“I have never been in this situation before,”Gabriel had eventually confessed. He certainly was being garrulous, but perhaps he was simply missing his tutor.“I do not make lasting connections with women as a rule. It is safer that way, cleaner. But Miss Bigsby is different. She has always been different.”
André had smiled, the expression transforming his weathered features.“Then perhaps this is not the disaster you believe it to be. Perhaps this is simply fate forcing your hand, giving you what you have always wanted but were too afraid to pursue.”
Gabriel returned to the moment. Even unconscious, Miss Bigsby seemed to trust him on some fundamental level, and that trust was both a gift and a terrible responsibility.
I pray André is right. For both our sakes.
The ship lurched violently, and she stirred against him, a small sound of distress escaping her lips. Gabriel’s arms tightened around her, and he found himself making a silent vow. Whatever the cost, whatever sacrifices were required, he would find a way to make this right. Miss Bigsby deserved his complete devotion to her happiness and well-being.
Even if it meant finding the strength to be the stoic, reliable husband she would need, while keeping his own desperate need for her hidden lest he frighten her away completely.
The first thingHenri noticed as consciousness returned was the absence of the ship’s violent motion. The relentless pitching and rolling that had made her so wretchedly ill had ceased, replaced by a gentle rocking that suggested they were anchored in calmer waters. Dim gray light filtered through the small cabin window, and she could hear the distant calls of seabirds overhead.
“Miss Bigsby.” Lord Trenwith’s voice was quiet, careful not to startle her. “We have arrived.”
Henri sat up slowly, her body protesting after the night’s ordeal. Through the porthole, she could see a rocky coastline bathed in the soft golden light of dawn. The water here was a different color than the storm-tossed Channel they had crossed, a calmer blue-green that spoke of shallower depths and sheltered harbors.
“Where are we?” she asked, though she suspected she already knew the answer.
“Near Blériot-Plage,” Lord Trenwith replied, moving to gather the wrapped manuscript and sketch. “We are in France, Miss Bigsby.”
France. The reality of it made her swallow in dismay. She was no longer in England, no longer under the protection of English laws or social conventions. She was completely at the mercy of a man whose motives remained utterly mysterious to her.
“What happens now?” Henri’s voice emerged steadier than she felt.
Lord Trenwith paused in his preparations, and for a moment, she caught a glimpse of something like uncertainty in his hazel eyes. “Now I must ask for your cooperation. There are men’s lives at stake, Miss Bigsby. Important matters that require discretion. I need you to come ashore quietly, without drawing attention to our arrival.”
Henri studied his face, noting the lines of strain around his eyes, the tension in his jaw that spoke of trouble. Whatever had driven him to this desperate course, whatever these mysterious matters were, they clearly weighed heavily upon him.
“Men’s lives,” she repeated slowly. “What men? What lives hang in the balance that could possibly justify kidnapping me?”
“I cannot explain fully, not yet,” Lord Trenwith replied, his voice heavy with what sounded like genuine regret. “I am not permitted to speak of certain matters at present. But I give you my word that everything I have done has been necessary. Please, Miss Bigsby. I am asking for your trust.”
Henri wanted to refuse, to demand answers, to rail against the impossible situation he had placed her in. But something in his expression stopped her. Beneath the aristocratic composure, beneath the careful control he maintained, she could see genuine worry. This was not the face of a man acting fromcallous disregard, but of someone caught in circumstances as terrible as her own.
Against her better judgment, against every instinct that screamed she should resist, Henri found herself nodding. “Very well. But I want answers, Lord Trenwith. Real answers, not cryptic hints about matters I cannot understand.”
Relief flickered across his features. “You have my word that explanations will come as soon as I am able to give them.”
The landing proved trickier than Henri had anticipated. The ship’s boat was small and unstable, forcing her to accept Lord Trenwith’s steadying hand as they navigated the short distance to the rocky shore. The dawn air was crisp and cold, carrying with it the unfamiliar scents of French coastal vegetation and the lingering salt of the Channel crossing.
Henri kept her word, remaining silent as they made their way up a narrow path from the cove. But her mind raced with questions and fears. What manner of business required such secrecy? What forces were at work that could drive a viscount to such desperate measures?
Her confusion only deepened when they reached the top of the path and found a carriage waiting, driven by a familiar figure dressed in the nondescript livery of a coachman.
“Mr. Tyne?” Henri stared in shock at Lord Trenwith’s secretary. Even in the plain brown coat and simple breeches of his disguise, she recognized the thin, scholarly man she had encountered perhaps twice in Uncle Reggie’s drawing room during political consultations.
Mr. Tyne’s pale eyes went wide with recognition and what appeared to be horror. “Miss Bigsby?” His voice climbed toward panic. “My lord, what have you done?”
“Tyne.” Lord Trenwith’s warning brooked no argument. “We will discuss this later. For now, please assist Miss Bigsby into the carriage.”
The secretary’s hands shook as he helped Henri into the vehicle, his face pale with shock. “My lord, surely this cannot be necessary. There must be another way to?—”
“Samuel.” The single word cut through his protests with finality. “Drive us to Calais. Immediately.”
The carriage soon lurched into motion, and Henri found herself alone with Lord Trenwith once again, thinking about Mr. Tyne’s reaction to her presence. If his own secretary was shocked by her presence, if the man who presumably knew Lord Trenwith’s business better than anyone was horrified by what he had done, what did that say about the justification for this kidnapping?
The interior of the carriage was dim, lit only by the pale morning light filtering through small windows. Lord Trenwith sat across from her, the bundled manuscript and sketch clutched under one arm. She considered demanding their return, but she had very nearly given her life for them and needed to make sense of her circumstances before she broached that battle. Henri studied his profile, noting details she had missed in the chaos of the past day.
