anything.
“In the meantime,” he continued, “I’d best take myself off to the Crown and Boar and bespeak a room for the night. I’ll present myself first thing tomorrow morning, after you’ve had a decent rest, and we’ll take off after our fugitives.”
“Bless you, Tony,” she said. “I knew I could count on you.”
She watched him leave, her eyes still misting with tears. It would take her at least an hour to put together a portmanteau of sturdy, serviceable clothes. Another hour to talk Binnie into their adventure. In that time she could only hope the rain would have abated. She had a strong dislike of riding in a freezing downpour, and Binnie would prove downright obstinate.
But they had no choice. If she went meekly to bed, Tony, true to his word, would go after Ghislaine and her ramshackle half-cousin. Leaving Ellen behind to molder and wait.
Which she had no intention of doing. She was going to be waiting for him when he descended the stairs at the Crown and Boar, and if they didn’t find Gilly by sunset, at least she’d have Binnie beside her to satisfy the dictates of propriety.
And she’d have the undeniably treacherous delight of Tony’s company for at least another twenty-four hours. She could almost be wicked enough to rejoice in Gilly’s abduction.
Ghislaine expected they were heading north. Not that her nemesis bothered to converse with her. His valet-cum-bodyguard also served as coachman, so she couldn’t even glean information from their casual conversations. But she could see it in the changing landscape even though she’d never been much beyond the insular comforts of Ainsley Hall before, and she could feel it in the increasing chill of the spring air.
Spring! The cold-blooded English had little experience with the season. The icy winds and cold rain continued even into the height of summer, and early April might as well be December to Ghislaine’s chilled body. In Paris the trees would be blossoming. The air would be soft and warm. And the streets would still be stained with the blood of too many deaths.
She didn’t believe the so-called Peace of Amiens, the dubious tranquility that had settled over Europe since last March. She didn’t believe the French were ready to rebuild their lives into something more orderly. She didn’t believe Bonaparte’s promises; she didn’t believe in anything more than the moment, the hour, the day.
She was better off where she was, even imprisoned by the man she hated most in this world. His very presence was a tonic. Her hatred for him kept her alive, furious at life and at him. As long as he was in her reach, revenge was still possible. And as long as revenge was possible, life was worth living.
She hadn’t been too sure of that when she’d first been immured in that hell-bound carriage with her dissolute nemesis. The early-morning light had barely penetrated into the shadowy interior of the slightly threadbare coach, and his hands against the skin of her cheek were hard, heated, as they untied the neckcloth that had gagged her.
She’d wanted to fight him. Obviously he expected that much from her, and he hadn’t moved back, leaning across the carriage, giving her plenty of space to attack him.
“What about my hands?” she said in a small, bitter voice.
“What about them?”
“Are you going to untie them?”
He appeared to consider it. “What guarantee have I that you won’t attack me again if I’m fool enough to do so? Your word of honor?”
“I wouldn’t give it.”
He nodded, and there was a faint gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. “I didn’t expect you would. Since I’m not in the mood for another boxing match I think I’ll leave you just as you are. Unless you’ve decided to try to charm me out of my plans.”
“What are your plans?”
“I would think you of all people would understand, ma petite. You nearly killed me, not once but twice. The first time with that poisonous brew, and I owe you for two
“In the meantime,” he continued, “I’d best take myself off to the Crown and Boar and bespeak a room for the night. I’ll present myself first thing tomorrow morning, after you’ve had a decent rest, and we’ll take off after our fugitives.”
“Bless you, Tony,” she said. “I knew I could count on you.”
She watched him leave, her eyes still misting with tears. It would take her at least an hour to put together a portmanteau of sturdy, serviceable clothes. Another hour to talk Binnie into their adventure. In that time she could only hope the rain would have abated. She had a strong dislike of riding in a freezing downpour, and Binnie would prove downright obstinate.
But they had no choice. If she went meekly to bed, Tony, true to his word, would go after Ghislaine and her ramshackle half-cousin. Leaving Ellen behind to molder and wait.
Which she had no intention of doing. She was going to be waiting for him when he descended the stairs at the Crown and Boar, and if they didn’t find Gilly by sunset, at least she’d have Binnie beside her to satisfy the dictates of propriety.
And she’d have the undeniably treacherous delight of Tony’s company for at least another twenty-four hours. She could almost be wicked enough to rejoice in Gilly’s abduction.
Ghislaine expected they were heading north. Not that her nemesis bothered to converse with her. His valet-cum-bodyguard also served as coachman, so she couldn’t even glean information from their casual conversations. But she could see it in the changing landscape even though she’d never been much beyond the insular comforts of Ainsley Hall before, and she could feel it in the increasing chill of the spring air.
Spring! The cold-blooded English had little experience with the season. The icy winds and cold rain continued even into the height of summer, and early April might as well be December to Ghislaine’s chilled body. In Paris the trees would be blossoming. The air would be soft and warm. And the streets would still be stained with the blood of too many deaths.
She didn’t believe the so-called Peace of Amiens, the dubious tranquility that had settled over Europe since last March. She didn’t believe the French were ready to rebuild their lives into something more orderly. She didn’t believe Bonaparte’s promises; she didn’t believe in anything more than the moment, the hour, the day.
She was better off where she was, even imprisoned by the man she hated most in this world. His very presence was a tonic. Her hatred for him kept her alive, furious at life and at him. As long as he was in her reach, revenge was still possible. And as long as revenge was possible, life was worth living.
She hadn’t been too sure of that when she’d first been immured in that hell-bound carriage with her dissolute nemesis. The early-morning light had barely penetrated into the shadowy interior of the slightly threadbare coach, and his hands against the skin of her cheek were hard, heated, as they untied the neckcloth that had gagged her.
She’d wanted to fight him. Obviously he expected that much from her, and he hadn’t moved back, leaning across the carriage, giving her plenty of space to attack him.
“What about my hands?” she said in a small, bitter voice.
“What about them?”
“Are you going to untie them?”
He appeared to consider it. “What guarantee have I that you won’t attack me again if I’m fool enough to do so? Your word of honor?”
“I wouldn’t give it.”
He nodded, and there was a faint gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. “I didn’t expect you would. Since I’m not in the mood for another boxing match I think I’ll leave you just as you are. Unless you’ve decided to try to charm me out of my plans.”
“What are your plans?”
“I would think you of all people would understand, ma petite. You nearly killed me, not once but twice. The first time with that poisonous brew, and I owe you for two
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