Someone roared inside the taproom. “Everybody on the coach! We wait for no one!” The passengers came pouring out. They hardly waited, but clambered on board, the roof passengers scrambling up to the top as fast as they could, some with chunks of bread and other food in their hands. The coachman meant what he said. He kept to his timetable.
Marcus watched them, sent out his senses and scanned them all, uncaring of his personal credo of giving people their privacy. It meant nothing, since he would not remember any of them.
Not one. He stepped back to allow the coachman to drive through the arch that separated the inn-yard from the street. She was not on that one. There remained another. After half an hour, the same routine happened, the yelling, the fighting to get on board or on top. All through it Marcus waited and scanned the passengers. He wanted to be absolutely sure she was not among them. She’d spent some time with him, and he’d blocked her mind to other people—it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that she had learned how to seal the small gap he’d left for himself.
She was not on that coach either.
Where was she?
Grimly, Marcus took the only course open to him. He set his tactical mind to work. If he could not find her by communicating in the way of the gods, he would have to rely on his human intelligence, and trust that he made the right decisions.
If she was not on the London coach, she could have taken another. He would ask at the half-dozen coaching inns in the city until he had his answer. He would pour guineas over the heads of every landlord until he discovered the truth.
If he did not act quickly, she could die, or be lost to him forever.
Neither outcome was acceptable.
Chapter Sixteen
Ruth sat on a boulder at the side of the road, gloomily surveying the coach. The huge monster of a vehicle stood passengerless, while the coachmen worked on the wheel. The boot was piled high with luggage, and the horses were taking advantage of the break, cropping the sparse grass on the verge edging the ditch. At least it had stopped raining. She’d been on the road for two days. Nearly three now. She couldn’t remember being so tired before in her life.
The effort of keeping her mind closed to intruders exhausted her even more. She had to concentrate to keep the door Marcus had told her about locked tightly. She’d felt something like a knock, movements outside, but she had paid them no mind. If he had not tried to reach her she would have been more shocked. But she had to work hard to keep it closed, because she so wanted to open it and let him in. Even now she wanted that.
She’d have reached London much faster if the stage from Scarborough was not already full, but this would do. Or it would, had the coach not developed a loose wheel. “’Appen it ’appened when we crossed the bridge outside ’Ull,” said the second coachman, who appeared to possess a severe aversion to the letter “h”, especially at the beginning of words. He unfastened his greatcoat. “At least it’s stopped raining.”
He handed the coachman a hammer and the sound of iron against iron made her shudder. “We can get to Lincoln, then we’ll stop fer the night,” the man informed the passengers waiting by the side of the road. Some stood, some sat on boulders and others strode up and down. Nothing helped. They would not go much further today. They were on the outskirts of the city, the towers of the cathedral piercing the air ahead of them.
Ruth had expected to get a London coach there, but the delay and the expense of buying a pair of secondhand shoes to replace the rags on her feet had thwarted that plan. Her only hope was that by changing vehicles, anyone who cared to pursue her would be confused, and maybe imagine she went somewhere else. Part of her wanted it, but that was because she missed him almost more than she could bear.
Leaving Marcus and the babies was the worst thing she’d ever done in her life. That she must do it did not help her cope with the tearing loss in her heart, so much she knew she would never recover from it.
Over the last two days she’d rationalised her terror, as much as she could. Marcus and his colleagues had not disrupted society so far. She doubted anyone would believe her if she went and told them what she had learned. Who in their right mind would? Unless they knew other events that tied in to what she knew. In that case, it was her duty to tell someone in authority. She knew nobody to go to, no friends who would help her, so the first thing she would do was to register with a domestic register agency. She would take anything, as long as it was legal and it paid.
Having settled her course of action, Ruth felt a little better, but nothing would stem her grief. When a kind fellow passenger asked her what was wrong, she said she’d lost a member of her family and received sympathy she did not deserve. That and the constant drizzle that had destroyed her straw hat and forced her to wrap a kerchief over her plain linen cap, in a vain effort to keep dry. For of course, she could not get a seat inside the coach. Neither could she afford it.
Sometimes at home she’d seen the coaches sweep past her, passengers clinging to the rail that edged the roof, and imagined the excitement of travelling that way. Now she knew the reality. There was no excitement, only terror when the coach lurched along a rough stretch of road or turned a sharp corner too fast. Discomfort also, from sitting on the hard, black-coated surface. After the first eight hours she gave up any pretence of dignity and leaned against the man next to her, who similarly used her as a prop.
She would never, ever travel that way again, and when they reached Lincoln she would buy a seat inside the coach. Also a new hooped petticoat to replace the one she’d abandoned in Hull, when it proved impractical to ride on the roof of a coach wearing one. Her skirts now dragged in the dirt. She kept what money she owned inside her stays, which she had not removed for days. Her tears deterred all but the most determined lecher, a man who seemed not to understand the meaning of “No” and touched her whenever given the excuse. She’d slept with a chair propped under the door last night and shared her bed with a fellow traveller, a woman going to visit her sister in the City. Mrs. Arbuthnot, a widow, talked incessantly about her sister and the grand people she knew, how Mrs. Arbuthnot was bound to find her next husband in the next few months. “I don’t hesitate to tell you, dear Miss Smith, she has the ear of a baronet, no less. I daresay I can help you in your aim. You possess letters of character, I take it?”
