A Wedding by Dawn

by Alison Delaine

  It was exactly what she’d wanted him to conclude. All that really awaited her at Taggart were expectations she would never be able to meet. Nicholas may have defended her a little during a moment of unspeakable horror, but the daily reality of marriage would be nothing like that. He would have what he needed—Father’s money. He wouldn’t need her for anything. He’d made it clear he didn’t approve of her at all, and once they were married it wouldn’t be long before all of her flaws would be exposed.

  First thing in the morning, she needed to get Millie away from that inn. Millie was probably fearing the worst now that they’d been separated. If she was very careful, she might be able to speak with the maid who had freed her. The maid could take a message to Millie.

  There was no possible chance Nicholas had been serious. He needed that money. He needed her.

  Devil take it, that was not supposed to make her feel good.

  He was the last thing in the world that she needed, and there could be no more silly longings for anything different.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “LORD TAGGART.”

  Nick groaned into the mattress. Someone was shaking him. He wrested himself away and buried his face in the pillow.

  “Lord Taggart, wake up.”

  “Go away.”

  “Where is India? Did you not find her?”

  Lady India.

  She lurked at the edges of his thoughts, reminding him of something, but his mind felt like cotton and his head hurt like the devil and all he wanted in the entire world was to sleep.

  A hand shook him by the shoulder. “Lord Taggart, where is India?”

  “Bloody devil, leave me alone.”

  “I would happily leave you alone if you will only tell me where I can find India. She isn’t here. Were you unable to find her last night?”

  India. Last night.

  Images came to him in fits and starts—the vintner’s house, wine, more wine, a hayloft—

  He groaned into the pillow. Good God. Good God.

  Oh, yes. He’d bloody well found her.

  Nicholas. Yes— Oh!

  Soft gasps, even softer thighs, hot, welcoming folds. Her tight channel, clenching his fingers as she climaxed...

  Bloody hell.

  He’d meant to talk. Only talk about being inside her. But she’d felt so bloody good beneath him, writhing a little and breathing against his face, and talking suddenly hadn’t been enough. He had to touch her.

  And then...

  “I believe I told her she could go.”

  “You left her?”

  The sharp question pierced his head like a pistol shot, and he winced. The facts of the situation assaulted him. She’d been so hot with desire she’d actually begged him to take her. Had he really thought leaving her would—What, have her desperately following him to Paris in the hope that he’d finish the job?

  “Bloody hell.” He pushed to his feet, noticed he was still fully clothed. Hadn’t even slept beneath the covers.

  He was an idiot. And he’d been so foxed he’d walked away from fifty thousand pounds. Bloody, sodding hell. Men had killed for less.

  “She’s probably halfway to bloody Marseille by now,” he muttered, stalking to the pitcher and bowl, splashing his face, bracing his hands on the dressing table and trying to think past the pain in his head.

  “You can’t possibly imagine giving up this easily,” Miss Germain said sternly.

  “Of course I’m not giving up. I never had any intention of giving up.” He’d just gone temporarily mad, thanks to Jervase the vintner.

  “You’ll have a sorry time finding her now.”

  “But we shall find her. And when we do, you will convince her that the best option is for us all to continue our journey to Paris.”

  “And you imagine she will simply agree and climb into the carriage?”

  “What I imagine, Miss Germain, is that you know exactly what to say to convince her to do precisely that.” Aided by Nick continuing to behave as if he really had decided India wasn’t worth fifty thousand pounds.

  Except he wanted her so badly he wasn’t sure he could manage that.

  But somewhere out there, Lady India was likely dancing a giddy jig. He ought to race back to that farm this instant, snatch her up and throw her over his saddle before she had time to devise a plan of her own.

  “Convince her to return to the carriage with you?” Miss Germain said. “You ask the impossible.”

