Edward hadn’t looked right through her, but neither had he flirted. He’d been brusque and bossy, remote and sometimes curt, and yet, underneath it all, he’d been . . . kind. Protective. Considerate.
He was, she decided, a puzzle.
A yawn surprised her. She ought to prepare for bed. She laid out the thick flannel nightgown Betty had lent her, but before she could undo a button or a lace, there was a brisk knock at the door and he was back, a heavy brown cloak draped over his arm and a pair of sturdy lace-up leather shoes dangling from his fingers.
“You’ll need proper shoes, not slippers, if we’re going to take a walk,” he said, giving them to her. “Two steps outside and those slippers will be soaked through.”
“But I thought—”
“There’s a way out the back. Elphingstone’s in the taproom at the front. The girl—Betty, is it?—will keep watch for him. If you still want to go for a walk, that is.”
She did. She swiftly donned the shoes—Betty’s again—doubling the woolen stockings under her feet and tying the laces firmly so that the slightly-too-big shoes were snug and comfortable. She fastened the cloak and tugged the deep hood up to ensure her face was well hidden. Despite its heavily practical fabric and color, a jaunty little gold silk tassel was fastened to the tip of the hood. The small touch of frivolity made Lily smile.
Ten minutes later she and Edward were walking along a narrow path that led between the houses behind the inn and up toward the hills that overlooked the village. The night was dark, with fitful glimpses of moonlight showing between the scudding clouds. They passed the last few houses in the village, warm and cozy-looking, their lamplit windows gleaming golden squares defying the night.
They trudged along the path, skirting a dense thicket of trees, making for the top of the hill silhouetted against the night sky. He’d adjusted his long-legged gait to hers. There was something so special in walking along in the night, side by side, alone and yet together.
“This is lovely,” she murmured.
“Lovely? It’s dam—dashed cold. Are you warm enough?”
“Perfectly warm, thank you. This cloak is very thick.” Her face was actually quite cold and her hands were chilled, but she didn’t mind. Betty hadn’t provided gloves and Lily hadn’t thought of them until they were well away from the inn. She’d been wearing long white evening gloves when she’d been abducted. What had happened to them? She had no idea. Not that satin evening gloves would be at all warm.
Besides, cold hands didn’t matter a jot compared with the exhilaration of tramping along in the darkness, breathing in the moist, crisp air, putting the horrid events of the last two days behind her. The bath, the meal and now the cold, brisk air acted like a purge, making her feel clean and whole and herself again, scouring away the memory of the sourness, the fear, the shameful helplessness.
She’d survived; she was free. Nobody could force her to marry. She belonged to herself again. And to her family.
“Whoops!” she exclaimed lightly as she skidded in a patch of mud.
“Here, take my arm.” Without waiting for her agreement, he tucked her arm into the crook of his. Warmth flowed into her chilled fingers.
“When do you think we’ll get back to London?” she asked.
“Depends on the state of the roads and the availability of horses, and assuming we encounter no obstacles or problems on the way, it’ll take most of the day and part of the night—sixteen or seventeen hours at least. I’d prefer to drive through in one day.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “If you can bear it, that is.”
“Of course I can. I’d rather be home than spend another day on the road.” After the nightmare trip with Mr. Nixon, she could bear anything. “But it’s a long day. Can your coachman manage that kind of journey?”
“He can. He’s driven a lot longer and in much worse conditions. And I pay him well.”
“So what time in the morning shall we lea—eek!” She broke off with a shriek as something huge and winged swooped out of the darkness straight at her. She felt the whoosh of air against her face, caught a glimpse of talons poised to attack, and ducked, just as something caught on the hood of her cloak. The tug almost overbalanced her and she would have fallen had not Edward grabbed her and pulled her hard against him.
“Wh-what—?”
“An owl.” He made no move to release her, his arms wrapped firmly around her. “Did it hurt you?”
“N-no, it just gave me a fright.” She gathered her wits. “When I saw those talons coming at me . . .” She shivered.
“But it didn’t touch you,” he soothed, his voice deep and reassuring.
For a moment she simply gave herself over to the comfort of his embrace, leaning against him, her cheek pressed against his chest, his arms firm and solid around her. She took a few deep breaths, breathing in the familiar scent of him, of soap and sandalwood and starch. And safety.
Then, remembering her resolution to be more independent, she straightened and stepped back. “But why—I mean, owls don’t normally attack people, do they?” His embrace loosened, but he didn’t quite release her.
He ran his hand up her spine and cupped the back of her head, exploring briefly. “I think you’ll find that little gold tassel was the target.” His hand was warm.
“The tassel?” She felt the tip of the hood. Sure enough, the tassel was gone. “I was attacked for a tassel?”
His mouth quirked. “It was a gold tassel, after all. Your owl clearly has expensive tastes.”
She stared up at him a moment, then laughter bubbled up from somewhere. An owl with expensive tastes. How perfectly ridiculous.
Ned held her while she laughed, her
