“Have you gone mad?” she interrupted his narrative of their imaginary future, fighting against the sudden prickly tightness in her chest. There had to be another choice.
“I’m quite sane.”
“Was this your scheme?” Gall rose up hot and swift inside her. “Why did you come to my room tonight? Did you arrange all this?” She swept an arm wide.
“Arrange what? The two of us stuck on a road in the middle of the night?”
“My ruin?” she bit out. “Did you plan all this . . . very convenient that everyone should know to walk into my room—”
“I received your note!” He fished a crumpled piece of parchment from his pocket.
“I didn’t send you any note.” She took several steps forward and snatched it from his hands. She squinted through the gloom to read the scant words. “I did not write this!”
“I surmised as much. After the fact, of course.”
She shook her head. “Who?”
“Hamilton, of course. How else did he know to show up in your room with Thrumgoodie and Libba in tow?”
Of course. It should have occurred to her sooner. “Hamilton must have been thrilled to see his plan work so brilliantly.” She laughed brokenly.
“What do you find so amusing?”
“We gave them quite the display, did we not?”
Logan was silent for a long moment. The night hummed around them. “It’s obvious we’re drawn to each other . . . the attraction is there.” Her pulse skipped faster. “You. Me.” His voice stroked over her, as deep and endless as the star-studded sky. “It would not seem a horrible alternative.”
She nodded, but the motion made her head ache. It would be both horrible and wonderful. She swallowed thickly. If only the wonderful part did not ultimately lead into the horrible. She’d revel in his bed, in his arms. She felt that in her bones. But then the loss would come. The pain. The sorrow. And yet if she could save her family in the process, stop another brother or sister from dying, it could be worth it . . .
Still unconvinced, she backed away from him in a slow step.
He stared at her with grim understanding. “Yet you still refuse.”
She moistened her lips. “Attraction isn’t everything. It’s scarcely anything. I’ve seen sensible women lose their head over attraction. The price they paid was too high.”
“I’m offering honorable marriage.”
“She was married, too. Still is,” she returned quickly, unable to keep thoughts of her mother at bay. “That only ended up trapping her, keeping her chained and bound forever.”
“She?” His eyes glittered. “You’re speaking of someone specific? Your mother?”
Cleo tightened her lips. She’d said too much. She was not inclined to unburden her personal history upon him. Upon anyone, for that matter.
“Well,” he finally said. “Whoever she was, she certainly made a lasting impression.”
With a sigh, Cleo picked her valise back up and handed it to him.
He hesitated only a moment before taking it from her and attaching it to his saddle.
No sense torturing herself. As he said—the sooner they reached the village, the sooner they could acquire accommodations. And the sooner tomorrow would arrive . . . and she’d be on her way to Town.
She could tuck herself away in her father’s house and figure out what she was supposed to do now that her plan had been obliterated. She came up with a new plan to save her family—a plan that did not include him.
Once she was settled atop his mount, he led the horse down the rutted road.
“How much longer?” she asked after a few minutes.
He sent her a sideways glance. His lips curled ever faintly but he held silent.
“Now you won’t speak to me?” she demanded, looking down at him. “Very adult of you.”
“Be quiet,” he snapped, his head suddenly cocking to the side.
She pulled back her shoulders, her hackles quivering. “Don’t you dare speak to me—”
He reached up and covered her mouth with his hand. She felt her eyes go round in her face.
His eyes glittered up at her. Shaking his head, he motioned with his free hand for her to dismount. She nodded. After a heavy pause, he slipped his hand from her face. Hunkering down, she slid from the horse.
Once she faced him, he pressed his face close to hers and whispered in her ear. “I don’t think we’re alone.”
At these words, her eyes strained, looking left and right into the crowded press of trees. She could see nothing beyond their dark trunks and moon-soaked branches. No movement. No sign of life. Just an utter stillness that went beyond what was normal. And suddenly she realized it was too still, too quiet. The air tightened in her lungs.
He thrust the reins into her suddenly shaking hand and fumbled for a moment with the satchel attached to the saddle. She saw the glint of a knife’s blade before he tucked it out of sight.
“Wait here,” he instructed in a voice so low she barely heard it.
She grabbed his wrist as he began to move away, practically lurching at him. “You’re leaving me,” she whispered.
“Wait beside the horse.” He peeled her fingers from around his wrist.
She stared uncomprehendingly after him as he crept away, the large shadow of him disappearing into the trees. Was he really leaving her alone when there might be brigands lurking in these woods?
Her fingers clenched around the reins. She looked nervously to the left and right. Feeling inconspicuous—and foolish—standing in the middle of the road, she began walking, one foot falling after the other, crackling upon twigs and leaves covering the road.
Her eyes scanned the yawning stretch of road ahead, and the bowing trees that pressed in on either side of her. And yet the world was still oddly quiet, motionless.
Snap.
She stopped. The sound was close. She glanced at the horse, wondering if the noise had come from him. Her fingers nervously patted his velvety nose as she glanced around again.
She bit back the urge to call out for Logan and lifted her foot to continue—only to stop. She swallowed. Her eyes straining into the murky gloom.
The sensation of someone close, just behind her, raised the tiny hairs on the back of her neck.
