Yvette insisted on holding her hatbox, which unbeknownst to Ewan, contained a custom-made, ivory handled pistol, in addition to several other items she deemed essential to their safety.
Tilting the lid open only enough to slip her hand inside, she ran her fingers over the cool, ivory handle. Though she’d fired the pistol dozens of times, it had never been at a human.
If the time came, would she be able to pull the trigger?
Chapter 14
Early the next morning, amid the serenades of sleepy songbirds, a reticent Ewan handed Yvette into the carriage. They would reach Somersfield by nightfall, bringing an end to her sojourn with him.
He was unusually quiet for the first several miles of travel. The road was dry, and the carriage left a gritty cloud in its wake. She sneezed, then sneezed twice more. “Do excuse me. It must be the dust.”
Reaching inside her reticule, she retrieved a scented hanky, then blew her nose. Replacing the lacy bit of fabric, her hand brushed against the wrapped rattle. The paper crackled in protest within its cozy confines.
Yvette removed the package, then unwrapped the trinket. The morning sun’s soft glow bathed the silver orb in radiant light. The bright beam deflected straight into Ewan’s eyes.
“What are you attempting, to blind me?” Chuckling, Ewan took the rattle. He shook it at her, before turning it over and running a finger along the engraving. “‘Tis a most fitting inscription.”
Preoccupied by the caressing strokes of his hand, she only distantly heard him.
“Do you like children?” he asked, “or large families?”
“Uh hum,” Yvette said, nodding. “Very much. I disliked being an only child. I’d have adored having a younger brother or sister.” She stifled another sneeze behind her hand. “My childhood would have been lonely if it weren’t for the twins and Vangie.”
“Twins?”
“Yes, Josiah and Isaiah Fairchild. Their father has been our butler since I was two. They’re like brothers to me.”
Ewan rotated the rattle in his hand. “You and Vangie are very close too, aren’t you?”
“Yes, more like sisters really.” Yvette rubbed the end of her nose. “Did you know she was orphaned when she was quite young? Papa wanted her to come live with us, but there was something in her father’s will that prevented it.”
Yvette wrinkled her brow. “Something to do with her having to be near her Romani clan.” She curved her mouth ruefully. “Anyhow, life was not easy for her.”
“Aye, ‘tis never easy for an orphan. There are several in my village, Craigcutty, and at Craiglocky Keep, including relatives of my stepfather’s.” Ewan passed the rattle to her, his roughened hand trailing across the inside of her wrist.
The lingering effect of his touch was thoroughly distracting. Yvette stared at his hands. Though his nails were neatly trimmed, his palms bore calluses. From riding without gloves?
“I hope to have several children, if the good Lord sees fit that is.” She smiled at him, then smoothed her skirt across her lap. “I’ve always wanted a large family, should I decide to marry.”
“You don’t want to marry?” Ewan asked.
Something in his tone gave her pause. “I should like to marry, but—”
She doubted he’d understand her reluctance to be a man’s chattel with no rights but those he granted her. She hunched her shoulders. “Anyway, I’ve yet to find the man who finds more favor with me than my father’s fortune.”
Glancing at him, and seeing his furrowed brows, Yvette pointedly changed the subject. “What of you? Do you have any siblings?”
A broad grin split his face. “Aye, I do indeed. I’ve three younger sisters and a brother who’s just seen his six-and-tenth birthday.”
“Four,” she clasped her hands against her chest. “Tell me about them.”
He tossed his hat onto the seat, then removed his riding coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat before resuming his story.
“Adaira, the eldest, is two score and fiercely independent. And I might add, loath to wear skirts. More often than not, she’s astride her stallion dressed in leather breeches, much to my mother’s horror.”
Reaching to remove her bonnet, Yvette gaped at him, incredulous. “She wears breeches?”
“Aye, more often than skirts.”
Could she ever be that daring? To ride astride and wear breeches? No, perhaps not breeches, but she could dare to defy convention and stay unwed if she never found love.
