Fearless and calm, she squared her shoulders.
“No longer interested in screaming?” His voice rolled across the air like tendrils of smoke from a peat fire. She recalled that the treacherous maid had called him Ash. Fitting. Not only did his voice smolder like coals, he made her feel inexplicably warm inside.
“Should I scream?”
“Most women would.”
“I’m not most women.”
“I’m beginning to see that.”
“You see nothing. What good would screaming do now? The only time it would have benefited me was back at Jack’s house when I was gagged. It’s pointless now and would likely only earn me a taste of your fist.”
He chuckled softly, the low sound stroking something deep and unfamiliar inside her. “I would never strike you.”
“No?” She angled her head. “You seemed quite threatening earlier.”
She sensed his shoulder lift in the dark. “I needed you to fear me then. I wouldn’t have that now.”
Her hands balled into tight fists in her lap. “So you merely seed the fear of violence. And what do you think is worse? The fear or actuality of threat?” Before he had time to answer, she rushed to say, “I’ve lived with both and I can tell you it’s a close race.”
He was quiet for some time. She listened to the plod of hooves outside their carriage, sensing he was taking her measure. “You’re not what I expected,” he finally drawled.
She leaned forward on the seat and asked the question that she was almost too afraid to ask. “And why should you expect anything of me?” They were nothing. Strangers. Predator and prey.
He inhaled, the soft sound deep and contemplative to her ears. “I assure you that I mean you no harm.”
“And why should I take the word of my abductor?”
“Because I have never lifted a finger against a female … and I would die a miserable death before I ever assaulted my wife.”
Wife. She jerked from the word, feeling it on a visceral level, a punch to her belly. Heat swelled over her face, making her skin itch. She fought to swallow the impossibly thick lump rising in her throat.
Madame Foster’s voice was there again, a rushed whisper in her head, full of ominous warning. Turning her head slowly from side to side, she wet her numb lips and managed to whisper, “Wife?”
Was this it then? Her unavoidable fate? Would he force her to marry him? Was her life completely out of her hands?
“Yes. You and I shall marry. I’ve taken great pains to acquire one of Jack Hadley’s daughters for that very purpose.”
“Never,” she hissed, fighting the warm wash of tremors his deep voice sent through her.
“I’m certain you’ll come to see the advantages.”
As suddenly as that, the fear that had eluded her, the fear that had seemed so pointless moments ago, found her and sealed her in, sinking its teeth deep.
Chapter 8
Ash observed the female within the deep shadows of the carriage, seeing only the hazy-dark smudge of her. He relaxed against the squabs, perfectly content to delay the moment when he clapped eyes on her. His future wife.
Triumph zinged through him at how easily he had stolen her from the partner who sought to steal everything from him, the empire he had created from two crumbling businesses.
Hopefully, she was at least passing fair. Not that he was marrying her for her face. Still, he hoped she bore little resemblance to her craggy-faced father.
Jack’s daughter seemed to have stopped breathing from where she sat across from him. Curiosity rode hard in his chest, the urge rising to see what kind of woman he had shackled himself to. Before he’d captured her up in the blanket he’d glimpsed dark hair neatly arranged at the back of her head. There was that, at least, to look forward to in his future wife. He enjoyed dark hair, liked seeing it spread across his bed like spilled ink, trailing his fingers through the liquid dark …
Wife. The word left a bad taste in his mouth.
He’d never thought to marry. Had vowed against it, in fact. His earliest memories were of his parents’ fighting, terrorizing and tormenting each other bit by bit until they finally succeeded in killing each other.
As for his sister, she was a casualty of their little war. Had they not been so obsessed in their rage for each other, they might have noticed their daughter slipping away from them, afflicted with rickets and dying in slow degrees. If they’d noticed, if they’d cared, they might have gotten her the proper nourishment she needed, might have saved her.
He shook off the unpleasant memories and faced the present. Getting leg-shackled was the last thing he desired, but he would not have a union like that of his parents. He wouldn’t repeat their mistake. He would never possess such killing hatred for the female sitting so still and silent. It wasn’t possible. To breed that kind of hate, one must first feel love. The sort of love his parents had shared at the beginning.
He squinted at her still shape. Jack’s daughter—his future wife. His gut churned anew at the thought.
He need only remind himself that this marriage would help secure all he’d built—and would show Jack that he was not to be overlooked.
“What’s your name?”
Silence answered him.
Now she would play silent? She’d been full of hot words earlier. “I’ll have it from you eventually.” He shrugged. “Something must go on the wedding register, after all.”
“You cannot be serious.” The croak of her voice scratched the air.
He flexed his fingers on his thigh. “Assuredly, I am.”
“Why would you wish to marry me? You don’t even know me.”
“It is not you, specifically.” He had every intention of being forthright with her. The simplest means to avoid confusion and disappointment. “I’ve determined to wed one of Jack Hadley’s daughters.”