  Nick finally dried his face and tossed the towel aside. “I don’t think so.” And when he did find her, perhaps what he’d started in that barn could continue to work to his advantage. He looked at Miss Germain in the reflection. “I fully intend to coax the wayward Lady India back into the carriage, and if you ever wish to see our bargain come to fruition, you will help me.”

  * * *

  IT WAS STILL dark when India left the barn—and just in time, as already a faint light glowed inside the farmhouse. A light rain fell as she made her way toward the road, and the sky changed from charcoal to pearl-gray.

  There was no sign of Nicholas Warre. She’d been half expecting to find him waiting there to carry her off.

  She stood there a moment, carefully studying the surrounding vineyards for any sign that he was hiding nearby. There was none.

  Was it possible that he’d been serious?

  No. Nothing was too much trouble for fifty thousand pounds. But even if he had no intention of actually letting her go, he had left her, and right now she was alone. She needed to get to the village quickly. She kept to the edge of the vineyard where she could dive into the grapevines if she spotted him. Not that it would provide much cover, but there wasn’t much else. Up ahead, the vineyard gave way to an olive orchard, where there were even fewer hiding places.

  Suddenly, she heard the clop of a wagon on the muddy road behind her—

  Oh! A farmer!

  She hurried to the edge of the road and flagged him down. Moments later, she sat next to him huddled in the blanket she’d taken from the barn, clop-clop-clopping toward the village.

  India kept her eyes fixed on the road ahead while raindrops seeped through the blanket. She would have the farmer let her off the moment she spotted buildings. It wouldn’t do to simply arrive in plain view. She would sneak the rest of the way into the village on foot, and then—

  Oh, no. Up ahead, a carriage rattled and splashed toward them on the muddy road. A very familiar carriage.

  Devil take it.

  She yanked the blanket over her face, but now the carriage was upon them, and it lurched to a sudden stop. The door flew open.

  “India!”

  Millie. India turned abruptly and let the blanket fall. Millie leaned precariously out the door, and behind her India could see Nicholas Warre’s legs stretched out inside the carriage.

  She grabbed the farmer’s arm. “Stop! Arrêtez, s’il vous plaît!”

  “Mais, non!” he complained, gesturing toward the sky.

  “Une minute—une minute, je vous en prie!”

  The farmer stopped the wagon with an irritated jerk on the reins. “Une minute,” he growled, holding up a finger. One minute.

  “I thought we might never find you,” Millie cried.

  All her hopes for sneaking back to Marseille crumpled.

  From inside the carriage came a bored command. “Miss Germain, you’re letting rain into the carriage. Please close the door and let us be on our way.”

  Be on their way?

  Instead, Millie leaned out farther. “India—”

  “Miss Germain, close the door.”

  “—come quickly! Lord Taggart will take us to Paris.”

  The devil he would. This was a trick indeed.

  “Wait just a minute,” came Nicholas Warre’s terse voice from the carriage. “I agreed to take you, Miss Germain. Lady India has expressed a desire to continue her journey without my assistance.”

  Without his assistance? Hope took wing. “Hurry, Millie,” Indi
a called now, even as Millie climbed from the carriage into the muddy road and hurried to the wagon. India gripped the side and leaned down. “Get in the wagon. If he’s serious, then we need nothing more to do with him. Quickly—before he changes his mind.” Which he would, if he hadn’t already.

  “Mademoiselle,” the farmer warned, gesturing to the sky.

  “I think I can convince him to take us both to Paris,” Millie said in a rush, “only you must promise to act as if you aren’t even here.”

  “If we are to go to Paris, we don’t need Mr. Warre to take us there,” India said. “This farmer will take us as far as the village, and there will be many others headed north.”

  “And what will they want in exchange? India, we have no money! We’re far safer with Lord Taggart—”

  “You might be safer.”

  Through the carriage door, those legs that had tangled with hers in the straw shifted impatiently. “I’ve had enough delay as it is, Miss Germain. Return to the carriage immediately or continue your journey with Lady India.”

