by Viola Morne
"And what do we need to talk about?"
Elinor studied him, this young man she fell in love with in Paris two years ago. Thomas had changed since his return. He was as kind and as unfailingly polite as ever, but she sensed a constraint in his manner towards her. Whatever it was, he had never mentioned it. Had he changed his mind about marrying her? Thomas would never tell her if that was the case. He would hold himself bound to his promise made years past and in a different country.
"Our marriage."
Did she imagine the change in his expression? Almost as if he winced at the thought.
"Thomas, I'm not an idiot. Something has changed. Won't you tell me what it is?"
He changed color, paling before a dull tide of red suffused his features. He leaned forward. "I still want to marry you, Elinor."
"Do you?"
"I am not inconstant!"
"Perhaps not in your actions, but what of your affection? Has it altered?"
He hesitated. "Of course not."
Elinor firmed her jaw. "If we cannot be honest before we are wed, what hope do we have of sustaining an open and equitable discourse afterward?"
Thomas pushed himself to his feet. He walked across to the window, which overlooked a charming garden.
"Have you met someone else who has engaged your affection? I beg you to be frank with me."
Thomas inhaled audibly and turned to face her. "Of course, you deserve that. I apologize. I did not mean to, that is, oh, Elinor, I am so very sorry."
Relief surged over her like a cool wave. "Who is she?"
"Her name is Miss Smythe-Rivers. We met on the ship when I returned from India. Her father, Major Sir Robert Smythe-Rivers, is an administrator in Ajmer-Merwara. But we knew, in spite of our...feelings, that a future together was impossible. I am pledged to you, and Miss Smythe-Rivers was about to be betrothed to her cousin."
"A pair of star-crossed lovers, in fact."
"I never meant to hurt you, Elinor. I consider myself to be promised to you , still."
"What if my affections have also altered?"
Thomas stared at her. "You love another. Do I know him?"
"Oh, you are acquainted. You exist in a state of mutual loathing."
"Elinor, you can't mean...you love Major Winters? That rude, uncouth,...how could you love him?"
"You don't know him as I do. My affections are in vain, however. He will never marry me, because he thinks himself unworthy of me."
"I could not agree more."
Elinor waved her hand. "It doesn't matter what you think, or Cecelia, or anyone else, for that matter. It only matters what he thinks. I cannot change his mind, though I am sure he does care for me."
Thomas regarded her dubiously. "He is old, Elinor."
"He's only thirty-eight. Besides, what does age matter? He is the other part of my soul. He accepts me as I am, without reservation."
Thomas frowned. "You speak with such passion, Elinor. You sound quite unlike yourself."
" Perhaps Or perhaps because you have never truly known me."
He rubbed his jaw. "Perhaps. So what are we to do then? Our hearts are given to those who cannot return our affections, however much they might wish to. We cannot have what it is we most desire."
"Then perhaps we must accept the inevitable. I do have a plan, though it may prove somewhat costly."
Thomas looked positively alarmed. "What kind of a cost?"
"A journey north."
"You mean..."
"Yes, we need to go to Gretna Green. As soon as possible."
Thomas swallowed.
Elinor permitted herself a smile. "Fear not, Thomas. Trust me in this. You won't be sorry, I promise you."
"I sincerely hope not."
CHAPTER NINE
The major was back in London two days later. But when he called at Cecelia's, he was told Elinor was attending a ball , and wouldn't be home till late. Winter couldn't stomach another blasted party. He retreated to his club. Christ, he was tired. He went to bed , and slept better than he had in years.
The next morning, Winter looked up from his breakfast to find Matthew hovering in front of him. "Is that my post?"
"Yes, sir. But there's also a note. Delivered by hand. The boy said it was urgent."
Winter heaved a sigh and held out his hand. The note, blotted with tears, was nearly illegible. He could make out Elinor and gone and scandal, and Cecelia's signature, but that was about it. It was enough. He bolted the rest of his coffee, thrust his post in his pocket, and strode from the coffee room.
