The ladies screamed. Andres muttered, “So sorry, so sorry,” before barking for the lad with his horses to pay attention.
He swung Abby up into the perched seat of the phaeton. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Eloping,” he said, thinking it should be obvious.
Banker Montross was fast. He raced down the alley toward them like a hussar on the attack. There was no time for Andres to run around to the other side of the vehicle. He jumped up into the box, climbing over Abby—even as she started to climb down.
Andres caught her arm. “What are you doing?”
“I can’t ride in this,” she said.
“Yes, you can,” Andres answered, picking up the reins while still holding her arm. With a snap, they were off.
“Sir! You promised me a guinea,” the lad shouted, chasing them.
Slipping his arm through Abby’s, Andres reached in his pocket and pulled out a coin. “Here,” he said to Abby, “give this to him.” He had to watch his driving. The traffic was heavy on Oxford Street. A man had to have his wits about him.
But Abby didn’t take the coin. She grabbed the far side of the seat with both hands. “I can’t ride in this. This is dangerous,” she announced.
Andres frowned and tossed the coin back to the lad, not bothering to look to see if it was picked up or not, because he could hear Banker Montross bellowing like an enraged bear that they had escaped. He was shouting at everyone to stop them. Andres found a hole in the oncoming traffic, picked up his whip, and, with a flick toward his team of horses, drove them right into it, passing a town coach smartly.
He swung the phaeton in front of the coach before the oncoming traffic ran them over.
Abby was making high-pitched noises. When they were out of danger, she whirled on him, her eyes alive with outrage. “That was so dangerous—”
“Then prepare yourself, for we are doing it again.”
And they did.
Abby gave out a shout and shut her eyes.
After seeing them in and out of the traffic, Andres had to say, “I don’t understand your fear. I am an excellent whip. I’ve raced these things and won every time.”
“Please don’t,” she returned. “This vehicle, it is nothing but a board on four very unsteady wheels. It’s dangerous. Vehicles like this should be outlawed.”
He laughed. The truth was, he enjoyed driving fast, and now he had a good excuse. “You don’t need to worry, Abby. I will take care of you.” Holburn’s team of matching grays was a sweet pair of goers. “We will be in Scotland before you know it.”
“We are going to take this flimsy cart all the way to Scotland?”
Andres pulled his attention away from the traffic to give her a frown. The ribbons of her bonnet had come loose and the hat was in danger of flying off. Her curls sprung out every which way and her eyes were wide in her pale face.
“Yes, I think we shall,” he said, teasing because she looked so alarmed.
She groaned an answer.
But Andres was enjoying himself. He liked the challenge of the chase, and he liked to at last be doing something. He was taking action. The deed to Stonemoor was in his pocket and he had Abby by his side.
“You will not regret this, Abby,” he said, skillfully darting the phaeton around a brewer’s dray. He cut in front a bit too closely this time. The driver yelled and shook his fist. Andres laughed, knowing he had complete control.
“I already do regret it,” Abby said, sounding weak. “Please, Barón—”
“You should call me Andres,” he said. “We are to be man and wife, and that is what should be done.”
“If you don’t stop this vehicle, nothing will happen,” she informed him.
He scowled, not liking her threat—until he looked at her. Abby appeared ready to pass out.
“Hold on,” he said. “You are going to be sick, but you will feel better—”
“I can’t be sick here,” she worried. “Please, let me off this thing …”
Andres turned down a side road. The neighborhood was a bit seedy. It was just as well. The moment the vehicle stopped, Abby started to climb down, but she didn’t make it. She was very ill for a moment, right on the street.
Andres rubbed her back. “You will feel better now.”
She looked around at him with an offended expression. “I’ve never done such a thing in my life. Not ever.”
“It’s the motion. It has not set well with you.” She nodded, her eyes troubled.
“You will be better,” he promised.
“I need to climb to the ground,” she claimed. She would have done so, but he put his arm around her waist. She had a trim waist, but one couldn’t always tell with the style of dresses, and she looked a bit heftier than he last remembered.
“We must go on,” he said.
“I can’t. The motion.” She shook her head in distress.
“I hired a coach. It’s waiting for us at the Rose and Lion, an inn outside Edgeware.”
“Is that far?” she asked, misery in her eyes.
“Not too far,” he hedged.
Abby sighed her relief. “I was so afraid you were going to drive me all the way to Scotland like this.”
“We could not do that,” he assured her. “The drive is a good two days, traveling without stop. I can’t stay awake that long.”
Her eyes took on an arrested expression. “I’d wondered about how long it would take to reach the border, but I hadn’t worried about it,” she said half to herself.
“But I did,” Andres hurried to say. “Trust me, Abby. What you are doing is a very good thing for me. I will not let you down. I will always take care of you.”
She studied him a moment as if uncertain whether or not to believe him. The color was returning to her complexion, and he knew part of her concern was embarrassment.
“You have never been on your own, have you?” he asked.
“No.”
“You will like it,” he promised. “I know this isn’t a good start, but you have an adventurous spirit.”
