Her cheeks burned. “Freely given to a man of my choosing—that of which you’ll never be.”

“You might surprise yourself.” His lip curled up over his teeth. “I’ve not been refused before.”

“Well, you are now.”

“I’ve not set about trying, my dear.”

“Seems you just were.”

“What? This?” He glanced between them, at the nonexistent space separating their bodies, and chuckled. The sound raised the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck. Everything about him did that, touched her, stroked her without actual contact. “This is scarcely seduction. You would know seduction. I can be very persuasive, I assure you.”

She snorted and gave another shove at his chest. “What on earth makes you think I would want some blackguard from St. Giles to place his hands upon me?” The words burst from her lips.

However much she intended to be insulting, cruel even, her chest tightened uncomfortably at the look on his face. Like she had struck him. A flash of emotion glimmered in his dark eyes before vanishing, leaving flat blackness in its place. Once again, his face was cold, impassive marble.

He stood, peeled himself away from her as if he couldn’t stand the contact. As he moved to the door, she scooted to the edge of the bed and rose to her feet, loathing how unsteady her legs felt.

“Where are you going?”

“Why should you care? I’m simply some primitive. A savage from the stews.”

She held up her chin. “As it pertains to me, I care.”

“We leave at dawn. That’s the only thing you need concern yourself with.” His voice rang sharply. “Get yourself some sleep. You look fit to collapse.” He pulled open the door and stood there for a moment, looking to the side, avoiding her gaze, his profile etched in the sifting shadows. “You promised to consider my offer. I intend to see you keep that vow.”

Already her mind raced, speculating on how long to wait before making her way downstairs to find help from someone besides the innkeeper, who had already formed his opinion of her.

Again, as though he knew the workings of her mind, he added, “And don’t think of leaving this room. No doubt there’s some servant whose services I can engage to guard the door … in order to prevent my poor, mindless wife from leaving and harming herself.”

Oh! She lunged for the washstand and snatched the basin from its nest. With a cry of frustration, she lifted her arm to fling it in his direction, but he was already gone, the door clicking shut. The sound of his chuckle mingled with his fading tread.

The reprobate was clever, damn him.

Well, she would show him. She would show him just how clever she could be … just how clever a woman with nothing to lose could be.

Chapter 10

Ash stomped down the steps after cornering a maid in the corridor and offering her a generous amount of coin to guard the door.

Relieved of that concern, he descended to the main floor, where he spotted his driver and groom at a table, huddled over bowls of steaming stew. With a quick nod to them, he headed out into the night, indifferent to the biting cold. He’d talk with the men later and make certain they knew to be ready at first light.

He didn’t think Jack would come after them. He’d have to know Ash even took his daughter for that to happen, and he doubted he did. According to Marguerite, she wasn’t participating in her father’s little marriage auction. She had, in fact, been leaving the house when he absconded with her. So that she might ready herself for her voyage.

The reminder whispered across his head, sliding down his throat in a bitter swallow, and he knew why. It had nothing to do with her trip to Spain, specifically, but it had everything to do with the fact that she had a lover.

His hands balled into fists, the knuckles painfully tight and aching at the thought of her locked in another man’s embrace … at home in another man’s bed. Absurd. He barely knew her, but possessiveness toward her curled low in his gut as he imagined her with this lover. Some man who probably paced the floors for her now. Ash lifted one shoulder against the cutting wind. Too bad. He felt no remorse for the faceless figure. If this man had wanted to keep her, if he had wanted to make certain no man snatched her away, he should have married her himself. Now she belonged to Ash, or soon would.

He walked directly into the wind’s teeth, glad for the cold slash against his skin. It brought him back to earth. To reality, chilling the warm lust that ran through his veins. Inconvenient, that. Lust addled one’s head, and he needed his thoughts clear and composed when it came to dealing with Marguerite.

She was a clever little witch. Hot-tempered, too. A dangerous combination. He could see the wheels turning behind those whiskey eyes and knew that she would escape if he gave her the chance. He couldn’t let that happen.

He slid a glance to the inn, to the second floor, and then looked away, as if he indulged in weakness by looking back.

The girl in that second-floor room was nothing like he had expected. He had assumed from what Mary told him that Jack’s daughters were all in the market for a husband. But this one—the spitfire with fiery eyes and night-black hair—was hardly the agreeable female he’d imagined. Just his luck that he’d grabbed the one daughter who didn’t wish to be married off.

He should take her back as she suggested and trade her in for one of her more willing sisters. A malleable female who knew a good arrangement when presented with it.

He stopped abruptly and swung around to glare at the inn, specifically the dimly glowing window on the second floor where he knew her to be.

The only problem with that plan was that she had gotten beneath his skin. And not tonight. It was that day in St. Giles. From the beginning, from that first encounter, she’d lingered in his head, with her hot accusations and eyes that burned. And now he had her.

He need only convince her that marrying him was to her benefit and not just his. Once her temper cooled, she’d start to see the logic, the wisdom behind their union.

