Chapter Seventeen

T he mizzerly rain was still falling when Sam and Kit arrived in the stableyard to find James holding the reins of Abelard and Hercules. Abelard, Kit's rangy black thoroughbred, swished his tail and stamped his feet in impatience, not having been out with his master since Morvoren fell ill. The bay, Hercules, Sam's no less handsome, but far less fiery beast, turned pricked ears towards his master.

A second groom was fastening Kit's and Sam's saddlebags to the saddles.

Sam took Hercules's reins and swung himself up into the saddle, and groped for the stirrup with his right foot. Kit leapt onto Abelard and turned towards the clocktower archway. Side-by-side, they rode out into the mist-shrouded park.

"We'll have to go into Marlborough first," Kit said as they cantered down the drive, their horses' hooves crunching on the gravel. "To check if Featherstone left yesterday as well." He wiped a hand across his face to get rid of the film of rain. "It's always possible that Ysella might be there with him, although I doubt it. I fear I'm right in my surmise. She's run off with him. Or rather, he's run off with her. If that's true, then she's more stupid than I thought her."

Sam held his tongue, despite hating to hear his beloved called stupid. Kit was right. Ysella, if not stupid herself, had done a very stupid thing. He itched to get straight off after her, rather than waste time chasing around Marlborough, but at least there they might be able to discover what sort of vehicle Featherstone had at his disposal.

However, the runaways must be miles away by now, and with every moment getting further away, so time was of the essence. And what was more, every minute he and Kit delayed brought Ysella closer to having to spend the night with the cad. Sam's stomach, which had been knotted since he'd heard the news, seemed intent on inducing him to throw up the remains of his breakfast, but he managed to hold it in.

Marlborough lay some eight miles distant along not so good roads that always made any journey by carriage take longer than it should. On horseback, able to canter along the muddy verges and avoid the worst of the winter's potholes, Sam and Kit made it to the town in under an hour.

They trotted down the wide, cobbled main street towards the Castle Inn at the far end. This hostelry did not resemble the average posting inn at all, having once belonged to, and been lived in, by the Earl of Hertford. Consequently, it possessed the fa?ade of a minor stately home, with magnificent red-brick wings to either side of an imposing pillared portico.

Having left their horses with grooms in the stableyard, Sam and Kit strode through the inn's wide front doors in search of someone to interrogate. There they found the inn's proprietor, as stately as his hostelry, directing the polishing of glasses by a trio of young potboys.

"Good morning," Kit said, an edge of irritation in his voice. "Do you have a Captain Featherstone staying in your establishment?"

The proprietor, a tubby fellow sporting a pristine white apron, made a measured bow. "My Lord Ormonde. What a pleasure it is to see you grace the walls of my humble establishment." He spoke with a care that indicated he'd learned his pronunciation late in life.

Greasy fellow, fawning over Kit because he was one of the local gentry. Sam scowled, tapping his riding whip against his leg hard enough to hurt. Could the man not answer a straightforward question? He longed to take the fellow by the collar and shake the information out of him.

"Featherstone. Is he here?" Kit snapped, all niceties thrown to the wind.

The proprietor, a trifle crestfallen that this was all Lord Ormonde should want, shook his head. "I'm afraid your lordship has missed him. He left yesterday in rather a hurry." Behind him the three boys had taken advantage of his lack of attention, and were listening open mouthed and not doing any polishing.

"When?" Sam asked, unable to resist the temptation to interrupt.

"Yes. When?" Kit repeated, taking a threatening step closer to the proprietor, who backed up a hasty step.

The poor man almost cowered, his pomposity fled. Nothing overt had been said, but Kit's demeanor oozed anger. It seemed to at last dawn on the proprietor of The Castle that Kit and Sam weren't looking for the captain out of a desire for friendship. "Yesterday evening," he managed, his hands gripping the edge of the bar. "He was after trading his high-blooded galloper in for a gig and a roadster. A fine animal he had, that he'd ridden down from London, and why he'd want to swap it for something he couldn't ride, I don't know." He hesitated, then added, as if in an afterthought, "Milord." And a little, obsequious bow.

"And did he get what he wanted?"

The landlord nodded. "I believe so, Milord."

Sam's heart sank further into his boots, if that were possible. Featherstone had secured a vehicle he could carry Ysella away in and had what…? He glanced at his fob watch… a good twelve hour start on them.

Kit turned back towards the doors, the man forgotten, throwing his last comment over his shoulder as he reached for the door handle. "Thank you for your information."

He and Sam returned to the stables almost in a run. "Damn the man's eyes," Kit said as they retrieved their horses. "They could be as much as fifty miles ahead of us by now. If not more."

