Amy struggled up on her elbows. “Our betrothal papers burned in the fire. It would be your word against mine. My Aunt Elizabeth would swear her brother never betrothed me to the likes of you.”
His face went slack, but only for an instant. “You’d still be ruined. You’d have no choice but to marry me then.”
“You’d better think twice, Robert Stanley,” Amy shot back without thinking. “I have friends who would make you sorry.”
He pounced on the bed, crouching over her with his hands on either side of her head. “Who would make me sorry?” He pushed his hands down at each word, for emphasis. “Who? Whoever they are, I’ll kill them if they come after me. I swear it!”
Amy would have been terrified by this evidence of his obvious madness, had she not been distracted by the bouncing mattress escalating her diminished headache into a virulent pain.
His pale eyes narrowed as he growled deep in his throat. “It’s Greystone, isn’t it? And his blasted family.”
She froze.
Evidently the look on her face was all the confirmation he needed. He raised a fist and slammed it toward her, but she was ready and jerked her head to the side in time.
“Robert!” she screamed. “What have you turned into? Look at yourself!”
And miraculously, he did. He picked up his fist from where it was buried in the mattress and stared at it as though it were a foreign body. Then he slowly climbed off the bed and wandered over to the table.
He sat down, dropped his head to the surface with an audible bump, and stayed there, perfectly still.
Amy released her breath. She was shaking from head to toe.
She had to get out of here before he stole her innocence. She choked back a sob at the mere thought, the possibility of him violating her physically. She didn’t think she could bear the disgust and humiliation.
Robert lifted his head from the table. His steely blue gaze locked on hers. His breath came in loud, ragged gasps.
Silent moments ticked by.
His expression grew hard and resentful. “You’ll be mine,” he stated in an ominous, deep whisper.
A chill slithered down her spine.
“Cold, proper Amethyst Goldsmith will be mine for the rest of my life.”
FIFTY-TWO
COLIN REACHED St. James, the first church outside Aldgate, just as the evening service was concluding.
The congregation was sparse. Religion had lost favor when Charles and his loose-moraled court took over London, and most people attended church only for baptisms, weddings, and funerals. Colin shifted impatiently, twisting his ring back and forth as the curate completed his sermon.
The minute the parishioners began shuffling out, Colin strode toward the pulpit, jostling shoulders in his haste.
“Excuse me, Father,” he called when he was but halfway down the aisle. “Did you marry a couple yesterday—he red-haired, and she small with black hair and—”
“Would you care to examine the marriage register, my son?”
Colin winced at the humor in the curate’s voice; clearly the man was no stranger to lovesick swains having their intended brides stolen out from under them.
The register was duly produced, and there were nine recorded weddings dated the previous day—none of them Robert’s or Amy’s.
“Did you see them?” Colin persisted. “Perhaps you know where—”
“No one came to be wed yesterday who wasn’t accommodated. Perhaps they went to St. Trinity?”
Colin was already out the door.
The marriage register at St. Trinity had logged eleven ceremonies, and Colin’s heart seemed to grow larger in his chest as he scrutinized the long list. When he reached the end without seeing either name, he stumbled to a front-row pew and plopped down.
“Did you find what you were looking for?” the plump curate asked kindly.
“No, which is a relief. They didn’t wed here, and they didn’t wed at St. James.” Amy was yet unmarried. Colin slumped on the bench, his pulse returning to normal.
Until another thought occurred to him.
He jumped up. “Is there another place in London where one can be wed—ah—in a hurry, without a license?”
Robert’s friends had recommended only the two, but—
“Nay.” The curate grinned, clearly pleased that he shared his lucrative business with but one other clergyman. “Not in London. In the countryside, near Oxford…”
Colin exhaled a long breath. “Too far to signify. They got a late start last night.”
The curate ran his tongue over his uneven teeth, thinking. “This couple, from late last night. He wouldn’t have had red hair, would he?”
Colin’s heart skipped. “Yes! And she’s small, dark-haired—”
“I never saw her. He said she was waiting outside, and she was likely to be…reluctant, I believe he termed it.”
Thank heavens. Having left Amy at the town house without so much as saying good-bye, a tiny, insecure part of Colin had been wondering if the blood could have been an honest accident, if Amy might marry Robert willingly, given the circumstances.
“I expect them back here in the morning.”
“I must find them tonight. She could be injured…”
The clergyman frowned. “They’re likely close at hand, as he’s planning an early return. Perhaps at a nearby inn. You might try Fenchurch Street.”
“Thank you, Father.” Colin was so relieved he felt like kissing the fat, bald man, but he thought that would be improper with a man of God. Instead, he dropped a coin into the collection box on his way out.
The curate hurried to retrieve it when the door shut. Silver. It wouldn’t quite cover the loss of the red-haired lad’s wedding fee, but it was something. His sudden—and unexpected—surge of sympathy for the young woman may have cost him a few shillings, but no matter. Over fifteen hundred paying couples a year found their way to his altar.
NO RANSOM NOTE arrived.
A crackling fire warmed the drawing room, but the cold knot inside Kendra refused to thaw. Ford sat next to her and held her hand, which may have provided a small comfort if Jason’s constant pacing weren’t driving her to distraction.
She bit the inside of her cheek, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth.