If he believed in things like fate, he would say their paths had been destined to intersect again. He wouldn’t throw her back like some puny fish. He had her. And he wasn’t letting go.

The carriage rumbled beneath Marguerite with an unsettling rhythm she was coming to know much too well. With a small sigh, she parted the curtains and stared miserably out at the snow-covered landscape.

They’d been together for three days now. Her ship for Spain would have long since departed without her. Roger probably thought she had changed her mind and lacked the courage to face him and tell him so herself.

Courtland had been true to his word. He presented her with a sound argument for a name-in-only marriage at every opportunity. Independence, freedom to do what she wished, go where she wished. Tempting indeed. Only Madame Foster’s words gave her pause, stopped her from agreeing to what was sounding more and more an ideal arrangement.

Of course, she wondered if eschewing intimacy meant she would avert her fated death. Sighing, she rubbed her temples. It was enough to make her head throb.

Escape was her only recourse.

Courtland never left her unguarded. Whenever he stepped from her side he made certain someone was there. Either the driver, the footman, or someone else he paid to hover over her.

“Just seeing that you keep your word,” he had archly reminded her when she protested.

Blast her for promising to consider his offer! “I retract my promise. Take me home.”

Those dark eyes of his had drilled into her so darkly then, flat and motionless as a midnight sea. She’d strained for a glimpse of something beneath the liquid dark, a flicker of his thoughts. “Is that honor to you? Making promises and then discarding them when convenient?”

Rather than scream, she had looked away then, reminding herself that she was not a woman given to tantrums. They had not spoken since.

She supposed an ordinary woman might have accepted her fate. It wasn’t as though she was being forced to wed a hideous figure of a man, after all. He was handsome. He possessed funds enough to outfit her in a lifestyle she never dared dream for herself.

And yet, ever since her collision with Madame Foster, her life had taken a decidedly extraordinary turn.

Ash seemed to relax as London fell farther and farther behind. His shoulders lost some of their rigidity. Not that she thought anyone would follow them. Certainly, the father she had yet to meet would care little for the daughter who failed to fall in line with his schemes.

Courtland’s growing ease would be to her advantage. She was resourceful. She had not survived years at Penwich without using her wits. She’d outsmart Ash yet. She could still break free and find her way back to London, back to Roger. Once she explained everything, he would doubtless reschedule their adventure. There was still time.

“A village lies ahead. We’ll rest and dine there while we change out the horses.”

She nodded, a cloud of breath fogging at her lips. Winter managed to penetrate the well-appointed carriage. She couldn’t imagine the level of cold she’d be enduring if she weren’t traveling in such comfort. Heated bricks warmed her feet and a thick blanket covered her lap. Every morning he draped the blanket on her lap, tucking it around her as if she were a child. She always sat still, astounded at the care he took, struggling to refrain from softening toward him. She couldn’t forget this was the same ruthless man who had abducted her.

She flexed her gloved fingers inside the soft ermine muff atop her lap and stared at him, searching for something unlikeable in his handsome face. A hard-eyed cruelty, a tight-lipped savagery ready to unleash itself on her. Not that she wanted to be harmed … she simply wanted him to be less … appealing.

He’d found her appropriate attire for the cold climate and days of hard travel. That he had taken such consideration of her added to her unease.

No one had ever taken care of her before. Her earliest memories were of spending all her energies on her mother, seeing that she did not languish in the neglect of Jack Hadley. It was a full-time occupation, keeping Mama from wilting and withering away entirely between her visits to Jack.

Marguerite was good at taking care of others. It’s what she did, after all. All she knew how to do.

But this? A man caring for her …

She shook her head, refusing to let that affect her. Tender feelings for Courtland would only weaken her from her purpose. From what she must do. As enticing as his offer was, she could not risk marriage to him. In-name-only or not.

She hardened her heart, warning herself not to be duped into liking him because he provided her with clothes and a blanket. He likely had no wish for her to die from exposure. She moved her gaze from the window, studying his profile.

Aside of his kind gestures, his sound arguments, he’d held himself distant as they traveled north. She was certain it was what she had said that first night at the inn.

What on earth makes you think I would want some blackguard from St. Giles to place his hands upon me?

Ever since she’d flung that insult in a desperate attempt to remove his person from her, he’d held himself aloof. Distant. She’d struck a nerve. Who he was, what he was, where he came from … apparently, those were sensitive points for him.

Or it could just be that he offered her a marriage founded in cool practicality, and he felt no emotion regarding the matter. Regarding her.

The carriage came to a stop. Frigid wind buffeted her as she stepped down. With every mile north they plunged deeper into the teeth of winter.

She shivered and burrowed into her cloak and hood. Walking alongside Courtland, she paused to watch a family walking past with arms full of greenery. For boughs, she assumed, recalling that it was Christmastime. The mother exclaimed as the youngest tripped and fell into his armload of pine and holly. She and the older two children hurried over to the little one, dusting the needles off him and putting a stop to the tears.

“Come,” Courtland tugged on her arm. “There’s a fire inside.”