  “Can’t you hear what he’s saying? He’s had his fill of you.”

  “He is lying.”

  “He wants nothing to do with either of us, which is more than we’ll be able to say about the likes of most men willing to offer us a place in their wagons. We’ll be in Paris in a matter of days, and you need never concern yourself with him again.”

  “I need not concern myself with him now.”

  Millie hurried back to the carriage.

  The rain began to fall harder, and the farmer picked up the reins, but India stopped him again. “Wait, please— Attendez!”

  “Non! Allez!” The farmer launched into a lengthy complaint. He gestured sharply for India to get down from the wagon. “Allez!” Now he actually pushed her to her feet, forcing her to the wagon’s edge.

  “No, please—” But there was no changing his mind, and it was either climb out or fall out, so she clambered to the ground. He made a dismissive gesture without looking back, hunched into the rain and flicked the reins.

  “Wait!” she cried after him. “Attendez!”

  He wasn’t waiting. Raindrops plummeted from the sky, striking her head and shoulders. Water ran in rivulets across the road. In the carriage door, Millie was arguing with Nicholas Warre.

  “Absolutely not,” he said angrily. “It will be a deadly long journey to Paris even without Lady India’s constant protesting. Good God.”

  “She won’t be bothersome. Please, Lord Taggart. I beg you!”

  “Millie, we don’t need him.” But the road was a disaster, and her wet skirts clung heavily around her legs and dragged in the mud, and Paris was very far away. “Let him go.” Her tone was hardly convincing.

  Millie turned from the door and gripped India’s arms. “Please,” she said. “Please let us ride with him. It’s wet, and awful, and the idea of begging rides from strange men—I can’t bear it. You know I can’t.” The fear of what could happen was alive and real in Millie’s eyes, making it impossible to insist that Millie go through with such an uncertain journey.

  Rain dripped from India’s lashes and fingertips. Cold droplets slid down her neck and into her bodice. Cautiously she moved behind Millie and peered inside the carriage.

  Nicholas Warre flicked his gaze over her. If he was thinking at all of what they’d done last night, it didn’t show. Yet despite the rain and mud, every place he’d touched her—every single place—caught fire.

  She lifted her chin. A drop of water fell into her eye. “You needn’t worry about me being a bother, Mr. Warre,” she said, wiping it away. “I’d like nothing better than to reach Paris posthaste. You shall hardly know I’m here.” She told herself this was strictly for Millie’s sake.

  He exhaled with great irritation. “I thought I made myself clear last night.”

  “You’re going to Paris anyhow. I don’t see what difference it should make if we part ways here or there.” She studied his expression for any sign that he was bluffing.

  He regarded her with impassive green eyes. “A very dear one,” he said, “each night for your room and board.” It was impossible not to remember looking into those eyes last night, while he’d—

  “My aunt Philomena will repay you when we reach Paris. She spends a good deal of time there, and is sure to be in residence.”

  “She can hardly repay me for the trouble of your company, can she.”

  “If you’ve truly changed your mind about marrying me, there should be no trouble at all.” Except that already a sign of trouble pulsed hotly, deeply, in the places he’d touched her last night.

  The corner of his mouth quirked up—Good God. Could he tell what she was thinking?

  “Very well,” he said. “I will take you and Miss Germain as far as Paris. But the smallest fuss from you—” he leaned forward and pointed his finger at her “—and you’re out.”

  * * *

  HE IGNORED HER. Completely, utterly ignored her.

  “He is simply waiting for Paris,” she told Millie when they were two days from the city, as she and Millie returned from an evening walk through the small village where they would spend the night. “And then we will see a marked reversal to his matrimonial ambitions.”

  “He doesn’t seem to have any ambitions toward you at all,” Millie said.

  He didn’t seem to have any desire for her, either. And that was maddening because she still desired him, and each day sitting across from him, taking his hand in and out of the carriage, fighting the urge to stare at him while the carriage rattled endlessly through the French countryside...

