“That you marry the woman of her choosing.”
“Aye. How can I refuse that one request?”
“How can you not? Of all people, your mother knows one or two things about love. She ran away with your father and gave up her entire family and all she had ever known. Could she really condemn you for wanting to marry for love as well?”
“Nae, but I would condemn myself. I owe her this one thing.”
Stratford shook his head. “You do not owe her your life and happiness. After all, she lost a husband, but you lost a father. I’d say neither of you owes the other anything.”
Duncan stared at him then went back to looking into the fire. He sipped the whisky now, contemplative.
Stratford sipped his own whisky, and when the last fiery drop burned his throat, he said, “I made a mistake.”
“Which one?” Duncan asked.
“I misjudged her,” Stratford said. “I thought if she knew who my father was—or wasn’t, actually—it would matter to her.” Or perhaps he wanted to believe it would matter to Emmeline because she was right; he knew her better than that. But, of course, it hadn’t mattered, and he was just using his parentage as an excuse. Because she was right. He was a coward. He was afraid he was not good enough for her. He was afraid she would realize that and tell him. He was afraid if he loved her, she might reject him. And he’d been rejected so much over the years that he couldn’t bear to risk it again.
But he also couldn’t bear to lose Emmeline. He hadn’t anticipated how much that would hurt. He hadn’t ever felt the stab of pain he’d felt today when she’d walked away from him. And he’d known, known, she would not come back. He’d lost her, and he could not lose her. She was the one person he could not bear to lose. If he lost her, then he might as well have died on the Continent in the war. The only reason he’d ever wanted to survive was to come back and see her again.
“I thought ye would have asked her tae marry ye by now,” Duncan said.
“I should have.” Why hadn’t he been willing to take the risk? He’d risked his life daily for years, and now, he was too much a coward to risk his heart.
“So do it.”
“I’m not a coward,” Stratford said. “If there was ever anything worth fighting for, it’s her.”
“So fight.” Duncan held out his glass. “But first pour me another wee dram of that whisky.”
Stratford obliged, pouring more than a dram. “She won’t have me now. I need...some sort of grand gesture. Something to prove to her that I love her, that I’m willing to risk all for her.”
Duncan chuckled, and Stratford gave him a sidelong look. “Ye want me tae help ye make a plan?”
Stratford had never in his life needed anyone’s help making a plan. And Christ knew that he did not want Duncan’s help to do so. Duncan was too wild and unpredictable and...perfect. Stratford sat straight. “I do want your help,” he said. “I want to do something wild, something outlandish, something...lunatic.” He poured more whisky—obviously he needed it—and sipped.
“Ye need tae abduct her,” Duncan said without hesitating.
Stratford coughed as the whisky went down the wrong way. “Pardon?” he croaked.
“Ye heard me. I ken where ye can take her too.”
“I cannot abduct her!”
Duncan raised a brow. “Too ootlandish? Too wild? Too lunatic?”
Stratford sighed. “I hate this plan, which probably means it’s perfect. Where do I take her and what do I do when I get her there?”
Duncan raised a brow. “Lad, if ye dinnae ken what tae do when ye get her there, I cannae help ye.”
“So I’m to debauch her.” Stratford could do that. Yes, he would have no trouble at all thoroughly debauching Emmeline.
“If that’s what ye English like tae call it.”
“And where do I take her for this debauching?”
Duncan lowered his voice and told him, and it was exactly the sort of lunatic idea Stratford expected from Duncan Murray.
And it might just work.
Twenty-One
EMMELINE
Neither Ines nor Stratford came to breakfast. Duncan Murray, Lady Charlotte, and Emmeline—who never missed breakfast if it could be helped—dined in awkward silence, though the looks Lady Charlotte gave her son spoke volumes. Obviously, Emmeline’s presence was not wanted. She hastily drank her tea and ate her scone then excused herself. Ines was still sleeping—or pretending to sleep—in Emmeline’s room, so Emmeline decided to walk about the courtyard for an hour or so. Perhaps then she could go by the kitchen and ask for something to bring Ines. She opened the door of the house and stepped into the crisp morning. It was sunny, and she had to squint at the unexpected brightness. She took a few more steps then paused as she heard the thundering of hooves. She couldn’t quite see where it was coming from and should have jumped back and out of the way, but she couldn’t seem to move her legs.
The first thought that crossed her mind was that Colonel Draven had arrived and planned to mow down anyone in his path. Her second thought was, I am in his path. And then, when she could all but feel the hot breath of the horse on her neck, she was grasped roughly about the waist, lifted off her feet, and tossed like a sack of grain over a saddle.
Emmeline might have screamed, but she did not have enough air to breathe let alone scream. The ground rushed by in a blur, and she hung on to the horse for all she was worth. The man who had grabbed her held on too. Clearly it was not Colonel Draven. Not only because he would never mistake her for Ines, but also because she recognized the boots she was staring at.
Emmeline tried to crane her neck to peer up at Stratford. She didn’t have the air to speak, but she was able to catch a glimpse of him. His blond hair flew back in the wind, his cheeks were flushed, and his blue eyes glittered like gems. Or perhaps that was the effect of the sun in her own eyes. Whatever it was, he looked more alive than she had ever seen him.
Clearly, the man had gone mad.
Emmeline smacked his calf with her hand, but he didn’t react. He probably barely felt her pummeling through the thick boot. She smacked him harder and wriggled about, but then realized the last thing she wanted was to tumble headlong onto the ground. Emmeline went still.
Gradually, the road became rockier, and as they descended, sandier, and she detected the scent of salt in the air and could hear, even above the thundering of the hooves, the crash of waves on the shore. Stratford slowed the horse, walking the beast as Emmeline stared down at sand. Emmeline caught her breath, now that she wasn’t being jounced within an inch of her life, and called up, “Let me down.”
“Not yet,” Stratford said. “We are almost there.”
Emmeline looked right then left. Almost where? They were on a beach, rocky walls rising around them. The sea was rough, churning black with white caps dotting the waves coming ashore. It was not the sort of sea one bathed in or even dipped toes in. A spray from one of the waves proved to her that the water was as cold as ice.
But as they moved along the beach, the waves seemed to calm, and though Emmeline at first thought it was her imagination, a few moments later the horse passed under a rocky arch, and the crashing of the waves ceased, replaced by a lapping sound.