She spun around to find two leering men upon her. Gasping, she stumbled back. One of the men grabbed the reins. The horse whinnied and sidestepped at the fierce tug.
It was as if they’d materialized from air. One was as skinny as he was tall, while the other was squatter, solid as a boulder, his eyes sunken and mean-looking.
“Ah, looky,” said the skinny one, sweeping her with his gaze and flashing a rot-toothed smile. “A fine bit of lady, aren’t you?”
“I’m not alone,” she blurted.
“Aye, that’s right. Where’d your man go?” He peered into the trees before calling out in jarring tones, “Come out wherever you are! We’ve got your little dove here.”
Nothing. She strained to listen for Logan, but not a sound greeted this.
“Maybe he heard us and decided to look out for his own neck and leave her,” the squat one volunteered.
Rot-tooth sneered at his comrade. “Well, it’s true you make too much noise, Dixon. Like a herd of elephants you are.” Satisfied with his insult, he sniffed and turned his attention back to Cleo, assessing her with a calculating look. “I don’t think he’d forget her. Not a fine lady like her.”
Cleo took a step back, hoping that was true. Where was Logan? Rot-tooth waved a pistol, motioning her to come closer to him.
Instead, she moved back another step. And another, contemplating how quickly she could mount Logan’s horse without getting herself shot.
She didn’t get very far before Rot-tooth yanked her against him. She was instantly assailed with the aroma of unwashed body. She struggled, only falling still when she felt the cold tip of the pistol press against her temple.
She closed her eyes in a slow, agonizing blink. Unbelievable as it seemed, she felt only regret faced with this moment that could be her last. Who would help her family now?
She suddenly wished she had allowed Logan more liberties. If she was about to die, the reasons for not tasting the passion he offered her seemed suddenly insignificant.
Before she could contemplate that further, Rot-tooth’s voice ripped through the night. “We have your woman. Unless you want to see her in pieces all over this road, you’ll step out now.”
She bit her lip until she tasted blood. Was Logan even out there? Her stepfather wouldn’t have stuck around for her mother . . . she didn’t even know if Jack would have remained in such a situation. Would any man? She didn’t have much experience with noble or honorable men—especially when self-preservation was involved.
“He’s gone,” she declared, turning her head to look back at the villain, and then stopping when he dug the pistol deeper into her head.
“I don’t think so,” he replied.
“Maybe he did leave her, Ansel.”
“And leave his woman? His horse?” Ansel shook his head and turned to face Dixon, lifting the pistol from her head as he did so. She exhaled a breath of relief to feel the weapon removed from her face, even if only temporarily.
“I don’t think so,” Ansel continued.
The air whistled, and she felt the sudden rush of something launch past her, just inches from her shoulder.
Ansel’s grip on her arm vanished and she was free. His body dropped to the ground with a thud. She looked down and choked on a gasp at the sight of the knife imbedded deeply in his shoulder. He choked and made incoherent sounds, twisting his head to look in astonishment at the butt of the knife jutting from his shoulder.
Dixon cursed and fell down beside his friend. “Ansel! Gor, Ansel! You’ve been stabbed!”
“I know that!” Ansel cried, his face a contortion of pain and panic.
Shaking her head, Cleo jumped to action and scrambled for the forgotten pistol. She located it on the ground several feet away. Snatching up the weapon, she grasped it in her hands and pointed it at the unsavory pair.
She’d barely had time to acclimate to the heavy feel of it before it was plucked from her hand. Strong fingers stole it away as if she weren’t gripping it at all.
Her gaze shot to Logan. He stood beside her, his expression revealing none of her anxiety, just stony resolve.
“Now,” he announced, his deep voice maddeningly calm. “Listen to me . . . Dixon, is it?”
Without a word, Logan moved, positioning his body between Cleo and the men on the ground. She peered around him to see Dixon’s face as he looked up at Logan, his sunken eyes wide and unblinking.
Logan’s voice continued, deep and authoritative, “You’re going to collect your friend there and disappear back into the trees . . . after you return my knife to me, of course. I’m rather fond of it.”
Nodding, Dixon turned to Ansel, grimacing as he pulled the knife free of his shoulder. Ansel cried out and pressed a hand over the gushing wound. Cleo almost felt sorry for him in that moment—until she recalled that he’d threatened to blow her to bits all over the road moments before.
Dixon wiped the blade clean and then offered the dagger back to Logan.
“Very good.” Logan secured the knife. “Now, toss down the rest of your weapons. Including Ansel’s blade tucked away inside his boot.”
“Bastard,” Ansel growled as Dixon removed his blade and tossed it to the ground, followed by his own knife.
Logan ignored him and stepped forward to kick the weapons farther away from the men. “Cleo, gather those up.”
She quickly obliged, collecting the two knives in her hands. Rising again, she watched the drama unfolding in front of her, marveling that Logan had thrown a knife into her attacker across goodness knows how far a distance. She tried to imagine Thrumgoodie defending her in such a manner and nearly snorted at the implausible image. She quickly chased the thought away. She didn’t have Thrumgoodie in her life anymore, so there was no point comparing him to Logan. Or pondering his inability to protect her. That’s not why she’d wanted to marry him in the first place.