And make of that what you will, she thought, sweeping past Mrs. Kemp's messenger with as much an air of dignified elegance as even Elizabeth might have managed.
***
"Why, Mr. Travener. How delightful to see you again."
Anne had paused before she entered the room, surveying the tall, handsome figure standing in the same patch of sunshine she had recently been enjoying upstairs. And as soon as she had recognized her caller, she mocked the runaway emotions that had carried her down the stairs at a near run.
There had been no reason to believe Ian's brother might visit. That was nothing but wishful thinking. Mr. Travener's ardent courtship would have been a much more likely explanation for a gentleman caller, and yet remarkably, that this visitor might be Travener had never occurred to her.
He turned, and Anne knew immediately that something terrible had happened. His expression was...tortured. It was the only word that came to mind.
He walked across the room and took the hand she had unthinkingly held out to him. Instead of raising her fingers to his lips, however, he held them in the palm of his left and put his right hand over hers, squeezing it tightly between the two of his.
"I'm afraid I am the bearer of bad news," he said softly.
Her heart stopped, the blood within it suddenly cold and congealed. She could read the reality of what he had said in the solemn blue eyes. She had never seen them like this, and their unaccustomed seriousness frightened her.
"Ian?"
He nodded, a muscle working in his jaw.
"Is he..." she began, and then her throat closed against the utterance of the word.
He said nothing, simply holding her hand and her eyes, as she tried to read his expression.
"Please tell me, Mr. Travener," she commanded, gathering her courage to face what must be faced. "Is he dead?"
"Not yet, but... In truth, they do not expect him to live out the night." That same cone of soundless isolation that had sur- rounded her when General Mayfield turned his back on her formed around her again.
"And it is my fault," Travener added.
Somehow the soft, anguished words broke through the shell of horror his first had created.
"Your fault? How can this possibly be your fault?"
"We used my pistols. Mayfield's were ancient and clearly uncared for. Most unsuitable for dueling, I promise you. Both seconds agreed to the exchange. There was nothing irregular about it."
"What are you talking about?" Anne demanded, following almost nothing of what he had said. The few words she had absorbed, like dueling and pistols and Mayfield, only added to her fear.
She jerked her hand from his, clasping hers together to keep them from shaking. She pressed them hard against the growing agony in her chest. She had been imagining Ian felled again by a sudden sickness, perhaps another bout of lung fever. Travener's words seemed to imply that something else had happened. Something—
"My duel with General Mayfield. Major Sinclair insisted on accompanying me, and then in the middle of it, he shouted. When, naturally, I turned toward him..." He paused, shaking his head in disbelief. "I swear to you, Miss Darlington, the pistol discharged on its own. I had warned the general about the sensitivity of the triggers, but I never dreamed—"
"You shot him?" she asked, finally making sense of Travener's muddled explanation. "You were dueling with General Mayfield and...you shot Ian?"
"Everyone has assured me that I am not in any way responsible, but I'm afraid I shall always feel the burden of that guilt. Especially if..."
They do not expect him to live out the night.
"You shot him," she said again, unable to move past her incredulity over that.
She had had a few days to come to terms with the idea that Ian's injuries were her father's fault. If her guardian had fallen into a fatal illness, that would have produced a guilt she would always be forced to bear. This insanity, however...
The thought that her rejected suitor, this lovesick Romeo, had shot Ian, even by accident, in a duel that he had undertaken to defend her honor was unbelievable. And unbearable.
"He startled me. I turned toward him, and the pistol discharged. You must understand, I beg you—"
"Why are you here?" she asked, breaking into excuses she had finally understood and had no desire to listen to again.
"To take you to London, of course. I thought you would wish to see him before..."
And since she did, she realized she would have no real choice but to let Doyle provide her with transportation. The school's ancient chaise might not survive the journey, and even if it did, it would take hours longer to reach the capital in it than in Mr. Travener's smart, fast carriage. And it was possible, it seemed, that she did not have those hours to spare.
"Will you tell Mrs. Kemp what has happened, please, Mr. Travener. I shall get my things."
"Say that you forgive me, Miss Darlington. I know you admired Major Sinclair a great deal. I cannot bear it if this unfortunate...accident should come between us."
But she did hold Travener responsible. He had evidently issued a challenge to the general, although he certainly had no right to presume to do so on her behalf. And this unfortunate accident, as he called it, had been the result.
She longed to lash out at him, but when she thought of the miles that lay between her and Ian... And even now...
"I am sure you never intended to harm anyone, Mr. Travener," she said, remembering the lesson of charity her guardian had taught her. "And now, please, I beg of you—"
"Of course," Travener said, his voice relieved.
The blue eyes seemed as eager to please as those of the youngest child in Anne's charge. And as he hurried off to inform Mrs. Kemp of the arrangements, she found she had no regrets over the absolution she had just offered him.
Doyle Travener would get her to London as quickly as it was humanly possible. And to accomplish that, she would willingly have told any number of lies.
Chapter Fifteen
"Surely we must be almost there," Anne said.
