She wondered what it would be like giving herself freely to him. Would he cause her pain? Would she like it? What would it feel like to be consumed by a man such as Oliver?
She rather thought she’d like the experience and already knew it would be nothing like lying under Penharrow. She closed her eyes and rubbed her fists into them, wishing she could erase the image of what Penharrow had forced her to do. Memory was a fickle thing. She couldn’t remember her parents, her family, but she wished she could.
On a sigh she sat down and began to plait her hair into tidier submission. One more day and she might be safe.
Why was the idea of being out of Penharrow’s clutches making her feel sad? Probably because it would mean leaving Oliver and Oliver made her feel safe. Feel normal. Feel clean.
No, it was because she had no idea what her life would now become. What would she do? Where would she go? Oliver had promised to give her enough money to live quietly, but she was only twenty-one, and her future stretched on in bleak reality.
She wanted Oliver and that was another impossible dream. A Marquess. She could never marry a marquess. Another tear sprang to her eye, but she could be his mistress. That wouldn’t be enough for either of them or would simply lead to heartache.
She would have to leave, and she suspected Oliver would not want to let her go. She’d have to be strong for both of them.
She angrily brushed the tear aside. How selfish to want so much. When she was free of Penharrow her prayer would begranted. That was enough. It would have to be enough. Some pasts can’t be erased, but she would make a better future. Maybe she’d try to find out who her family was. That was a goal. An appropriate goal and would give her some direction in life.
A weight lifted. She had something to look forward to rather than always looking back.
Once free, she’d refuse to let that man own any more of her thoughts. He would be dead to her. Oliver’s return interrupted her thoughts.
“I’ve checked the horses, and the innkeeper has breakfast for us in the private room whenever we’re ready. She told me Penharrow’s men have headed north. She got the blacksmith to tell them he’d seen three riders heading north.”
“Will the horses make another day’s ride?”
“Today’s ride should be easier given the sun is shining. The ground is still frozen, so the slush hasn’t started. We should go before the snow and ice melt, as that will make the going harder. We’ll leave after breakfast.”
* * *
Eight hours later,as dusk fell, the tension in Oliver’s shoulders diminished as they rode up the treelined driveway of Saxton Castle. They’d bloody made it.
The head groom saw them approaching.
“Trevor, it’s me, Oliver.”
Soon the grooms from the stables arrived to help them dismount. “Please ensure these horses are treated well, given food and rubbed down. They’re the reason we’ve arrived safely.”
The large front door was pushed wide and Harold the butler came to meet them.
“My lord, we were not expecting you. I shall make rooms ready immediately.”
“Thank you, Harold. Please show Webb and Miss Megan torooms in the east wing. Have three baths drawn and find some of my cousin’s clothes for Miss Megan. Oh, and send for the doctor to see to Webb’s shoulder wound. Is my uncle here?
“He is in his study. Will you be joining the family for dinner?”
“Not tonight, thank you Harold. Have food sent on trays to Webb and Megan and myself in an hour. We need to rest tonight as it’s been quite the journey. I’ll speak with my uncle before heading to my chambers.”
The Duke of Saxton’s study was exactly as Oliver remembered it—a room designed to intimidate. Dark paneling, portraits of ancestors staring down in collective judgment, a desk the size of a small country behind which his uncle sat like a king on a throne. The fire burned high and warm, and the contrast to the frozen mountains he’d spent the last week traversing was almost dizzying.
His uncle looked up from his papers, and his expression moved through surprise, irritation and finally a cold, assessing calm that Oliver had never trusted.
“Well, this is a surprise. I thought you were in London.” The Duke set down his quill. “You look like something the dogs dragged in from the moor.”
“Thank you, Uncle. Always a pleasure.”
“Sit down before you fall down. You look half dead.” The Duke gestured to the chair across the desk with the air of a man granting an audience. At sixty, Edward Sommerset, Duke of Saxton, was still a formidable figure—silver-haired, sharp-eyed, with a jawline Oliver had inherited but the Duke had none of Oliver’s father’s warmth. “Where in God’s name have you been? I had your steward telling me you’d gone north to inspect property and then nothing. Days of nothing. Your letter was a masterpiece of deliberate vagueness.”
“I was in Wales.”
Dead silence.
