It was going to be a long, miserable drive, with his mind awash in guilt and his body still awash in lust.
He was asleep in five minutes.
He woke with a start, filled with panic that immediately subsided when he saw her asleep across from him. Her papers were scattered beside her on the seat, the morbid book still open in her lap, and the illustrations would have made anyone but a former soldier blanch. She looked as exhausted as he felt, and for a while he sat as still as the coach would let him, watching her beautiful, troubled face.
He’d put that look on her, damn his hide. It would be up to him to remove it, though he had no idea how. The first step would be to give her a little time, keep away from her for a few days, despite how the very thought made his gut twist.
It was cold in the coach—he’d insisted on leaving so quickly they hadn’t even stacked lap rugs and throws to keep the passengers warm. She was wearing fingerless gloves, and he expected that her fingertips w
ere cold, even as she slept on.
He scooped up the papers first, as silently as he could, tucking them back in her worn leather satchel. Then he lifted the heavy book from her lap, but she didn’t move, and when he’d placed it with the papers he looked back to see that she’d curled up in the corner, her breathing steady and shallow. She had her shawl wrapped tightly around her, but it wasn’t enough to keep her warm, and in the harsh light of day he could see the bruising on the side of her head.
God, he’d forgotten all about the attack. He’d been so mad with lust he hadn’t done anything to protect her injuries, he’d just rutted. He was going to purchase his own horsewhip and hand it to Noonan.
Stripping off his heavy coat, he draped it around her sleeping form. He shivered slightly and then scolded himself. He lived in Scotland—he was used to the cold. He swam in weather like this. He settled back on the opposite seat, watching her. It might very well be the last chance he got, and he felt the knife twist inside him again. How had he managed to screw up his life so badly? He had a weeping, unwanted fiancée and a range of sins impressive enough to earn him reentry into the Heavenly Host, he thought with almost abstracted horror. He needed to get the hell away from everyone, back to Scotland with Noonan, and his spaniel and the Widow MacKinnon. Who, he realized, looked a fair bit like Emma herself, tall and pretty, though no match for his Emma.
But Emma wasn’t his. Never would be. And that was the curse of it.
Chapter 23
Emma always woke quickly, ready to face whatever the day threw at her, and today was no different. The carriage was dark—he hadn’t lit the small lamps on either side of the seats—and she could feel the roughness of the cobbled streets beneath them. They had reached London.
She lifted her gaze to her companion. She’d been instantly aware of him, everything flooding back before she even opened her eyes, but he was in the shadows, and she could only hope he was still asleep. She felt uncommonly . . . safe. There was no other word for it. Warm and protected and cared for. Despite her instant alertness, that false sense remained, but she forced herself to sit up, even though she wanted to stay exactly where she was and hold on to that ephemeral feeling.
Something was over her, keeping her warm. Pushing it aside, she realized it was his huge greatcoat, and her heart twisted in sudden pain. She threw it across the small space, straight at him, but the dark figure caught it deftly, clearly wide awake.
“Where are my papers?” she snapped, with no intention of thanking him.
“They’re in your satchel along with that distressing book you were reading.” His voice was light, conversational. “The thought of you sawing through bones is quite terrifying.”
“It wouldn’t be your bones I’d be cutting off,” she shot back, and he had the temerity to laugh. “We’re in London?”
“Indeed. We’re almost at your lodgings.”
Light was coming from the street outside, light and noise, and he leaned forward, looking out the window, momentarily silhouetted before he sank back into the shadows once more. It would be her last glimpse of him, she thought. The moment they pulled up outside of the house she would be ready to scramble out before he could pretend to be polite, and she could sweep inside with the knowledge that Noonan or Tillerson would bring her bags. This part of her life was over, completely, irrevocably over, and she should feel nothing but joy.
She wanted to weep. It was a good thing she couldn’t—every tear in her body had dried up long ago. If he’d seen her with tears in her eyes he might make the foolish mistake of thinking that she cared for him, which she didn’t, not any longer, not even a little.
The carriage finally rumbled to a stop, and she could hear the voices from the streets, sounds that she knew so well she never paid any attention. She did now. The smell was overpowering as well—garbage, human waste, unwashed bodies, and horse droppings. Her taller boots came in handy as she made her way to and from work, but those boots were still recovering from her dunk in the Thames, and she had only her sturdy shoes, which would probably be ruined by the detritus on the street. So be it. She began to gather her things, ignoring the simple fact that her hands were shaking, ignoring Brandon.
The door had been opened, but no one had let down the steps, and Noonan stood there blocking her escape, deep in conversation with Brandon, who was now fully visible. She wished he’d stayed in the shadows. The left side of his face was to her, the scarred, damaged side, and deep, unwanted emotions rushed through her. It would have been so much better if the unmarked side of his face was in evidence—the pretty, perfect bit of him that was like everyone else. That wasn’t the man she had . . . that wasn’t Brandon to her. This was, and it hurt.
“Could you please set down the steps, Mr. Noonan?” she said, interrupting their hushed conversation. “I’d would very much like to get inside and settled.”
Brandon nodded at Noonan, leaned back, and to Emma’s complete horror the door was slammed closed. “You’re not going there,” he said flatly, and the carriage jerked, slowly moving forward through the shifting groups of people, proving his point.
She leaped for the doorway, determined to simply fling herself out, but he caught her, caught her, damn it, pulling her against him and keeping her flailing arms imprisoned with his own. She swore at him like a veritable fishwife, and her command of profanity was extensive, but it made no difference. He had hauled her onto his lap, and she kicked her heels back at him, hoping to do some damage, but he seemed impervious, and even her attempts to move down and sink her teeth into his arm got her nowhere. She struggled until she was worn out, until the warmth and strength of his body around hers grew too distracting, and then she sank back against him, unable, or unwilling to fight.
“That’s better,” he said with a pragmatic tone that made her frankly murderous. “Fighting me won’t do you any good, my girl. I’m not letting you stay at that pesthole with criminals all around, any one of them capable of cutting your throat before you realized what was happening. Why in God’s name do you live in the slums?”
“Those are my people! That’s where I belong, not set up as a rich man’s doxy. I’ll take the honest slums over anything you have to offer.”
He sighed, and she could feel it, held as she was against his chest. “First of all, you cannot really insist that those are honest slums. People who live in poverty can’t afford to pay attention to such niceties when they’re trying to survive.”
“And how would you know, my lord?” she said, emphasizing his title.
“Because I have lived far from a blameless life since I returned from the wars. Melisande must have told you I was once a member of the Heavenly Host. Trust me, I have spent more than my fair share of time in the slums, doing unspeakable things.”