“You won’t like the answer,” she said.
For a moment Stratford thought she knew what he had been contemplating. But then he realized he hadn’t asked if he could kiss her. He’d asked which shop the Ines woman was associated with.
“Then you’d better tell me quickly,” he said, his voice a bit rougher than he had intended.
Her eyes closed briefly, then opened again to gift him with another glimpse of tranquil waters and clear skies. “She’s a lacemaker.”
Stratford’s eyes narrowed. “A lacemaker.” He only knew of one lacemaker. And he only knew of her because all the ladies were wild over Catarina lace. Catarina lace—named for the designer, Catarina Draven, who was married to his former commander, Lieutenant-Colonel Draven. “Which lacemaker?” he asked calmly.
“The one who makes Catarina lace,” she said.
“No,” he said.
“Yes.”
“No, that would mean she is associated with Colonel Draven, and I am not harboring a fugitive from my former commander.”
“I’m sorry to say that is exactly what you are doing, though I hardly think you can be blamed as you had nothing to do with her running away. You are an innocent bystander.”
Draven would kill him anyway. “Who exactly is she? Tell me she is not Mrs. Draven’s sister.”
“She is Mrs. Draven’s sister.”
“God damn it, Emmeline! I told you not to tell me that!” But he’d known. The moment she had uttered the word lacemaker he’d known exactly who she was. He’d heard Draven complain more than once about his mischievous sister-in-law.
“Where are you going? The surgeon is this way,” Emmeline said. Stratford had started back the way they’d come. Panic tore through him now, and he couldn’t think clearly.
“I can’t leave her alone with Duncan. She can’t be left alone with a man not her relative.” It wouldn’t matter if he’d left her alone or not because Draven would kill them all anyway. He was undoubtedly on his way to finish them off at this very minute.
“She’s been alone with him for at least a day already. Besides, he’s wounded. What can he do to her?”
Plenty, Stratford thought. Plenty. But he had to stop and think. He had to use his brain, which was something he had not been doing enough of else he would have figured out the truth before now. Emmeline was correct in that turning back was not an option. They had to fetch the surgeon if for no other reason than to save Duncan so Draven could kill him.
He turned again. “Very well. We continue on.”
After a moment of silent marching, she finally caught up to him. “What is wrong? We will see to Mr. Murray then return Miss Neves to London. She will be back home tomorrow or the next day. No harm done. She’s a lacemaker. Her reputation is not in jeopardy.”
This was true. Society really only cared about the spotless character of ladies of the upper classes. The other classes were not held to the same standard.
“So you think Colonel Draven is sitting home in London hoping someone brings Miss Neves back? Do you think Catarina Draven is unconcerned about her sister running away with Duncan Murray?”
“For what it’s worth, I do not believe Mr. Murray intended to run away with Miss Neves,” Emmeline said.
“Perhaps Draven will listen to that explanation after he kills Murray.”
“How can he listen to him if—”
Stratford stopped again. “The point is, Emmeline, Draven will be on his way here by now. It’s too late to return her.”
“How on earth will he find her here?” She extended her arms to indicate the poorly tended road and the green-stalked wheat, its tips just now turning golden, waving in the breeze.
Stratford shook his head. “He’s Colonel Benedict Draven. He was instrumental in defeating Napoleon. He can find a woman in the English countryside.”
He began walking again, and Emmeline hurried to follow. “Do you think anyone will come after me?”
He looked at her, but her face was shielded by the brim of the bonnet she wore. But to him the tone of her voice had sounded hopeful. As though she wanted someone to come after her. As though she wanted someone to care.
“I came after you,” he said.
“I meant, will anyone else come?”
And that about summed up their entire acquaintance. As children, he’d played skittles or croquet with her on the lawn, and later he’d hear her tell one of her sisters that no one had played with her all day. Years later, as her chaperone, he had asked her to dance at balls. Yes, it was obligatory, but she was the only one of her sisters he didn’t mind dancing with. Once home, her mother would inquire if anyone asked her to dance, and Emmeline would say, “No one.”
She obviously didn’t see him as anything more than...well, he didn’t really know how she saw him. Perhaps she didn’t see him at all. “I’ve written to your mother and kept her informed of events. I’ll send another letter as soon as I can, explaining the reason for our delay.”
“Your delay, you mean. I told you, I am not returning.”
“If you think I will leave you alone on the road to Cumbria, you must be dafter than I thought.”
“Because your father sent you, and you hate to disappoint him?”
He stopped, but she continued walking. He reached forward and grasped her arm, spinning her around. “No one sent me. I came on my own.”
She looked up at him, and he could see her blue eyes cloud with confusion. “But I thought—”
“And furthermore, I’ve already disappointed the baron more times than I can count. I’m not worried about disappointing him again. It’s inevitable.” Stratford only wished he’d known that when he’d been younger as it would have saved him years of grief. “But I do worry about you, Emmeline. I would never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
She stared at him for a long moment, and in that moment, he thought the mask of indifference she’d worn to protect herself for so many years dropped away. Her expression was one of longing but also disbelief. She couldn’t believe anyone would genuinely care for her.
“Emmeline—”
The quiet was broken by the sound of boys yelling and a dog’s high-pitched yelp of pain. Emmeline turned toward the sound, and together they began to run.
Six
DUNCAN
His arm hurt like the devil had sunk a fang into it and gnawed for hours. Duncan had been shot before. It was an occupational hazard of being a lunatic. One didn’t run toward armed soldiers or take on odds like three against one without sustaining some hits. Both times he had been shot before, the pistol ball had only grazed him. One grazed his side and the other his shoulder. A glass of whisky had dulled the pain of those injuries, but Duncan thought it might take a bit more than whisky this time. It didn’t hurt to try, though.
“Lass,” he said, opening his eyes. He hadn’t realized they were closed until he’d tried to look for her and only saw blackness.
“I’m here.” She looked down at him, her deep brown eyes staring into his, her soft hand caressing his brow. Where had this beautiful woman been when he’d had those flesh wounds and could have enjoyed these ministrations? “I think you were sleeping,” she said.