It was locked.
He kicked it.
Only to burst a blister on his toe.
He hopped up and down.
His hopping led him to the sink.
The hip tub was empty, propped up against the wall beside it. The water bucket sat in the sink. And the sponge…
Was gone.
He distinctly recalled placing that sponge inside Abigail.
Either she wore it still… or she had taken it with her.
And with the incongruous thought came reason.
He had left her at the crack of dawn to hunt down the cursed horse that had thrown him two nights ago. She had been curled against him, soft and replete.
He had thought to find the damned horse by the time she was awake. Instead, it had taken half the day.
The bargain had been
If he had been Abigail, what would he have thought if he had awakened, alone, in a cold bed with sunshine pouring through the window?
But the old caretakers would know.
It took Robert three hours to locate the Thomass. He was met with stoic silence.
'Her didn' leave no address.' Mrs. Thomas's weathered eyes were full of hostility. 'I drove 'er to the train station an' that be that.'
Robert clung to his patience. 'Then give me her family name. You must have that information.'
'It 'pears to me, ye bein' 'er mister, ye should know that yerself,' Mr. Thomas said craftily.
Short of beating the information out of the old man and woman, there was nothing Robert could do. Except try the train station.
Which was closed.
He returned to the cottage by the sea.
There were candles in the cupboardbut no butter; Mrs. Thomas's doing, clearing out the perishables. Lighting a candle, he contemplated the stripped bed and the trunk at the foot of it. Then, calmly, methodically, he retrieved the pistol from his saddlebag and blew the lock off.
The sponge lay on top of
Blistering pain enveloped Robert's chest.
Grimly he picked up the sponge. It still smelled of brandy and hot, wet woman.
Bottomless brown eyes alight with amber fires stared out of the sponge.
A wave of exhaustion rolled over him.
It was immediately followed by a rush of rage.
By leaving behind the trunk and the sponge Abigail had made clear her decision.
He should let her walk away. He should let her have her cold, passionless reality.
But he wasn't going to allow that.
Abigail would not get away from him that easily. He was a soldiera damned good oneused to tracking down far more wily quarry than a genteel lady.
He would find her. If not tomorrow, then the next day. Or the next.
Robert picked up the journal. It was marked by a dark wet circle.
And when he found her… he would know every sexual act that she had ever read about. That she had ever fantasized about.
The next morning found Robert a thoroughly educated man. Acting on impulse, he packed the twelve copies of
Old man Thomas was tending a pig and a dozen squealing piglets when Robert reined in his horse.
'Miss Abigail left a trunk inside the cottage. Store itI'll arrange to send it to her later. Meanwhile, I will give you a sovereign if you will take me to the train station and feed and care for my horse until I return.'
Old man Thomas upturned a bucket of slops into the sty. 'Miss Abigail said we wus to throw that trunk away. Ain't no need to store it. 'Less you care to buy it, of course…'
Robert grimly dug out another sovereign.
'I don't suppose Mrs. Thomas remembers what town Miss Abigail was getting off at?'
The birdlike eyes fastened onto the gold. 'We don't keep track of renters. In an' out like flies, they are.'
'And of course you don't know the name or address of the owner of the cottage,' Robert remarked cynically.
Thomas licked his lips. 'We just does what we're told.'
The old man stuck to his story all the way to the station.
The ticket seller was more helpful. He remembered selling a ticket to a lady'going to London Station. She didn't look too happy going there, neither. Her eyes were all redlike she'd been crying. You her husband?'
Robert hardened his heart at the image the ticket seller painted.
Abigail had given him everythingand had left him with nothing. Tears seemed a cheap price for the pain she had caused.
He purchased a ticket without answering.
In London a cab drove Robert to an affordable hotel on a quiet street like the ones on which he used to work when helping his father sell ices. After visiting a tailor, he commenced his search.
The thought of Abigail turning thirty without him there to celebrate with her spurred him on.
Unfortunately, he was not of the upper ten thousand. Nor had he ever made friends with commissioned officers who belonged to that prestigious club.
After three weeks in London, Robert was no closer to finding Abigail than he had been when questioning the Thomass. Until he picked up a newspaper.
There was her face, in the society section.
Underneath it hailed the news that Lady Abigail Wynfred, sister of the Earl of Melford, was marrying Sir Andrew Tymes, eldest son of Baron Charles Tymes and Lady Clarisse Denby-Tymes.
The wedding was to be a small family affair, the article went on, that would take place on the twenty-seventh of June at the Earl of Melford's London town house.
Robert could feel the color draining out of his face.
Abigail was the sister of an earlthe
No wonder she had not offered Robert her last namea liaison with a common colonel would rock society.
Had she been simply a woman born into gentility, Robert could afford the simple luxuries due to her station in life. But she was of the aristocracy.
There was nothing a man like him could offer a woman like her.
He studied the picture of her fiance.
Sir Andrew Tymes had side-whiskers framing plump, round cheeks.
No doubt he and Abigail would own several pianos.
And every one of them would be draped with ruffles.