“My middle sister, Isobel, was eight-and-ten on her last birthday, and has every young swain in five shires at her beck and call. She’s brilliant though, and considers them inferior intellectually.”
Ewan paused in his narrative to adjust his position on the seat. “‘Tis an immense family secret, but Isobel wears spectacles, no doubt from reading excessively.” His brogue more pronounced, he lowered his voice to a whisper. “You have to promise not to tell.”
Tell? Lord no. Yvette wore spectacles when she read too. Should she tell him?
Perhaps not quite yet.
Bobbing her head in agreement she vowed, “I’ll not say a word.”
He chuckled. “I was but teasing.”
Dratted man.
To hide her discomfiture, she asked, “The others?”
“My youngest sister, Seonaid, is bashful with an extraordinary affinity for animals. Both wild and domestic animals alike let her tend them. She also has the second sight, a prophetic gift, not unusual in Scot’s women.
“Second sight.” Yvette gaped at him, once more. “You mean she knows things?”
Ewan nodded, stretching his legs before him. “Aye, and she’s not often wrong.”
“My word,” breathed Yvette, enthralled.
“Then there’s Dugall, a rascally whelp if there ever was one.” Ewan chuckled and shook his head. “He’ll be breaking many a bonnie lass’s heart.”
As you have?
Good Lord, where did that come from? Yvette mentally shook herself. “Your childhood must have been very happy.”
He nodded, his eyes darkening and taking on a far-off look. “There’s no place like Craiglochy. Scots protect their own with loyalty and devotion foreign to outsiders.”
Yvette stared, entranced. His face had softened and the tone in his voice when he spoke of Craiglocky was reverent.
When he saw her peering at him, he shook his head, quirking the corners of his lips skyward. “I do get sentimental when I speak of my home, forgive me.”
“I should very much like to see your home one day.”
“Nothing would please me more.” His smile and the timbre of his voice held a promise.
Yvette smiled in return. “What of your parents. Are they alive?”
“Father died when I was in nappies. I don’t recall him at all. Mother says I resemble him. She eventually wed Hugh Ferguson, my father’s best friend. ‘Tis a sweet love story in the telling.”
“I should like to hear it. Will you tell me, please?”
Ewan proceeded to do so until they stopped at Cross Keys Inn for a fresh team of horses and to eat a light repast.
He had become tenser with each passing mile. To the casual observer his edginess was imperceptible, but attuned to him as she’d become, Yvette recognized the signs: Stiffly held shoulders, flaring nostrils, and the familiar tick in his jaw, whitening his scythe-shaped scar.
It wasn’t the talk of his family that caused his stress either. It was obvious he enjoyed sharing about them. Several times Mr. Carmichael had ridden past the carriage, and each time, Ewan’s eyes had darkened further.
They didn’t dawdle at Cross Keys. Ewan appeared as anxious as Yvette to resume their travels now that their destination was near. She was taken aback when he escorted her from the inn to a
post chaise waiting in the stable. He looked too serious by far. “Ewan, whatever . . . ?”
He didn’t let her finish. “I’ve arranged for a post chaise to take us the remaining leg of our journey.”
She furrowed her brows. “Why must we switch carriages?”
“‘Tis simply a precautionary measure.” As he spoke, he and Mr. Carmichael transferred the smaller luggage to the hackney. All was done in the covert privacy of the inn’s stables, out of public site, with the drivers standing watch at both entrances.
Her gaze traveled between the coach and hackney. “My trunk?”
“Will remain with the park-carriage,” Ewan said. “‘Tis too obvious if we transfer it to this vehicle.”
Yvette watched in silence for a few moments, her ire rising with each passing minute. Did he think to keep her in the dark?
Ewan curved his lips into a thin smile, then indicated the dusty hackney with a tilt of his head. “Trent will go with the empty carriage, taking another more commonly traveled route to Somersfield. We shall take a shorter, somewhat bumpier road I usually use when traveling on horseback. He’ll meet us at Somersfield.”
