Was it his fault he only had money enough for a vehicle whose standard was far beneath her? He’d done his best. He could go to prison for what he’d done, or worse, Botany Bay, and all she did was moan about her stomach.
Two pieces of good luck kept him going.
One, Lizzie was here, with her gentle and sympathetic influence. Without her he really might have murdered Annabelle.
And two, the duke hadn’t caught up to them yet. Terry could hardly close his eyes for fear of seeing Sinclair stalking him, like the monster in some nursery story. His hope was that he’d get Annabelle safely to her friend. After that his plan was to join the army. He no longer cared which regiment he was in, nor did he care if he was a simple soldier of the line. As long as he was sent far from England and far from the Duke of Somerton then he’d be happy.
Perhaps, he thought sourly, when he was shot by renegades or speared by savages or—or eaten by wild animals, then Annabelle would be a little bit sorry she’d been so nasty to him. Then she’d regret she hadn’t admired him as he deserved for his sacrifice on her behalf.
Terry had just reached the part of his fantasy where Annabelle was throwing herself, sobbing, upon his grave, when he was rudely interrupted.
“Terry!” Annabelle gurgled, and lurching forward, she vomited.
Into his lap.
“I told you I was going to be sick,” she said smugly. “Now see what you’ve done.”
“She can’t help it, you know,” Lizzie said. “The movement of the coach makes her sick.”
They had found an inn and Annabelle was upstairs, sleeping. Terry had stripped off his clothing and washed and changed. Lizzie, as always, was trying to make peace.
“At least you have a change of clothing,” she said, casting an envious look over him. “I don’t even have that.”
Guiltily, he realized that was true. He hadn’t taken it into consideration before, or perhaps he’d imagined Annabelle would share, unlikely as that was. They’d taken Lizzie with them in the coach with nothing more than the clothes she stood up in and until now she hadn’t complained. Not once.
“You have a loose button.”
Looking down he saw that one of the buttons on his shirt was dangling by a thread. He opened his mouth to tell her it didn’t matter, that Eugenie always fixed his buttons, until he remembered Eugenie wasn’t here. But Lizzie was already asking the servant for needle and thread.
“Do you want me to . . . ?” he began, miming removing his shirt.
“No, it’s all right. I can repair it without you needing to undress,” she assured him, and then blushed.
He watched her as she thanked the returning servant, and then drew her stool closer to his chair, leaning forward to begin her work. Her hair brushed his chin as she bent her head, and he wondered whether she was hiding her blushes from him. Why had she blushed? Was the thought of a man half-naked so embarrassing to her? Or was it the thought of him half-naked?
His cogitations were abruptly halted by the needle pricking his flesh. He jumped; he couldn’t help it.
“Ooh! I am so—so . . . Forgive me, please.”
She looked up at him, wide-eyed, appalled.
He touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, at first to reassure her and then because her skin was so soft and smooth, and at this moment he wanted to touch her more than anything in the world.
“I
t was nothing.”
She shook her head and he saw the beginnings of tears in her eyes. “You will be glad to be rid of the pair of us. Annabelle is ill on you and then I stick you with a needle.”
He smiled. “If I am to join the army and be a soldier I will face worse than a sewing needle, Lizzie.”
She blinked up at him. Her lashes were long and curling. He wondered if the reason she had leaned so close to him was because she needed glasses. There was something endearingly unfocussed about her gaze.
“Are you really going to be a soldier?”
“Yes.” His smile grew wry. “I will have to do something to escape the duke and joining the army seems the best option.”
She nodded. “He is rather intimidating, isn’t he?”