He brought his hand up, hesitated, then began to stroke her hair. “I know.”
“I’m all right,” she said again, trying to pull away, as if ashamed of even that momentary betrayal of fear and weakness.
But he held her close, his lips pressed to her hair, his eyes squeezed shut. “Shhh,” he whispered. “It’s over.”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
She nodded and glanced away, her lips held in a thin, tight line, her throat working as she swallowed. He had the feeling she was holding herself together with a gritty combination of pride and determination.
He said, “I can still put the horse to. You could ride on the box with me if you don’t want to be inside with ... her.”
“No. Let’s just . . . go.”
He swung into the saddle, then slipped his foot from the stirrup and leaned down for her. She put her hand in his, and he gripped her forearm and hauled her up in a scrambling rush of ripping muslin skirts and rucked-up petticoats.
She settled easily behind him, but he was aware of her gaze drifting back to the carriage.
He said, “It’s not your fault.”
“No. But perhaps if I had been kinder to her ...”
Gathering the reins, he turned the horse’s head toward the lane. “I find it difficult to believe you were ever unkind to her.”
“Perhaps not unkind, exactly. But if I’d been less impatient, more understanding, then perhaps she wouldn’t have ...”
He said again, “It’s not your fault.”
They rode through shadowy woods and empty, moon-silvered fields, the steady plodding of the horse’s hooves the only sound in the stillness of the grass-scented night.
He was aware of her holding herself stiffly behind him, her hands barely touching his waist. And he found himself wishing she would simply relax and lean into him, take some measure of comfort from his warmth and his nearness. He could only guess at the horror of all that she had been through in the last twelve hours or the extent to which she was still struggling to come to terms with her own capacity for violence and the need to make that knowledge a part of her understanding of herself.
She said, “I keep thinking I should feel some measure of remorse or at least regret over the deaths of those men. But I don’t. I’m glad I killed them.”
“Personally, I find that perfectly understandable. I see no reason for you to feel remorse. But then, my own propensity for violence is considered by some to be excessive.”
She surprised him with a soft, ragged chuckle. “And you are a man. Our society expects women to be gentle and forgiving. Not ruthless and . . . lethal.”
“Gentleness and forgiveness have their place. This was not one of them.”
Her hands shifted subtly at his sides. She said, “I’d like to think I killed them because of what they did to Marie. But that’s not true. I killed them because they made me afraid. I don’t think I’ve ever been that afraid.”
Her admission both touched him and surprised him. He said, “I was afraid too.”
There was an awkward pause. Then she said stiffly, “Under the circumstances, I will understand if you wish to withdraw your offer of marriage.”
It took him a moment to grasp what “circumstances” she was referring to. “That’s very kind of you,” he said, keeping his voice light with effort. “But I have no intention of allowing you to cry off at this late date.”
“I am not attempting to cry off,” she said with some heat. “But you must realize that what happened today will inevitably become known.”
“Your kidnapping is known already.”
“So.”
“So?”
“You know what people are like—what is no doubt being whispered at this very moment in nearly every drawing room and club in London. People will say you married soiled goods. And in time there will be sly suggestions that this child is not yours.”
He drew up and swung to face her. “Do you seriously believe I would refuse to marry you because of today?”
“People will say—”
“Not if they value their lives.”
“What are you suggesting? That you challenge half of London to a duel?”
“Somehow I doubt it will come to that.” He moved the bay forward again.
She said, “I would like to make it quite clear that those men did not ... I mean, that nothing of that nature occurred ...”
“Miss Jarvis, believe me when I say that even if it had—”
“Even if it had, it would in no way influence my determination to make you my wife.”
Silence fell between them again. This time, he was the one to break it. “Did you hear nothing that might indicate who hired those men?”
“No.”
“Your father sees the dark hand of Napoleon’s agents.”
“It does make sense.”
“The idea being that some French agent is the killer, and if you were busy looking for me then you wouldn’t have time to pursue him?” She paused as if considering this. “It’s possible, I suppose, if the intent were to buy time for the murderer to flee the country. Otherwise, what would be the point? De La Rocque and Ross are already dead.”
Once again, he drew up to look at her over his shoulder. “You knew de La Rocque was passing the French War Ministry’s briefings to Alexander Ross?”
“I did.”
“And you didn’t tell me—why, precisely?”
“I am not in the habit of betraying confidences.”
He made a noncommittal sound and urged the horse forward again.
She said, “I hardly see how you can complain, since it’s exactly the same reason you refused to tell me how you knew Ross died from a stiletto thrust to the back of his neck.” When he remained silent, she added, “I’ve figured it out, you know.”
“You have?”
“Mmm. It wasn’t difficult, given the condition of the body when it was exhumed.”
“You heard about that?”
“All of London has heard about it.” The church spire of the village of Elstree appeared above the treetops before them. She said, “You also didn’t tell me about Ezekiel Kincaid.”
“I didn’t?”
“You didn’t.”