Yvette crossed her arms and shook her head. “I’m not getting in that,” she flung her hand in the hackney’s direction, “until you tell me what is going on.”
Ewan’s eyebrows rose, and he shot Mr. Carmichael a surprised glance before shifting his gaze to her once more. “I’m sure you’re aware the carriage that nearly ran us down yesterday did so intentionally.”
She scowled at him. “I’m not dim-witted, Ewan.”
“We’re being followed.”
He handed Mr. Carmichael the boxed carousel.
“I presumed as much. Why didn’t you say something earlier?” She eyed the carousel as Mr. Carmichael placed it inside the rented chaise.
Ewan paused. “I didn’t want you to worry.” He passed the aide her valise.
Yvette glared at him. “Are you daft? My parents were poisoned. I have survived a near fatal riding accident, an attempted poisoning, and I fought off Edgar twice. Did I tell you I stabbed him the first time?” She extended her hatbox to Mr. Carmichael.
He took it from her, a wide grin on his face.
“Thank you,” she murmured before launching into Ewan once more.
“I fled Boston in the middle of the night with scant more than the clothes I wore. I crossed an ocean—in the company of Mrs. Pettigrove, no less—and was chased on London’s docks. Edgar broke into my chamber the very night I arrived in England, and we were nearly trampled by a team of horses yesterday.”
Her voice had risen to a shout. “And you didn’t want me to worry? I’m way beyond worry, you arrogant dolt!”
Mr. Carmichael laughed aloud. Ewan sent him a fierce scowl.
Hands on her hips, she glared at him. “Just because I don’t choose to be confrontational, and I find being affable much more pleasant than being contentious, does not mean that I want to be coddled and protected. My God,” she jabbed him with her fan, “I’ve had a lifetime of being smothered and protected.”
Ewan cocked his head, then chuckled. “Your point”—his gaze sank to the fan she still brandished like a dagger—”is well taken. I promise to keep you more informed.” Still grinning he said, “I sent a messenger ahead to notify Ian and Vangie of our arrival today.”
Peggy entered the stable and came to an abrupt halt. She looked first to Ewan, then Yvette, confusion etched across her face. “Why are there two?” She motioned to both conveyances.
“We will complete our journey in this one,” Ewan said, indicating the hackney with a sweep of his hand.
Peg shook her head vehemently. “I won’t. I told you, me stomach . . .” She looked at the hackney with something akin to loathing. “I ain’t had an easy time of it atop ta other one.” She pointed at the chaise, “And I ain’t gettin’ in that one.”
It was no use. Yvette and Ewan tried their best, but Peggy refused to go on. Their departure was delayed while Ewan paid her, then made arrangements for her return to London.
Yvette hugged the girl. “Thank you. I know you’ve had a difficult time of it.”
Peggy wiped tears from her eyes. “I tried, miss, I truly did. I couldn’t do no more.” She snuffled and blew her nose in the handkerchief Mr. Carmichael gave her. “Me stomach’s been turned inside-out since we left London.”
“I know.” Yvette’s sympathy for Peggy’s blight did nothing to ease her own misgivings. She would have to complete the last portion of their journey without a chaperone.
“Good luck to ye, miss,” sniffled Peggy before she turned and walked into the inn.
Yvette drew in a deep breath. There’s no help for it. Somersfield was only a few hours away. Turning to Mr. Carmichael holding the carriage door, she offered a half-smile. “Thank you for taking this precaution for us. I know ‘tis an inconvenience.”
He shook his head. “No inconvenience, Miss Stapleton.” He took her arm to assist her into the carriage.
She paused with one foot on the step. “How much farther to Somersfield?”
“Three hours, mayhap a bit more.”
Yvette nodded, then climbed into the carriage.
