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As he mounted his horse, Miller reported the footman and the harness horses gone. The housekeeper prepared a saddlebag of provisions for him while he dressed his riding coat and hessians for the trip.
“We should go with you, milord.” Miller risked the wrath of his master.
Even staring daggers on fire at
the man who must have prevented her escape, he answered. “Thank you, Miller, but I will go alone.” He took the reins and directed the Arab stallion to the front gate. “She cannot be too far. One rider goes faster.”
“Very well, Your Grace.” He bowed to the back of the Duke.
How the goddammed woman kept him stringing along constituted a mystery Romulus did not care to look into too closely. At breakneck speed, his sleek hair flying behind his head under the hat, he fumed. And he fumed for reasons he did not want to think about at this precise moment.
He should not mind being left by the woman. Twice. The feelings that coursed him were too conflicting. The way he felt six years ago too similar to now. To the way he felt when his mother had gone.
As the cool wind whipped his bristle fierce jaw, impossible to answer whether he ran after her for the information he needed to keep secret or for her and her alone. What he knew was the cauldron boiled at high temperature in his guts. He hoped not to cede to the temptation to twist the woman’s delectable neck when he found her. For he would find her! Surely the ride would wear off his temper. A temper he never knew to be in him, bloody hell! That which she unleashed in him stood far beyond understanding.
* * *
Annabel munched on a piece bread and ham, purchased in the last inn three hours ago. The carriage rattled with the unevenness of the road and her bones crackled in unison. To have vanquished a quarter of the distance caused her to bet she could make it without confronting the darned Duke.
She had to admit she left more than mere clothes behind at Blackthorne. A foreign sense of loss underlay her apprehension. Meeting that man again awoke things she deemed buried for good. Things she most assuredly did not want to resurface. This tore at her, nonetheless. Too much time sitting in a carriage did not bode well for her inner thoughts. She wished she remembered to bring a book to divert her from these unwanted musings. She did not; and she doubted she would have been able to concentrate in any case. So, she tried to get some sleep.
* * *
Since the last inn, an hour ago, it started to rain. This would slow the trip, blast it! But the carriage ploughed through.
An hour more elapsed and the rain subsided, making her more optimistic about the prospects of the trip.
She lay back on the seat as the carriage jounced along the precarious road. There was little more she could do.
Neighs came from outside as Annabel was reluctant to open her eyes. She must have fallen into a slumber after her sleepless night. The carriage jerked to a stop, and she had no choice, but to open her eyes and sit up alert. At that exact second the door threw open and two murky hazel beacons flashed on her.
Darn the man!
“I daresay I always succeed in bringing you back to the castle, my lady.” That lopsided humourless slash of his sensuous lips drafted on his rugged face. Clothes damp, rain-wet hat in his hand, his dark-brown hair falling humid down the sides of his face, a two-day stubble, the man looked like a highwayman.
She responded in kind. “Oh, Your Grace.” Her hands folded on her lap, expression forced to a serene contemplation. “You must have come to bid me farewell.” Such a bland smile on her face, she herself did not believe her acting skills. “You could have sent a note.”
Rugged face transformed in deadly seriousness, lividity smothered his now stony features; no mood for irony there. “Get down from there.” His furious eyes stabbed hers hard. “You are coming with me.” He commanded low and overpowering.
She lifted her chin, her back straighter. “I am not.”
“Do it or I will make you.” That came silkier, but no less lethal.
For maximum effect, she sat back slow. “I do not think so, Your Grace.” She defied him. “There are no laws in this country forbidding a woman to travel.”
He raked his dishevelled hair, looked up for a second, as if praying for patience. In a swift movement, one arm locked around her waist and the other under her knees. Next thing she knew she floated over the ground as he yanked her off her seat.
She pushed at his unyielding shoulders. “Put me down, you vile blackguard!” She hissed even as he sat her on his horse, legs to one side.
While he mounted the Arab stallion, he turned to her servants drily. “Follow.” And the horse jerked to a trot.
If she could kill the damned scoundrel, she would. The fury in her bubbled intense and boiling. Mixed with the frustration of her thwarted attempt to leave, she might wrestle with him for one week and it would not wear off her. She breathed heavily, far from getting a grip.
A long time passed before she was capable of not seeing red. Lifting her gaze to him, she found his attentive on her.
“I should have borrowed your mare.” She provoked. “I would be halfway to London by now.”
“She has a name.” He answered simply in his deep tone.
