I hitch my skirts higher to pick up my speed, but I am wearing a nineteenth-century gown with endless petticoats, and a jog is even more exhausting than half an hour on the dance floor.
“The mare,” Nicolas says. “If she is so eager to accompany us, we should make use of her. Can you ride without a saddle, crécerelle?”
“No, but I can hang onto you.”
“And that is all that we require.”
Before I can speak, he lifts me as easily as if I were a waif in her shift. He puts me on the stone wall, and then he vaults it. A moment later, he is on the mare, who is not at all concerned by this turn of events. She even tosses her head, clearly eager to be off on a fresh adventure.
Nicolas reaches for me, and I manage to transfer myself from the fence to the mare. I’m getting my grip when a shout sounds, followed by a shot. The shot goes wild, but someone yells.
“The horses, you fool! Do not spook the horses. That is Lord Norrington’s prize gelding in there.”
“I believe we should spook the horses,” I say.
“I believe you are correct,” Nicolas says.
He taps the mare’s sides with his heels and steers her to the nearest gate. Then he leans down, opens it and guides her toward the other two horses, who have ambled over for a closer look. A gorgeous bay gelding snorts and feints, and when Nicolas gets the mare galloping, the other two horses follow, as if this is a lovely and unexpected game.
We fly out the gate and onto the moor. More shouts sound behind us, but the men can do little else. They cannot catch up on foot, and they dare not discharge a firearm when Lord Norrington’s gelding runs alongside us.
We sail over the moor with the gelding beside us, the third horse having already bored of the game and turned back. When we are certain we have lost our pursuers, we send the gelding off in hopes they’ll pause to collect him.
We continue on until we spot a farm, which seems like a good location to leave the mare. From there, we continue on foot to Thorne Manor. That is the obvious place to go. Obvious for us, while not obvious for our pursuers. They do not know of any connection between Nicolas and Lord Thorne, so they will be checking every croft and barn in the area, presuming he has holed up in one of them, as he did after I was shot.
It is a good three-mile walk until we see the dark shape of Thorne Manor, perched atop a hill. The evening weather is pleasant enough, but we are both exhausted from our evening, and we share a sigh of relief on spotting the house.
“I will go first, if I may,” Nicolas says. “To be sure it is empty. Lord Thorne is not due back for a week, but I would not wish to entangle him in this, and my attire is somewhat more somber than yours.”
“Also somewhat less cumbersome,” I say.Not to mention the problem of the current Lord Thorne not being the one I know.“After two days in men’s clothing, I cannot wait to shed this dress and these petticoats.”
He shoots a smile my way, his teeth glinting in the dark night. “And I cannot wait to assist you in that endeavor. If I recall correctly, his lordship has a bathing tub.”
I shiver with pleasure. “Oh, please tell me he does.”
“I am quite certain of it, as I am quite certain you have earned a long bath and an attentive valet to heat the water for your tub.”
“The only thing that would make that better is if the tub were large enough for two.”
His smile grows. “If it is not, I believe we can find a way to both squeeze in. Now, if you wait here, I will return momentarily.”
27
There is no one in the house. Nor is there any sign that the current Lord Thorne has returned. Nicolas also scouts the exterior to be sure we weren’t followed. I cannot imagine we were tracked unseen across the open and empty moors, but he is leaving nothing to chance. If we are going to spend the night here—a night where we may be absorbed in one another’s company—then we must be confident in our safety.
The moment we are inside, he heads upstairs to start a fire, and I strip off my dress and petticoats, leaving only my shift. Then I collapse, sighing, into a wonderfully deep armchair. I think I have only been there a moment, but when Nicolas appears before me, he is holding a glass of what smells like brandy, along with a plate of dried meat and preserves. He is also dressed only in his tight trousers and open shirt.
“I could get used to this,” I say with a sigh as I take the brandy from his hand.
“And I could get used to this.” He bends to run his fingers up my thigh, making me shiver. “I do not suppose there is room in that chair for two?”
“If there is not, then we can squeeze in.”
I rise and let him take the chair. He tugs me onto his lap, and there is the perfect amount of room, enough that we fit together snugly. I sip the brandy and then pass it to him, and he lifts a piece of preserved lemon to my lips. We rest like that, sitting together in silence, eating and drinking as we relax.
When I set aside the empty brandy snifter, he does the same with the empty plate, and I curl into him, my head on his shoulder, his fingers toying with a lock of my hair.
“I promised you a bath, and I will deliver,” he says.