  Each day her desire only grew stronger.

  In the evenings, she and Millie walked to stretch their legs after endless hours on the road. Nicholas did nothing to prevent their escape—they could simply have kept walking. Fled into the meadows. Begged a ride back toward Marseille.

  He didn’t seem to care whether she stayed or left.

  And it was the most aggravating thing in the world.

  Now, after their evening walk, India and Millie climbed the narrow, dark stairwell to their room, passing by Nicholas’s closed door. “You’ll have Philomena to protect you in Paris,” Millie said.

  “He’ll never hand me over to her,” India said. “Mark my words.”

  Inside their room, Millie went straight to her trunk and dug out her nightgown while India stood at the small window and tapped her fingers on the sill. Outside, the light had begun to fade after the setting sun.

  Nicholas hadn’t given up. She wasn’t fooled at all. And as long as he pretended he’d changed his mind, there was nothing she could do to actually change his mind. Seduction would do her no good now—if the object of seducing him was to distract him so that she and Millie might escape, there was no reason to seduce him.

  Other than that you want to.

  She could talk to him, perhaps. Goad him a little—a very little, in case he followed through on his threat to leave her and Millie behind—and see if he might reveal himself.

  Reveal that he still desires you, or reveal his intentions toward marriage?

  She turned abruptly from the window. “I’m going to go ask Mr. Warre what time we should expect to leave in the morning,” she told Millie.

  “We always leave at five o’clock.”

  “That might change now that we’re closer to Paris.” It sounded ridiculous even to her, so she hurried from the room before Millie could point that out.

  Outside his door, she nearly changed her mind. But she wasn’t going to seduce him—she wasn’t. Only talk to him.

  “We’re nearly to Paris,” she said when he answered his door, and slipped by him into his room before he could stop her. “I wondered if we’ll be keeping the same traveling schedule.”

  He observed her a moment with the door open and his hand on the latch, wearing only his shirt and breeches. His shirttails hung out, and the buttons at the top were...open.

  “Yes,” he said. “We will.”


  The unbuttoned V exposed a smattering of dark hair on his chest. She looked at his throat, remembered the scent of his skin when he’d held her in the hayloft.

  “I thought perhaps you’d want an earlier start. So we could arrive sooner.” She made herself look away and saw that a small writing table was littered with the same papers and books he’d been studying ever since they’d sailed aboard William’s ship.

  “We’ll arrive soon enough as it is.”

  Soon enough for what? she thought of saying. To stop at the first church we see? She didn’t dare goad him that much, not when they were still two days from Paris and all this indifference might be genuine.

  “Is that all?” he asked, so evenly that it was impossible to tell whether her visit was having any effect on him at all, except that he still had not closed the door.

  “Millie and I just returned from our evening walk,” she informed him.

  “Yes, I heard you on the stairs.” He finally shut the door. Crossing the room, he sat down at the writing desk and leafed through the papers.

  “There’s a small church just down the road. We saw the priest walking through the cemetery at the side.”

  “Did you.” He dipped his pen and wrote a few words.

  “And a public coach passed us, headed the other direction. No doubt toward Marseille.”

  “No doubt.”

  “It stopped at the inn down the street.”

  “Too bad for the passengers. Those rooms cost five derniers more.” He reached for one of his books and began searching its pages, not bothering to look up.

  She followed the strong line of his jaw to his ear. It was perfectly formed, not too large or small. He’d once kissed her just below her own ear, and now she imagined kissing him below his, in that shallow spot between the cords of his neck.

  “I do hope you’re not worried about the extra expense of having me and Millie along,” she said, shifting a little.

  “I trust your aunt will reimburse the cost of your travel.” He still did not look up.

  “She’ll be thrilled to see us, I’m sure.” Her gaze dropped to the place where his shirttails pooled on his legs and his muscled thighs strained against his breeches. “And ever grateful to you for delivering us into her care.”