“Why do you say that?” she wondered.
“It is your hair,” he remarked, smiling. He reached out and touched one of her silky, springy curls. “A woman with hair like this cannot be shy about life. Here, let me help you with your bonnet.”
In all the commotion, the ribbons on her bonnet had come free, and the hat was about to fall to the ground. He secured the horses’ reins, then turned back to her to find that she had set the wide-brimmed hat in place so it framed her face. Her hands were shaking, whether from being ill or just the tension of the situation itself. Gently, he moved her hands away from the ribbons and tied them into a bow himself, taking a second to fluff it up properly.
“Thank you,” she murmured, watching him, as if surprised that he would do such a thing.
He smiled at her. She was going to be his wife.
“It is my role to take care of you,” he said.
She lowered her head as if digesting this and then nodded. “We take care of each other,” she murmured.
“Man and wife,” he said—and those words made him feel good.
They imbued him with a sense of rightness, of power.
She must have felt something of the same, because slowly, her lips curved into a smile. He smiled back … and almost kissed her. It would be so easy to just lean down and place a kiss right there on the tip of her nose. A silly kiss.
A familiar one.
Andres hadn’t thought of a kiss that way. There had always been the intent of seduction, and he wouldn’t mind seducing Abby. In fact, he planned to—it was just that at that very moment, he discovered he was the one being seduced, and in a way he’d not experienced before—
Startled, he broke the moment, leaning back.
She noticed the gesture, looked away.
Feeling clumsy, another emotion not common to him, Andres picked up the reins. “We must be going.”
Abby nodded.
�
�Your stomach? It will be fine?”
“I hope so,” she answered with her usual candor, and Andres couldn’t help but laugh.
The laughter broke the tension between them. Abby wasn’t afraid to laugh at herself. He thought it good. Too many women were deadly serious about themselves, and he realized Abby pleased him.
He wasn’t daffy in love with her the way he’d been with Gillian, but he felt comfortable around her.
Andres began the task of turning the phaeton around in the narrow street. He knew how to make the turn, and the horses were well trained enough to understand what needed to be done.
However, Abby stopped him by clamping her hand on his arm. “Barón, halt.” She stared toward Oxford Street. “My father.”
Andres whipped his head around just in time to see a town coach drive past the intersecting street. Banker Montross stood in the boot, frowning at the road ahead as he strained in search for them. He didn’t look down the side street.
“That’s my coach,” she whispered. “The one I took to the circulating library. I told them to drive around the square, and they must have picked him up. What do we do now?”
“We take a different route,” Andres said and drove the horses down the narrow street. He didn’t know this area, but a few answers from passersby put him on a route that would lead to the Rose and Lion.
“He’s going to hunt us down,” Abby said quietly, one hand holding the rail by her seat, the other gripping the small cloth bag she’d brought with her. Though she was holding on so tightly that her knuckles were white, she seemed more settled now that he wasn’t traveling so fast or weaving around the traffic.
“This will hurt both of my parents,” she continued.
“You have challenged them,” he corrected. “Your father is not one to let matters go.”
“He’ll chase us all the way to Scotland,” she agreed. “And when he catches me, he’ll be furious. He’s never been angry at me before. He wants me to marry Lord Villier. He thinks it is important.”
“If you were a princess, I could see some urgency that you marry one sort of man over another. But your father is a banker.”
“A very important banker.” She frowned at him. “And Lord Villier has a leading position in the Treasury.”
“So you want to marry him?” Andres said, annoyed at this conversation. It made him feel second best.
“No, I don’t.” She drew a breath and released it with a disgruntled sound. “I just wish everything had been different.”
“And that you are marrying Freddie, the Fop?” Andres muttered, a bit surprised by the stab of jealousy.
She didn’t answer, at least not right away.
The road was not crowded here. Andres was glad they had not taken the Post Road as he’d originally planned. Her father would be looking for them there.
“He’s not a fop,” she said at last.
“Took you a moment to defend him,” Andres observed.
Her brows came together. He did like that hat on her. She looked quite adorable in it.
“I don’t believe that I should have to,” she murmured. “He’s not mine.”
“Good of you to realize it,” Andres muttered. But she had feelings for him … and Andres realized that once again he’d involved himself with a woman who loved another man.
But he wouldn’t fall in love with this one.
The light traveling coach was waiting as he’d ordered in the Rose and Lion’s yard. Andres paid a driver, who was also one of Holburn’s grooms, to return the phaeton to the duke’s stables. He had packed a full bag for the trip and had attempted to include items Abby might need as well, knowing she would not be able to leave her house with too much in tow.
He’d had the inn prepare a basket of food, which was tucked inside the coach, along with some small pillows and blankets for comfort. It would be their traveling home for the next few days.
Abby had taken herself into the inn to freshen up. Pleased that everything was ready for their trip, Andres went in search of her. He found her sitting alone at a table in the inn’s common room. Her indecision irritated him.
“Do you want to stay?” Andres wondered.