"What the devil is going on? Have you finally lost your mind?" Winter flung the words at his cousin as he stormed into the dining room. Cecelia was crumbling toast on her plate, her hair in disarray.
"Winter, thank God! I didn't know what do! We are in such a state. Eleanor has disappeared."
"Disappeared? How?"
"I don't know. I went shopping this morning, and when I returned, she was gone. Her maid said she packed her a valise, but Elinor never told her where she was going."
"Did she leave a note?"
Cecelia wrung her hands. "She did, but all it said was that she was sorry. Winter, the dear child. What on earth has happened?"
The major took a rapid turn around the room. Had she decided to return to Winterhill? But why would she do that, when her betrothed was here? Unless there were problems with the fiancé.
"Where is Bancroft? Or has he vanished as well?"
Cecelia bit her lip. "I sent word to his lodgings, but he wasn't there. What are we to do?"
"Do? We find her, you stupid woman. I won't have her ruined, certainly not by that damned puppy." Where to start? How could she leave and not tell him where she was going? He was her damned guardian. Unless she was planning to do something she knew he wouldn't like. Even then, she wouldn't want him to worry. His hand slipped to this pocket. His post. He pulled the pile of letters and skimmed through them.
Winter recognized her writing on the last letter. His heart skipped a beat. What had she done? He cursed , and tore open the sealing wax.
Dear Major Winter,
I am sorry to disappoint you but Thomas and I...here the writing became as illegible as Cecelia's. She'd blacked out some of the words, while the ink had run on the rest of the page. Had she cried? The naughty, wilful, darling girl. Was that a G? The next sentence wavered across the page as if she wrote in great haste.
So we have resolved to settle all our difficulties in one fell swoop and...the writing was smeared, though he felt sure that was an S and perhaps cot. Blast it. Hadn't she ever heard of a handkerchief?
The final sentence was illegible at the beginning, but at the end he could make out leaving tomorrow at first light. Forgive me, your devoted, Elinor.
Devoted? Hah!
"Well? What does she say, Winter?"
The major stared blindly at the note for a moment, a cold icicle of dread trickling down his spine.
"They've eloped. They left this morning for Scotland. Gretna Green is their final destination, as near as I can decipher."
Cecelia covered her eyes. "Gretna Green?" she whispered. "Oh, Winter, I fear she is ruined."
"Not while I draw breath."
"What are you doing to do?"
"I'm going to track them down. Then I'll give young Bancroft the trimming of his life, and Miss Kendall will receive the whipping she so richly deserves."
"What if they have already wed?"
"Then I fear Elinor will find herself a widow before the week is out." The major thrust the note back in his pocket and strode out. Devil take her, it was going to be a hell of long ride.
#
Somewhere on the Great North Road
Winter flexed his shoulders, his muscles tight after spending hours in the saddle. He was sore and hungry, and getting angrier by the second. The job horse was tiring , too. Each inn he stopped at told the same tale. No one remembered seeing the young couple among the stage-coach passengers. Perhaps they'd av
oided the inns. That was the kind of thing Elinor would consider. Bancroft was too bacon-brained to think that far ahead. Or else he'd never have persuaded Elinor to elope with him. He itched to get his hands on that cursed Adonis. He'd fix his pretty face for him.
Winter shook his head. He was only fooling himself. He knew his darling girl better than that. Elinor must have planned every stage of this trip herself.
Winter rode on. He was hard on the coach's heels now. Each time Winter stopped, he'd asked when the coach had left , and then compared the time to the schedule he'd stuffed in his pocket. He figured he was about half an hour behind the coach.
What in hell Elinor was she thinking? He'd let her go. He'd fucked her every way he knew how, without compromising her virginity, but he'd let her go. Elinor wanted to marry young Bancroft. Winter wanted Elinor to be happy, ergo Elinor could marry the little snot. He hadn't lifted a finger to stop her. So why had she run away?
