child’s tears, Miss Bigsby’s scorn cut far deeper.
“Is this what you call strength?”she asked mockingly.“Kidnapping defenseless women because you cannot face your own failures? You are not a hero, Lord Trenwith. You are a coward who takes what he wants and calls it duty.”