Ruth smiled and nodded, enough to set the lady off again. “I am sure she will know somebody. A young woman such as you should find a good position. Once you establish yourself and settle in at your lodgings, you should call on me. I will be staying in a charming little street close to Holborn. You must allow me to give you my direction.”
Ruth might find some kind of sanctuary with this lady, if she could bear Mrs. Arbuthnot’s constant name-dropping and references to people she couldn’t possibly know.
“Out of the way!” one of the male passengers cried. “There’s a rider coming and it don’t look like he’s planning to stop!”
They cleared the road. Ruth stayed where she was, her head cupped in her hand, leaning her elbow on her knee. Without the brim of her hat to shelter her, she did her best to hide her features and her height. Even now she would not relax. But how could he find her, in all the roads of this country?
Part of her still wanted him to.
The passenger was wrong about the rider. He was obviously in a hurry, but he slowed as he approached them, the sound of his horse’s hooves slowing from a gallop to a canter, and then a trot. He probably did not want to encounter an obstacle. In any case, there was scarcely room for a rider to pass. The coach took up most of the space. Since the road was edged by a ditch and a hedge, he could not go around but would probably need to walk his steed.
The man halted his steed and climbed down. Ruth took a deep breath, steadying herself. She felt like this every time they stopped at a posting-inn or drove past another vehicle, desperate worry she would be discovered combined with an equally d
esperate hope it was him.
This rider wore a dark red riding coat, a cocked hat wedged on his head, and his saddle was stuffed. He must be on a long journey. He was tall too, with wide shoulders, just the kind of man—
The breath stopped in her throat. He’d found her.
With typical arrogance, Marcus tossed his reins to one of the passengers, who caught them as if he was a stable boy, cowed by his presence. That passenger had reprimanded Ruth for even thinking of travelling alone, and even read her a sermon last night on the subject of fallen women and the dangers respectable women faced in the city of sin. As if anyone would look at her twice, especially like this.
Except for Marcus. He strode to where she sat and came to a halt before her, legs planted wide, arms folded. “Well?” he demanded.
“Well what?” she answered. Her feeble attempt at disguise gone, she sprang to her feet and faced him, clamping her jaw shut to still its betraying tendency to tremble. For the same reason, she clenched her hands. The back of her neck cricked when she lifted her chin and reclaimed her full height. The summer breeze whipped past her face.
“What happened to your hat?”
She frowned. “What? It rained. Straw doesn’t do well in the rain.” Why should she answer to him? Except she had. “As you can see, I am well and I need no help from you.” She turned her back on him. “I bid you good day, your grace.” If she could hold her nerve she might send him away. She could beg the other passengers to save her, that she was afraid of him. Which was no more than the truth. What would he do to her, now that he’d caught up with her?
The passengers were murmuring, all nine of them moving closer, unashamedly listening. The coachmen had ceased trying to mend the wheel and were standing watching her, broad grins wreathing their faces.
“Oh no you don’t, madam. I have ridden miles for you. You do not dismiss me now.”
“I thought my actions told you I wished no more of you.” Tears started in her eyes, but he could not see them, because she had her back to him. Terror infused her, forcing her defiance.
“Hoyden!” he said, a note of appreciation warming his voice.
If she looked at him, she’d collapse. Ruth set her jaw and said nothing.
“Our sons are asking after you.”
She whirled around, confronting him indignantly, anger rising temporarily to swamp her fear. “We have no sons, and your boys are too young to talk!”
“It made you look at me.” Stripping off a glove, he touched her chin softly and sighed. “You led me on a fine chase. Get on the horse.”
“I will do no such thing!”
“You will if I have to put you over my shoulder!”
Murmurs arose from the people gathered around them. “Not a highwayman, then,” said one of the inside passengers.
She could not look at him and remain unmoved. Thoughts came unbidden to her mind, memories of their brief happiness. This man, this god, she knew him. Whatever else he was, he had not used the immortal side of himself to threaten or intimidate her. Only to protect her. Her resolve weakened a tiny bit.
His grey eyes fixed on hers. “Wherever you wish. Why did you go, my love?” His anger temporarily dissipated, he looked as bleak and lost as she felt.
“Because—you know why.” Tears sprang to her eyes. Angrily she blinked them away. In a moment the breeze would dry her wet cheeks.
“Come with me now or I will not be responsible for what happens next. “Do you know what a duke does when he is angry?”
Ruth shook her head.
“Would you like to find out? Or would you rather distress him even more and see what happens then?” Emotion throbbed in his voice.
The vulnerability she saw in his eyes melted her, despite his words. “I’m not your love.”
He caught her hand, stroking it through the thin fabric of her glove. “Of course you are. Even when I’m as angry with you as this. You left no note, no intimation of where you would be.”
