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*
Sara thought Lucian woke before they reached the next posting inn in Kidderminster, but he kept silent beside her, allowing her to drive, and she was glad of his forbearance—and glad to stop when she reined in outside the Blue Boar.
‘They’re a good team and you handled them well,’ he said, swinging down from the seat. He waved away the ostlers who came running out. ‘They’ll do until Wolverhampton, it’s only about another fifteen miles. Move over.’
With Lucian up beside her Sara flexed her aching hands surreptitiously and rolled her shoulders. She would not have admitted it for the world, but she was glad to hand over to him and his praise, delivered in perfectly matter-of-fact terms, was both a surprise and a pleasure.
‘Cold?’ he asked as he gave the team the office to start.
‘No, just a bit stiff.’
‘There’s a rug under the seat.’ Lucian reined in and wrapped the reins around the whip handle so she could reach down. ‘Put it around your shoulders, it will keep the muscles warm.’ When she fumbled with fingers still cramped from the reins he tugged it straight and tucked it around her, then drew her against him and kissed her, long and slow. ‘Mmm. I prefer this to driving with a groom.’
Sara found she had nothing to say when he collected the horses’ attention again and drove on. That kiss had been tender and yet somehow possessive. Surely Lucian was not beginning to feel… No, of course not, he was simply tired and affected by the moonlight and the unconventionality of their closeness on this long, long drive.
*
She had made herself close her eyes and doze so she would be able to take her turn with the reins later and this time slept solidly until the curricle turning sharply into an inn yard rocked her against Lucian. ‘Where are we?’
‘Stafford.’ He smiled at her, despite the dark shadows under his eyes and the tightness of the skin over his cheekbones that betrayed his weariness. ‘You slept right through the last change. We’ll get down here, stretch our legs.’
She watched him as he talked to the men unhitching the team, saw them react to his natural authority and the easy way he spoke to them as he helped out by taking a trace, lifting the shaft. As she leaned against the wheel, sleepily content in the shadows, she wondered where the stern, authoritarian man had vanished to.
Then, as Lucian turned, he froze, his attention on a vehicle on the far side of the yard. He asked a question, his voice sharp in the almost deserted space. Then he strode towards her, all trace of that tired smile wiped from his face. ‘They are here.’
‘Thank goodness.’ The relief was heartfelt until she realised what might happen now. As Lucian turned to reach into the back of the curricle for the valises—or his pistols, she did not stop to see which—Sara ran across the yard and through the door of the inn. A sleepy waiter in the hallway jerked awake as she shook him by the shoulder. ‘The young couple who arrived earlier. Which room are they in?’
He gaped at her clothing, seeming not to comprehend the educated English combined with such exotic garb, but when she repeated the question he pointed at the stairs. ‘Number six, on the left…’
Sara took the stairs two at a time, blessing her trousers, and skidded to a halt in front of a door with a faded number six painted on it. She knocked, then, as the front door banged open again, turned the handle and went in. There was a gasp and a scuffle from the shadow that must be the bed, then she knocked against a chair, spun it round and jammed it under the door handle. ‘Marguerite?’
‘Sara? Gregory, it is Sara.’
‘For heaven’s sake, light a candle,’ she snapped as footsteps came closer along the uncarpeted landing. There was a scrabbling, a scraping and then a flicker of light that grew as the man in the bed touched it to the candle wick.
‘Open this door.’ Lucian kept his voice low, but the tone was enough to have Marguerite turn white.
‘In a moment,’ Sara said, then glanced at the bed. ‘I suggest you both get into something less likely to inflame the Marquess than your bare skins.’ She turned her back as the door latch rattled, but kept talking. ‘Do you want to marry him, Marguerite? Be very certain.’
‘Oh, it is you in those clothes! I didn’t… Yes, oh, yes, of course I want to marry Gregory. But Lucian will kill—’
‘No, he will not.’ Sara realised she was standing on a pair of breeches and tossed them behind her on to the bed as a fist thudded into the door. ‘Hurry up! It will only enrage him further if he finds you in bed together—’
The lock broke and the chair went flying. Lucian stalked into the room, kicking pieces of wood aside. His hands, Sara saw with a gulp of relief, were empty.
‘Lucian, she wants to marry him, you can’t kill him now.’
He brushed past her as though she wasn’t there. Sara spun round to find that the young man with the scarred face was on his feet wearing nothing but breeches and his eyepatch. With a courage that Sara could only marvel at he moved round the bed until he was face to face with Lucian who was four inches taller and far broader in the shoulders. ‘I am at your disposal, my lord.’
The right hook sent him sprawling on the floor. Lucian grimaced and blew on his knuckles. ‘Get up. I can’t talk to you down there.’ Gregory got unsteadily to his feet, lifted his chin until he could look Lucian in the eye and stood there swaying.
‘It did not occur to you to come to me and tell me what had happened in Lyons?’
‘I begged him not to.’ Marguerite, her nightrobe half off her shoulders, scrambled across the bed and clutched Gregory’s arm.
‘And you still want to marry this fluff-headed chit?’ Lucian asked, his tone verging on friendly curiosity.
‘I… Yes, my lord. I love her.’ Gregory’s face reflected complete surprise at the question.