Winter's horse breasted the next rise. Below him, the road north him stretched towards the horizon. There it was--the stage-coach. He slapped the reins, urging and urged the horse to put on a last burst of speed. He descended into a low valley, and when the road rose up again, the coach was gone. He must catch them. Winter rode on for several miles, his heart in his mouth. Around the next bend, a posting inn sprawled by the edge of the road. The coach had pulled in beside it. He had them.
Winter leaped from his horse, thrust the reins at an ostler, and stalked over to the coach. He pulled open the door and...nothing. There was no one inside. They must have gone into the inn. He strode inside. Not in the coffee room nor the snug. The private parlors were also empty. He walked up to the bar. No, the landlord said, the young people he described weren't among the coach passengers. Winter checked with the driver. They hadn't taken the stage. He's chased them through hell and high water, and he'd been chasing a phantom the whole time.
Curse the girl. Where in hell had they gone? Winter smacked a fist into his palm. He was tired and out of patience. His need to find Elinor was a physical ache that burned in his gut. His beautiful girl. His wilful , soon to be sorely punished girl. He walked into the snug. A cheerful fire burned in the hearth, in spite of the season, and the atmosphere was redolent with pipe smoke, ale and something savoury. He ordered a bowl of stew, and took it over to a table beside a leaded window that which overlooked the courtyard. The stage-coach waited for its driver, who swung into the seat as he watched. The coachman flicked his whip and the leaders pulled out.
They weren't on the stage, though according to Elinor's note, they had left London this morning. Winter shoveled in the stew , and wiped the bowl with a piece of country bread. Elinor was clever. He had to try and think like her. She was on the run , and headed north. They hadn't traveled by stage, nor were they in any of the carriages he'd passed on the road. He'd traveled hard and fast. Could they have hired a coach? Would young Bancroft have enough money for that? Perhaps, if he was desperate enough. But he'd inquired at each possible stop where they might have changed horses. No one had seen them. He'd greased enough fists to make sure he could ferret out the truth.
Winter found a table , and called the barmaid over to order coffee. "Tell me, who would I ask about the best way to travel north?"
"Well, Mr. Hunt over by the fire, he used to drive the stage some years past. He might be able to help you."
"Ask him to join me, would you? And bring a glass of his favorite brew."
"Yes, sir." He watched her cross the room to speak to Hunt. The fellow was elderly, but hale, his complexion reddened by years of exposure to the elements. Hunt nodded to him , and approached the table.
"You wished to speak with me, sir?"
"I do. Please, have a seat." The bar maid arrived with his coffee and Hunt's ale. "Your health, sir."
Hunt lifted his glass , and waited, eyes shrewd in his lined face. The major decided that only frankness would achieve the desired results.
"I seek a young couple , who are headed north. I thought to find them on the stage, to no avail. I've begun to wonder if they might have hired a private carriage. But everywhere I've stopped on the road, no one has seen them."
"On this road." Hunt took a long sip and smacked his lip. "If they are headed north, they could have taken another route. Supposing , they left London from Shoreditch, they would have gone by Ware, Tottenham, and Waltham."
"Does that road also lead to York?"
"Both roads meet at the Wheatsheaf Inn in Alconbury, then they continue on as one towards York."
Winter downed his coffee. "So if they are headed to York, they must go by that road?"
"Yes, sir, they must. And their route to Alconbury is shorter than this one, by about four miles."
"My thanks, sir." He slid Hunt a guinea across the table. "I'm much obliged to you." He strode out to his horse, new purpose in his step. He would find her, the little baggage. And then he'd take her home, for good.
#
The Wheatsheaf Inn, Alconbury Hill, Huntingdonshire
Winter swung down from his horse the curricle , conscious of every year of his age. He was stiff and his back hurt. He cursed fluently and at length, before an ostler spied him and ran up to grab his horses. He stalked into the inn, anticipation warring with fear in his chest. What if she wasn't here?
The coffee room held only a handful of people, locals from the look of them. The stage must have come and gone. Perhaps she was in one of the private parlors. He approached the barman.
"No, sir, I haven't seen them. Are you certain they were on this road?"
"I'm sure," he bit off, trying to hold onto his temper.