Ruth swallowed. She had nearly reached Lincoln. She could disappear in a city. There was no chance of her doing that here. They were on the only main road hereabouts, with no villages close enough. In any case, running clearly did not work. “How did you find me?”
“With a lot of bribery, several fast horses and a knowledge of the way your mind works. I knew you would try to lose yourself in a city. What better than London? When I learned of the young lady who took the Lincoln coach, I knew I was right.” His voice softened. “Did you think I would ever stop looking for you?”
A few feminine sighs followed that pronouncement, but Ruth could not take her eyes from him. She drank him in, feeding that part of her that had ripped apart in her grief, the part she tried to heal and failed.
“You’re hurt,” he said.
“Only grazes.”
He glanced down at her hand, the gloves hiding the healing scrapes she had sustained when she’d run away. “Too many. I won’t have my wife hurt.” He concentrated on her as if she was the only person there. “You behaved far too rashly. I will not allow this to happen again.”
What could she say? That she was not his wife? That would set her up for instant condemnation by the travellers watching avidly. “Marcus, I—”
“On the horse,” he repeated. She glanced at the animal, standing with his head up, alert and ready, unlike the horses drawing the coach.
The murmurs rose. “He’s a gentleman,” someone said.
“More than that,” someone else added, the widow who had befriended her. “He’s a duke.”
Everyone went silent until someone, a woman, piped up, “I didn’t know she was married.”
Mrs. Arbuthnot cackled with laughter. “To think, I’ve been sitting inside the coach with a duchess on the roof!”
Marcus cast a glance at the top of the coach and Ruth could swear he went pale. “You were up there?”
“I couldn’t afford a seat inside.”
He closed his eyes. “Come with me now.” His lips thinned, but he did not let go of her hand. “That is not a request, Ruth.” Gripping her hand, he towed her to where the passenger, now saucer-eyed, held the horse. “You—rode—on—top,” he repeated, as if he couldn’t believe it. Cupping his hands, he helped her to mount, then quickly swung up behind her, holding her in his arms. Her skirts flowed over his breeches. Someone handed up her valise and Ruth clutched it as if it was a lifeline, her knuckles turning white.
She had lost. Whatever she had planned to do when she reached London, she could not do it now. No register office would ever use her name as a potential governess, either Ruth Simpson or Ruth Carter, the name on her forged letters of character. He could find her that way, so she’d already begun to consider a new name, and a fresh start.
Without another word, Marcus touched his hand to his hat in salute and set the horse in motion. “Lean against me,” he murmured as they left the wondering passengers and coach behind. “Rest. I can feel your exhaustion. How could you take such chances with your precious life?” Anger throbbed in his voice.
She did not reply. How could she tell him of her terror when she’d overheard that conversation in the library, her need to get away? Especially when he surrounded her, warming her.
He urged the horse into an easy walk, the movements steady and regular, lulling her.
“Rest, my love,” were the last words she heard before exhaustion claimed her. “Be assured I will never hurt you. I’d hurt myself first.”
She could not keep her eyes open a moment longer. Leaning her head on his chest, Ruth fell into an exhausted sleep, the most profound slumber she’d known for days.
* * * * *
Marcus rode into Lincoln and set the inn alight, demanding everything and then more. He’d found a maid at the inn who helped Ruth bathe and then dress in a new gown he somehow procured. She had been lucky. Her poor cut and g
razed feet had not taken deep infection.
She was treated like a princess, food brought to her in the best room available, until she could not think any more. For the first time she slept soundly, her injuries properly attended to. She did not know where Marcus slept, but it was not with her. Briefly she thought about running again, but she could not. She must face whatever lay ahead with her head high. Whatever it cost her.
The next day he carried her to the coach he’d hired, murmuring to her, “I saw how you stood yesterday, as if you were on hot coals. Do not even try to tell me you did not hurt your feet.”
The coach was so unlike the stagecoach that the only thing they had in common were the wheels and the curses of the coachmen, which appeared to be ubiquitous, no matter how one travelled.
The rain had dried up, and a gloriously sunny day bathed them in warmth. Still vibrating with anger, Marcus rode by the side of the carriage, leaving her to her thoughts. She wished she would not. Anything was better than this fraught silence. He’d caught her, but she still didn’t know what he meant to do with her. Not that it mattered any more. He could kill her and nobody would be any the wiser. Her parents certainly would not search for her. Try though she might, with his body hard behind her, she could not imagine him doing it. Or even trying to. True, he was furious with her, but not in a way that boded danger for her. Only anger at what she had done.
When she tried to talk to him after they stopped to change horses and he took her into the inn for a meal, he touched her lips and bade her hush. “As far as anyone on the road knows we are husband and wife, travelling to London. I want you rested and well. Then we’ll talk. I need your word that you will not run once more.”
What would be the point? He would only find her and catch her again. From the way she’d missed him, as if a part of her had been torn out when they parted, she did not have the heart to run again. “Very well.”
They were seated in a private parlour, so they could speak freely. He sighed. “I cannot bear for you to look at me like that, Ruth.”
War Chest: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 5 Page 23
