Page 89 of Again, Scoundrel

He glanced back at her once more as they sped down the dark road. Violet didn’t hesitate; she moved her horse forward at the same brisk pace he moved his.

She will never balk.

It’s not in her constitution.

He’d meant what he said about violets. They looked small and delicate but were some of the toughest flowers in existence. That was her. He shook his head. There was no doubt she’d be by his side all the way to Kent. He wished his heart didn’t lift a little at the thought.

They came upon the coaching inn a little less than halfway into the ride. Alistair didn’t care to rest, but he knew they’d be faster in the long run if he took care of his horseflesh. And of Violet.

It was the dead of night, but he saw the soft glow on the side of the road that indicated the inn was still open, so he reined in his horse to stop. Violet was only a moment behind him.

She dismounted her dappled gray in a smooth, easy movement that would have gone unremarked by the stablemen but for the easy swing of her braid down her back. The braid was what alerted them that the slim young rider was not, in fact, a male. And as soon as Violet dismounted and they could see her shapely legs and small waist tucked into the obscene fit of those buckskin breeches, they stared outright.

“Go,” Alistair whispered through clenched teeth, watching the men for any sign of trouble. “Inside. Now.”

He knew what some men would do to a woman they considered an aberration, one dressed in men’s clothing for instance, and he was in no mood to wait around to see if these men were that kind or not.

Violet glanced up at him, and he knew she was about to argue against being ordered around. But something she saw in him made her nod and move along to the inn instead.

Alistair turned to the stable hands, suddenly every inch the commanding officer he’d once been.

“Feed and water the mounts,” he said and tossed the reins at the closest man. “And keep your damned eyes in your head.”

“Yes, gov.” The stable hand turned briskly to go about his work, motioning for the others to follow suit.

The inn was blessedly empty, with only a few scattered souls still supping at the late hour. He supposed they could both be grateful for that small piece of luck. It would slow the ripple of gossip he knew was already spreading from the ballroom in Surrey, where their absence would not have gone unnoticed.

In a day, or at the very least two, that gossip would become a tidal wave that stretched from Surrey to London to Kent and beyond. He was the second son of the Marquess of Timsbury. Violet was an heiress and the cousin to the beautiful Lady Catherine West, who was by now publicly betrothed to the heir of the Waverly Viscountcy. They’d be good fodder for the wagging tongues of the ton.

Not that he cared. And neither, he suspected, would she. In that, they were a matched pair. But she had Catherine to consider. And, he supposed, he had his family as well.

He hadn’t really thought of family in that way, that the relationships they had were reciprocal, until he’d met Violet and spoken–really spoken–to his brother. He hoped again, fervently, that they made it to Kent in time. They had to.

Alistair stood, framed in the doorway of the inn for just a moment and watched as Violet made her way through the tavern room. The sway of her hips looked indecently close to a swagger. Had the situation been different, had they more time and less urgency, he could have stood there and watched her all night. Or part of the night at any rate, before he took her up to one of the rooms.

Violet was a siren. But not some flighty songbird. She was as majestic and fierce as love was—a peregrine falcon perhaps, or an eagle.

“Evening,” the barmaid said, interrupting his thoughts.

He watched as the woman turned to them, the automatic smile plastered on her tired face morphing into a grimace at the sight of Violet in breeches. When she turned her back, refusing to even acknowledge Violet’s presence, Alistair felt himself grow furious. He clenched his fists at his side, all that just-banked irritation and anger from the stables rising back up in him.

He strode forward until he reached Violet and placed his hand on the small of her back. And then he turned to the barmaid and spit out, “Two darks. And a bite to eat.”

The woman looked at him and gave a pert little curtsey. “Of course, gov. Where will you sit?”

“Wherever she sits.”

He offered Violet his arm and guided her to the nearest table. He was not above marking her as his to the barmaid or anyone else. She was his, in his heart at least. And he was beginning to think his heart had claimed her forever, no matter what happened between them. That he would love Violet for the rest of his life. And, if something came after life, he’d love her through that too.

He pulled out Violet’s chair and stood behind her while she seated herself, then settled into the chair opposite, taking the opportunity to stretch his long legs after their journey. Even for him, accustomed as he was to hours of physical labor every day aboard a sailing ship, the long ride on horseback was a test of endurance that would only become more grueling as the night wore on.

He couldn’t imagine how Violet would manage it. She was slight of stature and unaccustomed to that kind of sustained physical hardship.

The barmaid dropped the two dark ales for them.

“Will ye stay over as well?” she asked, looking only at Alistair, as if Violet were not there.

“Yes,” Alistair said, deciding that he couldn’t force Violet to ride all the way to Kent tonight. It was too dark and too far and too dangerous.