Sam set his foot in his stirrup and swung himself up into the saddle. "His one horse won't be able to keep up that sort of pace for twenty-four hours, and he'll have had to negotiate some bad patches of road after all this rain. He'll have had to stop to rest it, water it, feed it. And Ysella will have needed rest stops as well. It may not be that bad." Or it might be worse. Sam couldn't bring himself to say that.

"The only route they can have taken is north to Gretna Green," Kit said as they rode out of the stableyard. "We have to catch them before they get there. I won't stand by and see her married to a fortune hunter and a cad." He glanced at Sam. "For preference we have to catch them before she's forced to pass the night in his company."

Sam's gut tightened. "Surely, as a gentleman, he'll procure her a room on her own?" A faint hope. He didn't for a minute believe his own words.

"A gentleman?" Kit spat. "You think a gentleman would run off with a girl barely out of the schoolroom? To seize her inheritance?" He spurred Abelard on. "We have to hurry."

*

At much the same time as Kit and Sam were setting out on their rescue mission, the object of their pursuit was sitting in the White Hart Inn on the road north nibbling at a luncheon snack of soup and bread with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. Unlike Captain Oliver Featherstone, who had tucked in with great gusto to a loaded plate of roast beef, potatoes and some indeterminate green vegetable.

Ysella pushed her spoon around the bowl of greasy soup, the lump in her throat preventing her from swallowing anything. After Oliver had helped her into the gig he'd exchanged his flashy riding horse for, she'd settled back under the blanket he'd provided and determined she would enjoy their escapade and view it as an exciting adventure. But, in a gig, the potholes couldn't be avoided, and the drizzle that had begun at first light had invaded every part of her clothing, creeping under the blanket and chilling her hands and feet to blocks of ice. She'd suggested to Oliver that they should get out and walk in order to warm themselves up a little, but he'd pooh-poohed the idea with a dismissive laugh and she'd not dared suggest it again.

It had been a great relief when he'd turned the gig into the stableyard of a small inn, in a town she didn't recognize, and said they would take a break for food and to rest the horse. He'd asked the landlord for a private parlor with a fire, and Ysella had rushed to stand in front of it and warm herself up.

Oliver joined her after about ten minutes, a satisfied expression on his face. "I've traded our tired horse in for a fresher one," he declared. "So, once we've eaten, we don't need to wait around while our horse recovers. We can proceed posthaste."

Why he was looking so pleased about this, Ysella had no idea. The gig was bumpy and uncomfortable and twelve hours in it had left her feeling as though she'd been run over by a set of harrows. However, she had no opportunity to complain as their food arrived, brought by a buxom barmaid who seemed on far-too familiar terms with Oliver, thrusting her ample chest at him and batting her eyelashes suggestively.

Ysella contented herself with giving the hussy a hard stare and sat down at the table. Oliver not seeming to be in the mood for talking, they ate in silence. Probably he was as tired as she was. After all, he'd been the one doing the driving.

As Oliver wiped his last piece of bread around the plate to scoop up the remains of the gravy, Ysella pushed her barely touched bowl of soup away and lifted her eyes to meet his. "Do we have to go on today? I'm so tired and it's impossible to sleep in that gig, with all the bumps in the road."

His handsome face furrowed into a frown. "Of course we do, my love. We can't risk your brother catching us up, can we? Not before we're safely married, that is."

"I suppose not." Ysella fidgeted. "But it's raining and that gig is so cold."

Oliver brightened. "I'll get the landlord to provide you with some hot bricks to keep you warm. How does that sound?"

Better than nothing. Ysella bit her lip and stayed silent. This wasn't turning out to be nearly as much fun as she'd thought it would be. Not at all romantic to be driving through cold, wet countryside in the sort of rain that didn't feel like much but soaked you to the skin. Nothing like her romantic novels where the sun always shone, and an eloping couple reached Gretna Green in a matter of hours.

True to his word, though, Oliver procured three hot bricks wrapped in flannel for her, one to go each side on the seat, and one for her feet. So, a much warmer Ysella huddled under two blankets—Oliver had managed to get hold of a second for her—as they drove out of the inn's stableyard with their new horse, a bit of a step down on the first, between the gig's shafts.

The afternoon crawled past. Eventually, the bricks gave up all their heat and the cold began to seep into Ysella's bones again. The rain became heavier, and despite the gig's hood, Ysella's misery increased as night approached. At last, in a small town whose identity Ysella didn't care a jot about, Oliver drew the gig to a halt at another inn. Leaving horse and gig to be cared for by the ostlers, he led a half-frozen Ysella inside.

"A room for the night for my wife and myself," he called to the jovial, red-faced landlord. "And dinner to be served in our room, if you please. My wife is chilled from her journey, so make sure there's a good fire and the sheets are well aired."

