‘Well,’ she replied, without so much as a contrite look, ‘now.’
‘You couldn’t have told me yesterday?’
She cocked her head, seemingly considering his question for a moment, while his hands itched to strangle her. ‘No, I don’t think I could have. You had a duel to fight, and you couldn’t have gone after her any sooner, so what would have been the point?’
Irritated beyond all belief, Gabriel gave her a squinty-eyed glare. ‘Are you going to tell me exactly where she went, and how she’s getting there, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?’
‘As if you’d dare,’ George replied with a laugh, which only got louder as he gnashed his teeth and half-heartedly swung at her with his crop. ‘I can’t tell you where she’s going. I promised not to, but I can tell you she’s in my coach, the brown one, with the Somercote arms on the boot. And she’s currently on the Great North Road. I can’t imagine she’s gotten all that far. I told Chandler to go slowly.’
Gabriel sucked in one cheek and bit it softly to keep from yelling at her. Irritating, interfering female. ‘I thought you were on my side, Georgie.’
‘Oh, I am on your side,’ she assured him, with her mischief-making smile beginning to peek out. The dimple in her cheek mocked him. ‘But this isn’t about sides. It’s about outcomes. And you and I both want the same outcome. Imogen does too, she just doesn’t know it yet, or can’t admit it.’
Gabriel raised a brow. Lord save him from George and her machinations. ‘So Imogen has cried off, returned my ring, and run away from Town, secure in the conceit that I won’t follow?’
George nodded, her grin growing wider. ‘I told your valet to have a bag packed. If you hurry, I imagine you should catch up to her by Peterborough. Newark at the latest.’
‘Thought of everything, haven’t you?’ Gabriel asked savagely.
‘I rather think so,’ George replied, wholly unrepentant.
Imogen pulled the fur carriage rug tighter about her legs and rested her forehead against the window while she watched the scenery go past. She’d been on the road for four days, and they hadn’t even reached Grantham yet.
The first day they’d barely made Stevenage before dark, and the second they’d been unable to procure a proper change of horses in Sandy, and had had to stop their journey there and wait. Then it had begun raining, turning the roads into a near impassable mire.
They’d become stuck twice before even reaching St Neots, where she’d spent last night. She was hoping to reach Peterborough tonight. By now she would have normally expected to have been at least to Newark, if not beyond. At this rate it would take them a month to reach the Glenelg estate in northern Scotland.
If she’d been the kind of woman who saw signs and portends in such things she’d have told the Somercote’s coachman to turn around and take her back to Town. The coach hit another rut in the road and bounced her up off the seat. Grumbling, she rearranged herself for what felt like the thousandth time.
Lunch was a welcome distraction. After an hour in a small private parlour, warmed by a cheerful fire and several mugs of hot punch Imogen was feeling much more the thing. Her teeth had even stopped chattering by the time Chandler appeared at the door to urge her back into the carriage.
She hurriedly drank the last of her punch and pulled her gloves back on. Picking up her muff she stepped out of the parlour and moved quickly through the almost empty tap room. Only the determined and the desperate were traveling in such weather.
The earlier rain had diminished to a light drizzle, but even so, Imogen felt more than a bit guilty as she watched the coachman take his place on the box. She was freezing. How was he managing? There was no way she’d have been able to drive all day in such weather, even swathed in wool and coated in oilskin.
Shivering, she stepped out from under the eaves, preparing to climb back into the coach. A sudden commotion in the yard caught her attention as a steaming horse skidded to a stop, its rider already swinging out of the saddle, the skirts of his coat flying out.
An ostler claimed the animal and Imogen was left staring dumbly as Gabriel stormed across the muddy yard. Her heart gave a sickening lurch and her eyes felt suddenly hot. He was alive, and judging by his expression, he was very, very angry.
‘Inside,’ he shouted with enough of an edge that her eyes opened wide and she fell back a step. ‘Chandler,’ he flung over his shoulder, ‘stable ’em.’ Then he turned, grabbed her by her arm, and dragged her back inside the inn.
The landlord appeared, confusion and concern bubbling over as Gabriel, his hand still locked about her upper arm, demanded a private parlour.
Imogen didn’t bother to try and pull away. She didn’t want to. That was the problem; when faced with him, all she could think of was getting closer. Her only hope had been in getting as far away from him as she could, and staying away from him.
At this exact moment her traitorous body was tingling from head to toe. A hot, wanton, a totally inappropriate response to such a manhandling.
He was dripping wet, shaking with anger, and holding her so hard she was sure she’d be bruised tomorrow. Her heart was racing, and not with fear. Biting her lip she allowed him to drag her into the parlour she had just vacated.
Gabriel hauled Imogen into the room the frightened innkeep pointed to and kicked the door shut behind them with a resounding thump. Damn it all. He was wet to the skin, and suddenly so angry it was all he had been able to do not to beat her right there in the inn yard in
