"This time," he said firmly, "nothing interrupts us. No responsibilities, no duties, no obligations except to each other."
"That sounds..."
"Dangerous? Improper? Scandalous?"
"Perfect."
The journey north was both familiar and strange. The same road they'd traveled five years ago, but now in a luxurious ducal coach with hot bricks at their feet and furs across their laps. The storm that had been threatening all week was in full force by the time they left London, rain pelting the windows with increasing violence.
"This feels like tempting fate," Catherine said, watching the countryside blur past through the water-streaked glass.
"Or accepting it," James countered. "After all, a storm brought us together. Perhaps storms are good luck for us."
"That's absurd."
"Is it? Think about it. Every major moment in our relationship has involved weather. The storm at the inn. The heat during our wedding. That blizzard when Edward was born."
"You were terrified during that blizzard."
"You were in labor for sixteen hours. I was entitled to terror."
Catherine smiled, remembering how he'd paced the halls like a caged animal, driving the physician to distraction. When Edward had finally arrived, healthy and squalling, James had wept with relief.
"And the twins during that thunderstorm," she added.
"See? Weather is our good luck charm."
"Or we have terrible timing."
"That too."
They'd been traveling for three hours when the coach suddenly lurched to a stop. Catherine grabbed James's arm to steady herself as they heard shouting from outside.
"What's happened?" she asked.
James was already opening the door, letting in a blast of wet, cold air. "Robertson? What's the matter?"
Their coachman appeared, water streaming from his greatcoat. "Bridge is out, Your Grace. The one at Thornley. Completely washed away."
Catherine felt a mix of disappointment and relief. "We'll have to turn back."
"Not necessarily," James said slowly. "How far are we from the Black Swan?"
"Maybe three miles, Your Grace. But we'd have to go around through Millbrook, add another five miles to the journey."
"Can we make it?"
Robertson considered. "Aye, if we're careful. Roads are bad but passable. Though once we're there, we might be stuck for a few days. If this storm continues, that route will flood too."
James turned to Catherine, his eyes bright with possibility. "What do you think? Risk it?"
She should say no. The sensible thing would be to turn around, go home to their warm, safe house and their children. But looking at James's eager expression, remembering another night when they'd taken refuge from a storm, sensibility seemed overrated.
"Risk it," she said.
The next two hours were harrowing. The coach rocked violently, wheels sliding in mud, rain pounding so hard it sounded like drums on the roof. Catherine found herself clinging to James, partly from fear, partly from exhilaration.
"This is insane!" she shouted over the noise.