What a relief it was to find herself in a bedroom with a blazing fire in the hearth. Ysella hurried to stand in front of it to warm herself, holding out her hands in confused delight. A little nub of fear had hatched in her stomach, and she had no idea how to deal with it. Had she been mistaken, or had Oliver called her his wife to the landlord?

Warmth began to creep back into her frozen fingers at last, making them tingle.

Oliver gave the boy who'd carried their bags up to the room a coin, and came to stand behind her. "Better get your wet spencer off. We can hang it up to dry for tomorrow. Perhaps you should have worn your pelisse instead. It might have kept you warmer." His arms went around her from behind, his fingers on the fastenings, brushing her breasts as he did so.

She couldn't argue. Her own hands were still too numb to manage fastenings.

He slid the spencer off her shoulders and hung it from a peg near the fire, but he didn't leave her. Instead, his arms went around her again, and this time they did cup her breasts.

Ysella stiffened. Was this the behavior of a husband to his wife? If so, wasn't Oliver taking the part he was playing a tad too seriously? She was not his wife yet, and she felt fairly sure betrothed couples didn't behave like this. "I'm cold," she whispered. "I need to warm up."

"I can do that for you," Oliver whispered into her ear, one hand sliding inside the low neckline of her gown, forcing its way downwards. A shiver of excitement ran through Ysella's body to be quickly followed by cold fear. Certainty that he was not meant to be doing this swept over her, followed by the sensation of being alone and unprotected and unable to prevent him doing so. She was alone with a man who was the next best thing to a stranger, no matter how he made her feel. Quite alone. They were not married yet, but he'd told the landlord they were, and he could do anything he liked to her, and she would be powerless to stop him. The most frightening thing was that she half wanted him to do something. Was she a wicked hoyden? Guilt, excitement, and fear mingled in her heart.

Oliver kissed her neck, his lips warm and firm on her cold skin.

Oh, but that was nice . Shivers ran down her treacherous body.

His hand slid a little further down inside the neckline of her gown, and a gasp escaped her lips as he reached her nipple. It hardened under his fingers. Was that something any man should do to a girl? Instinct told her probably not one he wasn't married to. No matter if the landlord thought them an old married couple. But, oh, it was nice. She arched her back against him, head back. She very much liked the sensations coursing through her body.

A knock sounded on the door. He whipped his hand out of her gown and went to open it, readjusting his breeches as he walked as though uncomfortable. A young girl came in, carrying a tray of plates. "Dinner, Sir."

Oliver, his face flushed, indicated the table. "Put it down and leave, please."

She did as she was told, scuttling from the room.

More beef and potatoes. Did inns serve nothing else? Ysella's experience of inns not being very extensive, she could only suppose that they did. There was also a large flagon of wine and two glasses.

"Come," Oliver said with a smile that sent more shivers down her body and made her want him to touch her again, which in its turn brought on a fresh wave of guilt at how wanton her behavior was. "Sit down and eat something. If you don't, you'll waste away. And food will warm you up faster than a fire will."

Ysella sat down and considered her plate of food. Perhaps she could eat just a little. She picked up her knife and fork. What would Mama be eating at Ormonde? And Morvoren? They must have missed her by now. Mama might be unable to eat for worry. She'd think she'd lost Ysella like her other children. Like little Peran. She tried to push these thoughts out of her head, but they would keep shouldering their way forward again.

Was Kit even now hot on her trail, or had he decided he couldn't leave his sick wife? If they'd discovered her missing some time this morning, they would still be a long way behind. If they'd set off at all. Maybe Kit had decided she was old enough to make her own decisions, although that seemed unlikely, given his apparent hatred and scorn for Oliver.

She nibbled some of the meat, which was over-cooked and dry with only a watery gravy. Oliver was right, though. She needed to keep her strength up.

"What are you thinking about?" Oliver asked.

"Home." The word popped out before she had chance to think.

He frowned. "No need to bother yourself with that. It's not your home any longer. Your home will be with me. We'll get ourselves a nice townhouse once we're married. That'll be your new home."

So it would. The reality of leaving home seemed to be descending on Ysella a layer at a time. Was she homesick? Was that what this nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach was? Did she miss Mama and Kit and Morvoren and baby George? Did she miss Ormonde and Lochinvar? Would she ever ride Lochinvar again? A host of questions tumbled through her head and she had to bite her lip to prevent the tears from falling. She really couldn't eat any of this food, feeling the way she did.

Oliver must have seen. "You'll get used to married life, have no fear. We'll get you some nice new gowns when we get back from Gretna Green. You'll soon forget your old life." He attacked his beef with gusto and poured himself another large glass of wine. He'd already drunk most of the flagon and his cheeks had taken on a ruddy flush.

She bent over her food. He could say that to her, but inside, Ysella knew she wouldn't get used to it at all. Not for a very long time.