“So just like that, you decide five years of penance is enough?”
Ethan rested his head on his fist, staring at the glass. “Can you tell me what more I can do? I mean it. Name one thing I can do tae make everything right, and I’ll do it. I’ll do it standing on my head while shoutin’ ‘God Save the King.’” The words had to fight past a throat tight with regrets. “I used tae be an arse, but I’m no’ that man anymore. People depend on me for their livelihood, see? Besides, turns out I can make bad decisions sober as well.” Like giving his heart to a woman never meant to be his.
Cal’s expression remained neutral as he raised his glass. “To doing all we can.”
Ethan touched the rim of his glass to Cal’s. “Tae being better men.”
The whisky burned as it went down. He had no desire for another.
* * *
As the sun set, it became apparent that rescue would not arrive as soon as Lottie would wish. With no way to calculate how far ahead they were of whomever Darling had alerted, she kept her ears open but found the day wearing on her. Yes, Darling was healthy and raising hell on her behalf—Lottie could not contemplate the alternative. She must not give up hope.
Someone would come. Soon.
Tugging the thin blanket over her shoulders, she cradled her head on her arm and stared into the fire. Their small room contained one narrow bed, which Montague had claimed, and a table barely large enough for a washbasin of water.
Today had been hell. True to his word, Montague had trussed her like a piece of wild game at each change of horses. The shiny pink skin on her wrists glowed red in the firelight. No doubt her ankles showed the same marks of abuse, although her walking boots provided some measure of protection. By the end of the day, Montague believed her sufficiently cowed to stay quiet without a gag. And she had, since she’d been too busy plotting her escape.
Montague had shared their “tragic” story with the innkeeper, along with a coin. She’d stared at her feet, wishing the earth would open and swallow her, then meekly followed him upstairs. The bastard should count his lucky stars she didn’t smother him in his sleep with a pillow.
With no money, transportation, maid, or protection of any kind, all Lottie could claim was her father’s name. Unfortunately, the Earl of Brinkley held little influence this far east, and she had no way to prove the connection. Montague had a fat purse borrowed from someone with equally shady morals. The flashy carriage, the horses, the steady flow of coins—none of it belonged to him. Through circumspect prying, she’d determined that Montague owned nothing except clothing, debt, and a substantial ego. There could be a valid argument made that the clothing wasn’t his, since she’d bet the tailor remained unpaid.
Montague’s snores overpowered the snaps and pops of wood in the hearth. Did most men snore? During their one night together, Ethan hadn’t made such a racket. The snoring paused. A bubbling gurgle of flatulence echoed through the room. The snoring resumed.
How could anyone think eloping to Scotland was romantic? Hours upon hours cramped in a carriage, barreling up the Great North Road, relieving themselves in front of one another, and now spending a night on a hard floor, listening to a man break wind. Ballrooms and lusty novels did not prepare one for this. Thankfully, Montague had turned his back willingly enough when nature’s call had finally forced the use of the bourdaloue, and then she’d disposed of the “dirty” linens in the small pouch within the bag he’d fetched for her.
All a ruse, of course. A ruse that needed to continue if she was going to have any chance of Montague keeping his hands to himself. They were one day down, with several more ahead of them. Lottie prayed an opportunity for escape would present itself during that time. She could only natter on about bowel distress, nausea, and cramping for so long before the man knocked her out again.
This—by far—had been one of the worst days of her life. Lottie finally allowed her eyelids to drift shut.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would escape.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Doesn’t kidnapping and elopement strike you as rather melodramatic?”
“Blame your precious Lord Amesbury. He didn’t leave me much choice in the matter,” Montague said.
“What does Ethan have to do with this?”
“Ethan, is it? He and Lord Carlyle bought my gaming debts, then wrote my father threatening to ruin me. Father isn’t happy. To add insult to injury, there’s a rumor that Father cut me off. This last week men tried to collect debts left and right. Hounding me as if I were some commoner, instead of a gentleman. I’m not going to debtor’s prison.” Montague curled his lip in a cruel expression that fit him perfectly. “If I marry money, everyone is satisfied. You’re conveniently rich, and the man who attempted to ruin me seems awfully attached to you. That’s what I call a winning hand.”
A winning hand. Something Montague must not be terribly familiar with if his gambling debts were crippling. She studied her intertwined fingers instead of looking at his smug face. Funny that someone so vile could remain beautiful on the outside. Thanks to her actions that day by the pond, his nose had a distinctly crooked angle to it, forever marring his perfection. Good. No less than what he deserved for using his physical appeal as a tool, and his ego as a weapon. There wasn’t enough room in the coach for them and his ego.
Catering to the third occupant of the carriage might be key. Pander to his ego. Make him think he’d won. Yesterday Montague had believed her willing to wait in silence, so he’d left off the gag