The barman scratched his neck. "Have you tried The Blind Duck?"
"The what?"
"The Blind Duck. It's an inn, just down the road. They are smaller, but sometimes passengers looking for more privacy , end up there." The suggestion of a leer crossed the barman's face.
"Take that look off your face, or you'll be keeping what's left of your teeth in a jar," Winter snarled.
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Winter stormed out the door. And looked back. "Where the hell is this Blind Duck anyway?"
"Down the road a piece. Keep straight and you can't miss it."
The wind had picked up. Winter cursed and pulled his coat close. Damn the girl. He needed to find her.
The Blind Duck was a small establishment, slightly down at the heel. He nodded at the landlord , and considered ordering a brandy. No, that could wait. Nothing mattered but finding his girl. A coin and an inquiry pointed the major in the direction of the sole private parlor, though the man had just come on duty and didn't know whether if it was occupied. No matter.
He stomped down the narrow hall, pausing and paused before an oak door that was , black with age. Winter slammed the door open , and found Elinor tucked into a wing chair by a fire, a book in her lap. She was warm and safe. Thank Christ.
Elinor looked up and closed the book with a snap.
"What took you so long?"
He gaped at her.
She looked him over critically. "I've been waiting here for hours."
"Where the hell is Bancroft?"
She gave him a pitying smile. "I imagine he's well over the Channel with his new bride, en route to Paris for their wedding trip."
The floor under his feet felt strangely unsteady.
"Bride? Paris?"
"Oh, do keep up, major. Thomas married Miss Smythe-Rivers, this morning. They met on the boat when Thomas came home from India. They are deeply deep in love. It's really quite sweet. I saw them off , and came here to wait for you."
"But I thought, I mean, you eloped with him for Christ's sake."
"Really. Then why are you here?"
He searched for an answer that she would find acceptable. "You're underage , and you haven't my permission. The marriage would not be legal."
Elinor waited patiently.
"He doesn't love you. I didn't want you to be hurt."
&n
bsp; "Finally, a smidgen of truth. And?"
He continued to flounder. "I'm trying to protect your reputation."
"Horseshit."
"What did you say?"
"You heard me. I said horseshit. You don't give a toss about my reputation, or yours for that matter. You came after me because you love me and you don't want me to marry anyone else."
Elinor stopped, and waited. "Oh for God's sake, do I have to do this all on my own?"
Winter swallowed , and finally found his voice.
"You have been very naughty, Elinor. Excessively so."
A smile twitched the corner of her mouth. "Yes," she said, sounding very satisfied, "I have been. I've been thoughtless and wicked and quite thoroughly bad."
He schooled his expression. "You will have to be punished." He walked towards her. She gave a little wiggle. Her eyes glowed.
"Yes, sir."
"Baggage." He pulled off his jacket, and drew a chair forward to sit down.
"Termagant." He rolled up his sleeves.
Elinor licked her lips.
"Hellcat." He pulled her over his lap and raised her skirts.
"She - devil." He smoothed her bare bottom and gave her two crisp slaps. She moaned and her legs fell open to his interested gaze. He gave her twenty of his best and paused to enjoy the heat of her reddened bottom. Then he bent over , and kissed the small of her back.
"Beloved," he whispered and she sighed.
#
Elinor pulled the brush through her hair slowly. She closed her eyes , and enjoyed the feel of the bristles on her scalp, the smooth swoop as they pulled through the strands. Tonight , Elinor and her major would finally be together.
Winter knocked at the door. She let the brush fall. Her stomach lurched.
"Elinor." She turned. Winter stood on the threshold, in shirt and breeches, his hair still damp from the bath. He had even shaved. Elinor stood, her knees shaky, and moved towards the bed. Winter placed his candle on the table. Her heart beat faster. And then he was beside her. He tilted her chin, and his lips touched hers, so softly. He lingered over them, pressing butterfly kisses all around her mouth. She shivered. His fingers tightened, and his kiss deepened. She opened her mouth, and his tongue surged inside, tangling with hers.