Though clean, the chaise was shabby from constant use and lacked the luxurious padded seats and well-sprung undercarriage of the park coach. Yvette crinkled her nose. She suspected, from the sour smell permeating the vehicle, a previous passenger had cast up their accounts on the scratched and scarred floor.
Outside the hackney, Ewan spoke quietly to Mr. Carmichael. Yvette strained to hear. Not that she was given to eavesdropping mind you, but she was most curious. She edged toward the door, listening.
“Park the carriage before the inn and make a pretense of convincing anyone watching that Miss Stapleton and I’ve already boarded. I’ve arranged to have a basket of food sent along. Hopefully, any spectators will be convinced we are within. Put it inside, and tell Malcolm I’ve requested the shades drawn for some privacy with my betrothed.”
Yvette drew herself up. Merciful God in heaven, that was sure to tarnish her reputation.
She snorted in self-derision.
One moment she was determined to maintain her independence—and in the next, she was lamenting her decisions, fearing the marks against her reputation would hinder any opportunity for a good match.
To leave her options open, her reputation must remain intact. She wasn’t opposed to marrying, but any nuptials would have to take place when she was ready and under conditions that were acceptable to her.
Vangie’s marriage to Ian had been forced. Both had bitterly protested the union and Vangie had run off to her Romani clan. Yvette was determined to love her husband, before she married him. She’d no desire to endure the heartbreak Vangie had.
Yvette and Ewan left the inn a full half-hour before Mr. Carmichael was to follow the empty coach from the courtyard and down the road in the opposite direction.
After a few miles, she raised the hackney’s shades, then shoved open a window. She looked pointedly at Ewan. “You’re not riding in here with me.”
Ewan grinned. “No?”
“No.” She pounded on the roof with her fist, and the vehicle lurched to a bumpy stop. “My reputation is already in shreds, but I won’t willingly contribute to my ruination.”
Humor dancing in his eyes, he said, “The devil you say. You want me to ride outside?”
Yvette lifted her chin and squared her shoulders. “Yes.”
He chuckled. “Very well.”
He hopped from the carriage, then shut the door. Poking his head in the window he teased, “Are you quite sure?”
She tamped down her urge to smile. “Quite.”
A moment later the vehicle tipped as he climbed to the driver’s seat.
The coachmen’s skills left much to be desired. Though inept drivers, the fellows were cheerful chaps. They sang one naughty ditty after another at the top of their coarse voices. She was sure she heard Ewan’s baritone singing along several times.
Her face flamed with heat more than once as a crude taproom lyric echoed over the rough road. The bile rose to the back of her throat, and her jaw snapped painfully as the coach plunged into another large pothole. She clutched at the seat once again. She was sure her jaw and behind would be sore for a week.
Regarding the former she shifted gingerly, muttering, “‘Tis probably covered with bruises.”
Peggy had made a very wise decision.
Almost four hours later the carriage turned into the lengthy drive announcing their arrival onto Somersfield grounds. An elaborate stone archway bid them entry to the estate.
As the post chaise squeaked and protested its way down the well-tended, rambling lane, Yvette was hard pressed not to bounce in her seat, she was so excited.
The hackney rounded a corner and in the distance, the mansion rose resplendently into view. Leaning forward to peer out the window, Yvette could see figures waiting at the top of the manor’s steps. Vangie and Ian. They were awaiting their arrival.
The chaise rumbled to a stop and Yvette scooted to the seat’s edge. She reached for the door’s handle, impatient to reunite with her cousin. Ewan was there first. He swung the door open. As Yvette stepped from the coach, her toe caught on the hem of her gown, and she tumbled headlong from the carriage. Ewan caught her behind her shoulders and under her knees. The feather on her hat smacked him across the nose.
“Oomph.”
“Oh.”
Her astonished gaze flashed to meet his amused one. She darted a quick glance at her cousins. Vangie stood open-mouthed gawking at them. A scowl lining his brow, Ian’s knowing gaze traveled between her and Ewan.
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