His question appeared to surprise her. “You need me. You need my inheritance.”
He sat at the table. “I do. I have to admit I have already spent a good portion of it.”
“You have?”
“Yes. The stables need equipment, more horses. Some things we could buy here in London and not up there. I do not know what the north is like.”
“I don’t either,” she confessed.
“I made the decision and ordered supplies,” he said, conscious he was spending her money, wondering what she was thinking. “It is exciting, isn’t it?” he said.
Her clear, honest eyes took his measure. “A little. A bit frightening as well.”
“Are you coming with me, Miss Montross?” he asked, uncertain what her answer would be.
For a second, she appeared ready to say no … but then she slowly nodded her head. “I am my father’s daughter,” she said. “I think I will like taking charge of my own fate.” She smiled. “Fate. That word. How many times did you use it yesterday to convince me, and now I’m the one to bring it up.”
“Then let me give you a new word, Abby. Courage.”
Confidence returned to her smile. “I know that word.” She stood, holding her bag with both hands. “Let us go.”
That was all he needed to hear. Andres was not going to give her a moment more to change her mind. He took her arm and guided her out of the inn. They settled themselves in the coach, and with a snap of their driver’s whip, they were on their way.
This vehicle was not as well sprung as even the phaeton. It had been for hire, so the interior was cramped and the bench seat was practical but not comfortable.
Andres had a bit of trouble stretching his legs out. He tried to be respectful and leave Abby half of the coach, but it was not possible.
“You can put your legs across here,” she said, resting her own feet next to the food basket.
“You will not be uncomfortable?” he murmured.
“I’ll be fine.”
He used her space.
She leaned against the coach’s glass window, seemingly watching the passing scenery. “I shall have to become accustomed to people staring at you,” she said.
“I beg your pardon?”
Abby turned to him. “I was watching you cross the commons toward me in the inn. Even men look at you. Ladies most definitely do. All of them—young, old, middling years.”
“So they look at me.”
She frowned as if he didn’t understand what she was saying. “It’s your looks. You are tall and handsome, strikingly so. It’s quite intimidating.”
He laughed. “Intimidating? Do I scare people?”
“I believe you are so handsome, you catch them off guard. Your features are too regular, almost refined.”
“You make me sound like a woman,” he grumbled.
“When I first met you in my uncle’s library, I knew you were of good looks, but I wouldn’t have stared at you. I don’t know why.”
“I noticed you.”
That caught her interest. “You did?”
“I like your hair.” He reached over and playfully pulled the bow undone. “Take your hat off.”
Knowing Abby as he did now, he was aware she could refuse him.
She didn’t. She untied her bonnet ribbons and removed the hat. Her curls formed a halo around her head.
“In Italy, I saw paintings of the Madonna, and her hair was much like yours. Vibrant, alive.” He had to touch one of her curls.
“I know so little about you,” she said. “Why were you in Italy?”
Andres wasn’t certain he wanted her to know the truth. But a little of it would not be bad. “I have a sister there. She is married to some Italian count I do not like.”
“That is sad.”
“No, it is not,�
� he said with a shake of his head. “My sister is a jealous woman. She and I are not close.”
“I have two brothers,” she said. “They serve with Wellington.”
“Brave men.”
“The bravest,” she agreed. “I’m the youngest of the family and some say a bit of an afterthought. I did have a third brother, but Robert was with Nelson. He died at Trafalgar.”
“I’m sorry.” Andres meant the words and then heard himself say, “My brother died at Trafalgar, fighting on the other side.”
She tilted her head, her expression grim.
He had to explain so she didn’t misunderstand in the way Lord Dobbins had painted the story. “My father didn’t support an alliance with the French. He did not trust Napoleon or the French, and he was right. Emilio was an officer. He had no choice in the matter. It made Father more angry that his son was not in the calvary. A man on the ground has more chances to survive than one on the water.” Emilio had not shared their father’s love of horses. That had been Andres’s gift.
She nodded, as if hearing what he hadn’t said. “My parents, all of us, were distraught when we received word of Robert’s death. It wasn’t right that he should die so young, even for a noble cause. To avenge him, my brothers bought their colors. Father wonders why none of his sons wish to take up his profession. Why they have to put their lives in danger.”
As she spoke, memories of Emilio, a man he’d barely known, rose in his mind, memories he’d thought buried. He’d grown up in the village, had known all the family on sight. Everyone had known he’d been the old baron’s son, even his tutors—but they hadn’t spoken of it. Not even his abuela, his grandmother, who had raised him.
And then one day, his father had come for him. One son had been killed. He’d been left with the bastard.
Andres had dreamed of the day his father would claim him. In the end, he’d not been enough. It had been Emilio his father had wanted. Only Emilio.
“After my brother’s death, my father was angry with grief and spoke out against the French and those who supported them,” Andres said. “It’s dangerous in Spain to speak your mind—especially since so many of the peasants agreed with him. A Spanish peasant can be prouder than any three of your dukes. Those in power could not let him continue, not unless they wanted a revolt.”
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