Page 40 of The Companion’s Secret

Sweet words and a sweet gesture that nearly unmanned him, for in a lifetime of scars and sin, he had known very little sweetness. But if she knew what awaited those he loved, or who loved him, she would not wish that fate on anyone.

With a slight bow to the woman who was to have been his bride, Gabriel turned and left.

Chapter 12

With a silent sigh, Cami clutched her portable desk. Along with a dozen other passengers, she sat in the public room of a posting inn, awaiting the northbound stage. The price of a ticket for a place inside the coach had been too dear. Now, however, she was wondering whether she ought not to have paid it, even if it meant bread and water for the rest of the journey. The roof was a notoriously dangerous place aboard a crowded, speeding coach, but she was even more worried about the weather. Through a dirt-streaked window, she eyed the thickening clouds. Rain. Could she persuade a fellow passenger to trade places with her? But why should anyone imagine she deserved a place inside, simply because she held a wooden box whose contents she didn’t fancy getting wet?

She tried to distract herself with her usual amusement. Who was meeting the stooped old lady with the leathery skin, who clutched an unlit pipe between her teeth and hid what Cami believed must be a live piglet, judging by the grunts and squeals coming from beneath her cloak? And what had possessed that tall, oddly dressed fellow, the one who had proclaimed loudly to his fellow passengers that he was the best wizard now living in Britain, to travel by the public stage rather than taking his broomsti—

Oh, it was no use. Characters they might be, but she was in no humor for making up stories to suit them. Her feet were sore from the long walk through town to reach the inn; she was worried sick about her family; and she was almost certain to get drenched. Was that a rumble of thunder?

No, a coach. A dozen pairs of hope-filled eyes turned toward the sound. A lumbering, old fashioned four-in-hand slowed as it passed the window. Merely some private conveyance stopping to change horses. The jumble of conversation resumed around her, and Cami absently traced the smooth, worn, ink-stained edge of her writing desk. Absorbed in her thoughts, she did not immediately realize that the door to the public room had opened, that the murmur of voices around her had grown louder, that someone was striding in her direction.

“Camellia?”

For a moment, she wondered if the fatigue of the walk had made her weak in the head. It could not possibly be…

Booted feet stopped before her. Between blinks of astonishment, her eyes traveled upward, over an imposing greatcoat and snowy cravat, to Gabriel’s face. She saw no trace of his usual sardonic expression. He looked drawn, tired.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded. “Are you mad?”

“No, my—” My lord, she had been about to say. But she had a sudden vision of the chaos that might ensue if she revealed to her fellow passengers that the gentleman standing before them was a wealthy nobleman. Already, their curiosity was pressing them closer. “No,” she said, rising. “It is not madness to wish to go home.”

“Some might beg to differ.”

She could not keep her eyes from widening at his words, but his own expression was obscured as he bent to pick up the bag at her feet. Before he could attempt to take the writing desk from her arms, she moved out of his reach. “Pardon me?”

“A woman thinking to travel alone on the public stage is exhibiting a kind of madness. It would serve you bloody well right,” he said, each syllable spoken sharply and loudly enough for every one of her fellow passengers to hear, “if you’d been robbed. Or worse. Running off like that. Worrying your family. Worrying me.”

Cami knew her mouth had popped open, but she could not seem to muster a retort. And as he had begun to march back in the direction of his carriage, carrying her bag, she had very little choice but to follow him. He tossed her valise to his coachman, then turned back as if prepared to toss her into the carriage with very little more ceremony. “Get in.”

“I have no intention of—” she began. Unyielding fingers encircled her upper arm. “Unhand me this instant! How dare you—?”

“That’s it, Miss Burke,” he said softly, leaning in. Humor glimmered in his dark eyes, though it had not entirely chased away their haunted look. “Now you’re getting into the spirit of the thing. Slap me across the face if you’d like. I assure you, it’s the only invitation you’ll ever get.”

“Why, you devil—!” This was all an act. But to what possible end? Though her fingers itched to make good on his offer, she hesitated.

A wicked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Unless you’d rather kiss me, instead?”

A bolt of heat passed through her, devastating as a lightning strike. Then rain began pelting from the leaden sky. One thick drop struck her cheek; another dodged the lens of her spectacles to strike her eye, making her blink furiously. Unless she was willing to brave the coming storm aboard the roof of the stage… She clutched her writing desk tighter with one arm, lifted her skirts with her free hand, and stepped into Gabriel’s coach unassisted.

As he settled into the opposite seat, the coach jerked into motion. Laughter rumbled in his chest, though she could not help but notice that it did not reach his eyes. “Well, at least we’ve done them the kindness of leaving them with something to talk about while they wait.” He gestured toward a window filled with curious faces. “Shall I figure in their tales as the cruel brother come to drag his sister home, do you suppose? Or as the aggrieved husband whose headstrong bride ran away in the night?”

“I could not say.” She understood then that his high-handedness had indeed been a deliberate act, intended to spare her reputation. Bad enough to be a youngish woman, traveling alone; far worse if she seemed to be the sort who leaped into the carriage of the first gentleman who happened along. She squared her writing desk on her lap. “I have very little familiarity with spinning those sorts of stories.”

For answer, he laughed again.

“I was not running away,” she said when they had traveled some way in silence. “I was on my way back to Ireland. I received an urgent letter from my sister and must get home as soon as possible. You should know I have no intention of going back to London.”

“That’s as well, since we’re headed in the opposite direction.”

She glanced out the window to find that the city was indeed receding, the landscape becoming more rural. If he wasn’t returning her to Trenton House, then where was he taking her?

Another quarter mile passed with his hazel eyes fixed on her, something almost feverish in their depths. The air of the carriage felt charged, heavy—the weight of the coming storm, perhaps. She fought the impulse to squirm beneath his stare. “I’m bound for Stoke Abbey,” he said at last, answering her unspoken question. Then he settled his gaze on the passing scenery, though the carriage windows were blurred with rain. As she studied his profile, she saw that fatigue, or perhaps worry, had etched grooves about his mouth and eyes. “My family estate.”

Was it her fancy, or did he name his destination with reluctance? He must have left in a hurry, to be traveling without even a servant. Some pressing matter of business must have called him home. Still, who set out on such a journey all alo—? Well, who else would set out on such a journey all alone?

“It lies in Shropshire,” he added, “along the border with Wales.”