“Then choose another. Turn this carriage around. One of my half sisters may in fact be agreeable. Even now, they’re preparing for a soiree of some sort where they will meet prospective suitors—”
“Which I am not considered to be,” he growled, his hand squeezing into a fist. “Jack does not approve of me as a husband for any of his precious offspring.”
“That’s what this is about then? Some blasted grudge you harbor against my father?” She muttered something indecipherable beneath her breath in a language he suspected was not English. French, perhaps? Her words were too low for him to determine. “Has the world gone mad?”
“Has it ever been sane?” he asked. He had decided the world a far from logical place long ago, when he’d been lost to the streets at the tender age of eight. “When you mull it over, you and I marrying is scarcely absurd. Fitting perhaps. Face it, neither of us is a feted blueblood.”
He caught the motion of her shaking head. “I’ll not wed you.”
Ash inhaled, gathering his patience close. It was only fair to expect she would need a little coaxing, but as soon as she understood the advantages, he was confident she would cease her protests. He was a businessman. He knew how to negotiate a favorable arrangement. “Your agreement is desired, of course. I am certain you will—”
“Desired?” She laughed. The sound rang brokenly, fractured in the closed space. “You think I might desire such a fate? I have plans, and you, sir, shall not ruin them for me.”
“What are your plans then?” He was certain he could counter any of her plans with far better prospects. He need only explain that she had landed herself a good catch, that his pockets ran deep enough to see her in jewels and satins for the rest of her life. “I’m not without means. You’ll live a life of comfort. I have a magnificent home in the City awaiting a woman’s touch.”
She snorted.
He frowned at her shadow. “Consider my words. The situation I offer you would be the envy of many a woman. Home, security—a lifestyle that no doubt far exceeds your present circumstances.” He had not missed the rough wool of her gown when he held her. Hardly the most sophisticated or elegant of wardrobe. “And I’m not exactly repulsive. I’ve been remarked handsome.”
“Is there no end to your arrogance?”
His face burned—an entirely new and uncomfortable sensation. He detested this, this … entreaty. He’d never had to petition for a female’s favors before. “I merely point out qualities that would appeal to a woman seeking a husband.”
“You fail to understand me. I do not seek a husband. You’re ruining everything! I leave tomorrow for Spain.” Desperation tinged her voice. A sweet voice even in her anger. Her rushed vowels became more notable in her pique, evidence of a French background, perhaps. Perhaps her mother was an émigré. “The arrangements have all been made. Please let me go.”
He frowned. This was not going as planned. She was not in the least obliging. Trust him to take the one daughter with no interest in finding a husband. “Tomorrow we’ll be on our way to Scotland,” he snapped, refusing to yet relinquish his agenda, convinced he could persuade her given the time to do so.
“Scotland,” she hissed the word as if it were a deprivation forced upon her, as though he’d threatened her with Newgate.
“Yes. It’s the country to the north of us.”
An outraged breath hissed past her lips at his mockery. “You cannot abduct me, drag me across the country and force me to wed you. These aren’t the Middle Ages.”
“In truth, I could … but I won’t have to.” Money, he’d learned, mixed with a fair bit of charm, won most anything. He was certain he could persuade her to marry him. He would never have bought the mine in Wales without his powers of persuasion. The sellers were very opposed to outsiders acquiring the mine. He’d overcome that challenge just as he’d overcome this one, too.
“My father—”
“Won’t care once the deed is done,” he finished. “He’s a fairly old-fashioned man. He’ll consider you well and truly mine once we’re married. I know him. That will be the end of it.”
“It won’t be the end of it, because it’s not going to happen!”
With that outraged cry, she flew for the carriage door.
He moved swiftly after her, hauling her back even as she strained for the door latch, a wild animal in his arms. He flung her down onto the seat. She turned on him in a sudden twist, throwing herself against him, spewing French curses.
His arms tightened around her slight frame, catching her as they fell to the floor of the carriage.
She tried to scramble up off him, but he locked his arms around her, trapping her sharp little fists between them, holding her tightly against him. She squirmed, wiggling, her skirts pooling over his thighs. He could not help himself. He took measure of the female in his arms.
She was small. Standing, she wouldn’t reach his shoulder, and yet she was pleasantly formed, soft and well-rounded in all the right places. She still struggled—for the little good it did her—affording him the sensation of her soft body against his own, her br**sts brushing him again and again. Until he had to bite back a groan.
“You’ll only tire yourself,” he murmured thickly.
“Let me go,” she pleaded, her voice choked in a way that made him fear tears were close.
“Do you intend to vault from a moving carriage? Do you want to injure yourself? You’re not going anywhere with a broken neck, I can assure you of that.” He gave her a small shake, letting the words sink in. He had no wish to bind her hands and wrists. That wouldn’t be comfortable, to say nothing of barbaric, but he’d do what he must to keep her from doing damage to herself.
She stilled then, her warm breath a pleasant fan on his face. “Very well,” she whispered hoarsely. “I’m calm. I won’t jump.”