Too Wicked to Marry by Susan Sizemore Page B

idea of riding a horse through this weather, with a pounding head besides, did not seem a promising way of spending the day. He wiped cold water off his aching brow and said,
    "Fine." He quickly settled his bill and went out through the downpour to the waiting carriage.
    He'd taken his seat and closed the door behind him before he realized there was someone else occupying the dim interior. He should have noticed sooner, he supposed, as it was not a big conveyance, and the large bonnet and wide skirts of the woman seated opposite him took up a certain amount of space. A hatbox and carpetbag took up the rest of the woman's seat.
    "I beg your pardon," he said, swiftly taking off his hat. "I had no idea this is a public coach."
    "It's not." Harriet leaned forward, her lovely, smiling face framed by the curving arc of her bonnet brim. "Did you cut yourself shaving, Martin?" she inquired, all mild solicitation.
    "You! What are you doing in my carriage?"
    "It's not your carriage, it's my family's carriage."
    Her words effectively stopped him from telling her to get out, and the carriage began moving before he could step out himself. "Harriet," he complained as he was jolted back into his seat.
    "Miserable day, isn't it?" she asked, glancing out the window, then turning a pleasant look on him as though this was another start to one of their many journeys rather than an abduction by a woman who had betrayed all his trust and belief in her. "You could jump out if you like," she added. "But Gabriel's driving rather faster than conditions warrant, you might have noticed. You'd probably survive, but why spend weeks mending broken bones on a relatively remote Scottish island, when you can be enjoying the decadent pleasures of—say, Sir Anthony Strake's house party?"
    So it hadn't been a dream. Martin rubbed his aching forehead and glanced out the window as the carriage rattled at a fast clip down a narrow road. There was sea on one side and hills on the other. "Perhaps I'll push you out," he suggested.
    "That would not be a gentlemanly thing to do. And despite what you think of me, you would never harm a woman."
    "More's the pity." He gave her a dark look from under lowered brows. "Why are you plaguing me, woman? Didn't I tell you that I never want to see you again?"
    Harriet looked thoughtful for a few moments before answering, "No, I don't recall your actually using those exact words."
    "Don't mince shades of meanings with me, woman. I am the diplomat here," he reminded her.
    "You are a true and dutiful servant of the queen, my lord," Harriet said. "And your service to the queen is needed at this very moment." She managed to keep the smile on her face even though he sent her a look guaranteed to peel the skin off lesser beings than His Mighty Lordship Martin Kestrel.
    He held up a hand. "I am not taking you to Strake's party. It is not in the cards, my dear. Not on the agenda."
    "I'm glad you remember the conversation."
    "Most of it," he admitted. "I hoped it was a dream. A nightmare," he added.
    Harriet remembered too well his watching her as she paid him for the conversation with bit by bit of shed clothing. The memory of his heated gaze burned into her skin and memories and had kept her from getting any sleep at all the night before. Perhaps it had been fear of nightmares of her own that kept her from sleep, or fear that her dreams would have continued the erotic aspects of the visit far beyond her control.
    The road was rough and the weather foul. The coach bounced along at breakneck speed, throwing up gouts of mud and water as the driver sped toward the ferry dock at the southern tip of the island. Harriet wanted to shout up to her younger brother to slow down before he killed them, but that would be a show of nerves. She refused to look anywhere but at Martin Kestrel, or to concentrate on anything but the task at hand. "It's a pity you fell asleep before we settled this last night."
    He lifted an elegant eyebrow sarcastically.