Night had fallen long ago, and although she had no way of telling time, it seemed to her that they had been traveling forever. Far longer than the journey to London should take. Of course, the very nature of this particular journey could be responsible for her oppressive anxiety over its length.
Mr. Travener straightened in the opposite seat, fingering his watch out of its pocket. It was far too dark inside the carriage to read the face of it, however. Acknowledging the impossibility of doing so, he replaced the watch and with gloved fingers lifted the shade that had been drawn over the window.
Trying to evaluate the depth of the external darkness? Anne wondered. Or perhaps hoping to see some evidence that they were indeed approaching the outskirts of the capital?
"Soon," he said reassuringly, allowing the covering to fall.
She could not tell if that estimation had been based on something he had seen, or if it had merely been intended to placate her impatience. If the latter, it hadn't succeeded.
Despite the fact that they had been racing along a well-maintained thoroughfare for hours, she had a terrible sense of foreboding that they were already too late. It was a feeling she had tried to deny. And when she couldn't, one she had determined not to give voice to.
After all, she could not fault Mr. Travener's efforts. Since they had left the school, they had stopped only to change the horses. Mrs. Kemp had warned that no matter the circumstances, it would not do for Anne to be seen alone on an extended journey in the company of a young man who was not of her family, and so she had not descended from the carriage at any of the coaching inns.
The headmistress had fretted about letting her go with only Mr. Travener's escort. Since it was the end of spring term, however, there was no other teacher at school whom Mrs. Kemp could send with her at such short notice. And yet she was naturally reluctant to disobey what might be the dying request of Anne's guardian. Finally, the urgency of the situation and Mr. Travener
's repeated assurances of Anne's safety had secured the headmistress's permission, if not her approval, of the plan.
Doyle had offered to bring refreshment out to the carriage at every stop they'd made, but Anne had refused, knowing she could not eat. At the last inn, however, he had insisted she drink a cup of mulled wine to "strengthen" her.
She had felt the better for it, Anne admitted, although its potency had put her to sleep. She had no idea for how long, but when she had awakened, still dazed from the effects of the strong wine, the feeling that something was very wrong had welled terrifyingly up in her breast.
"I don't remember the journey to London taking so long," she said aloud.
"We are making very good time, I promise you," Mr. Travener said. "I was quite surprised to discover exactly how good when last we stopped."
Several times during the course of the journey she had considered asking him for more details of the duel and especially more about Ian's injury. She had refrained because she did not want to be forced to comfort Travener's professed guilt again.
After all, he had given her all the pertinent information in that first breathless confession. They do not expect him to live out the night. And now more than half that night had passed. Those despairing thoughts were interrupted by a recognizable slowing of the horses' breakneck pace.
"Are we stopping?" she asked, lifting the shade away from the edge of the window.
By that time it was quite obvious they were. As the driver pulled the horses up, Anne saw through the crack she had created what appeared to be a torch wavering out of the mist-shrouded darkness and making its way toward the carriage. Given her previous encounter with the highwaymen, she felt a frisson of unease at the sight.
Another inn? Surely it had not been long enough since the last that they should need to change teams.
The carriage came to a complete stop, and almost before it did, Mr. Travener threw open the door, showing not the least sign of trepidation about whoever was approaching them. He jumped down, turning and holding up his hand to her.
"Come, Miss Darlington," he said.
Eager to descend, now that the journey was at an end, she stood, perhaps too quickly. Her head swam and her vision seemed blurred, and she wished again that she had not drunk the wine he'd brought her. She placed her fingers in his, grateful for their support, and stepped down.
The scene that greeted her was not anything like what she had expected. Not an inn. Nor were they at the door of the Earl of Dare's elegant town house. They weren't in London at all. Or in any civilized environs, it seemed.
And it was very clear that the two men who stood beside the coach, one of them holding the smoking torch, were not gentlemen. At least not by the standards of English society.
She turned her head, meeting Doyle Travener's eyes, which were focused on her face, apparently awaiting her reaction.
"Where are we?" she asked.
"I regret to inform you that we are presently in Scotland, Miss Darlington."
"Scotland," she repeated disbelievingly.
The repetition was little more than an attempt to buy time. Head swimming, she realized that the wine she had consumed was making clear thinking difficult. Yet if Scotland was indeed what Doyle had said, there was, of course, no doubt what he intended. No doubt at all as to why he had brought her here.
"And my guardian?" she demanded, praying that the story he had told about Ian, like that concerning their supposed destination, had been a lie. "What of Major Sinclair?"
"I knew you would never forgive me for what I had done. And I could not bear the thought of it."
"So you have abducted me? Do you expect me to forgive you for that?"
"I had hoped you would not consider our journey in that light."
"How should I consider it? You have deceived me, Mr. Travener. And deceived Mrs. Kemp. At least tell me the truth about Ian."
"The truth about Ian," he repeated softly, the inflection clearly suggestive. Almost...mocking.
"Major Sinclair," she amended.
"Forgive me if I am wrong, Miss Darlington, but it seemed that just now, as you spoke your guardian's name... It seemed to me there was something... improper, perhaps, in your voice."
"What you heard in my voice, Mr. Travener, was concern," she said, still fighting the strange lethargy the wine had produced. "A quite proper concern. Major Sinclair is my guardian. Should I not be concerned about his well-being? You told me he would not live out the night, and then, instead of taking me to him, you have brought me here."
She looked around, her eyes again encountering the men who had met the carriage. They appeared to be listening to the exchange, but in the flickering light cast by the torch, she couldn't really gauge their reactions. And as much as she would have liked to believe otherwise, she doubted Travener would have brought her here if he had thought there was the slightest chance they might intervene.
"Tell me the truth," she demanded again, her gaze coming back to his face.
"I have told you the truth about everything, including my feelings for you," he said earnestly. "Major Sinclair was injured in the duel this morning, just as I told you. It was a tragic accident, but I could not let what had happened to him come between us. It truly was not my fault."
"And this? Is this, too, not your fault?"
"I am in love with you, Anne. I have been since the night I first met you. I knew that you didn't return my feelings. Not yet, in any case. And then, when you left London so abruptly, I was terrified I'd never see you again."
"Take me back to Fenton School, please."
She turned, preparing to climb back into the carriage. She raised her foot but when she put it down, incredibly she missed the bottom step entirely. Travener took her arm, ostensibly to steady her, but his fingers bit painfully into her flesh, despite the layers of clothing she wore.
"I can't, my darling," he said. "Believe me, I have thought long and hard about what is best for us. Best for both of us. If I take you back now, I shall never be allowed to see you again. And to me that would be...unthinkable," he said, his voice low and intense.
"I am not in love with you, Mr. Travener."
"I can make you love me."
"You can't make someone love you," she said.
No more than you can make yourself not love someone, she thought, picturing Ian's face. She spoke from bitter experience. If there was anyone who had ever tried—
"I shall try," Travener said. "Just as I shall try to make you happy, from now until my dying day."
She took a deep breath, attempting again to clear her swimming head. Her words were obviously having no effect on Mr. Travener's surety. And whatever was wrong with her brain seemed to be getting worse rather than better, despite the bracing cold of the night air.
Her eyes returned to the men who had met the coach. In the light of their torch she could barely make out a building in the darkness behind them. It appeared to be a small inn, little larger than some of the cottages she was accustomed to seeing in England, but perhaps there would be someone within it who possessed a shred of human decency.
"Will you not help me?" she asked, pitching her voice so that it would carry to where they stood. "This man has abducted me against my will."
At her question, Travener turned to look at them, too, although he didn't release his grip on her arm. It appeared he had no fear that they might answer her plea in the affirmative. After a moment, a small smile began to play around the corners of his mouth, as his eyes considered the silent Scots.
"Actually, my dear, they have been paid quite handsomely to help me. I doubt you will convince them to switch their loyalties."
She ignored him and addressed the men again, although her words had seemed to have no effect on those set faces, ruddied by the glow of the torch or by the habitual harshness of the climate.
"If you will help me, my guardian will see that you are generously rewarded," she promised.
"Since Miss Darlington's guardian is i
n London, he is hardly in a position to make good on her pledge," Travener said. And then he added, his voice so low it was obvious it was intended only for her ears, "They don't seem to be interested, my dear. I don't think I should waste my breath on them any more if I were you."
"My guardian will give you twice whatever this man has paid you if you will take me to London," Anne said, her eyes moving from one face to the other, searching for some spark of sympathy.
"He might," Travener agreed, obviously unworried about her ability to convince the Scotsmen. "If your stalwart guardian were here. But of course he isn't here, is he? He's in London, having a gunshot wound attended to. And who knows? By now, any promises you make to these gentlemen concerning what he would do to get you back might very well be moot."
She turned on him then, staring him full in the face and no longer bothering to hide her contempt. His fair head tilted in mocking inquiry, blond brows arching over those guileless blue eyes. His lips twitched minutely and were then carefully and too obviously controlled.
He's enjoying himself, she realized. He was relishing both her pleading and the fear she was trying desperately to hide. All along he had been playing with her, as a cat will play with the unfortunate mouse he has captured.
What an apt comparison. Travener was simply playing with her by allowing her to imagine there was any hope at all of rescue. He had lied to her to get her into the coach with him, and then he had continued to lie throughout the journey.
And there was no one, she realized, who could know where they were. Not Mrs. Kemp, who believed she was on her way to London. Not Ian, who even now...
She took another breath, fighting the tightness in her chest that the thought of Ian evoked. But if Travener had lied about everything else, and she knew now that he had, then he must have been lying about Ian's condition. Nothing in the story he had told about the duel made sense. If she could only keep her head...
Keep her head? She couldn't even seem to think any more. She was alone in the wilds of Scotland with a madman, and by the time anyone suspected something was wrong, it would be too late.
Wilson, Gayle Page 21
