WIP Wednesdays

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Courtship in WIP Wednesday

In this excerpt, taken from my novella Maggie’s Wheelbarrow, Maggie is talking about what happened after her sergeant father died, when the officer said she must marry or go back to England

“The soldiers who didn’t have a wife began to bring me presents and ask me to marry them. All except the one I wanted. Corporal Will Parker watched me from afar, and I waited for him, but he didn’t come. Then our officer told me that I had to choose or I had to leave, for half of the bachelors were squabbling over who had my favor, and the other half were writing poetry or picking flowers, and not a single one of them was remembering we were meant to be fighting the French.”

She chuckled, and the ladies giggled with her. “I was still waiting for Corporal Parker, but my time had run out. So, I picked a bunch of wildflowers and took it to him. I told him I was a good cook, an excellent seamstress, a competent laundress and would make him a faithful wife, but he need not count on me for any poetry, for I was a practical soldier’s daughter.”

Her hands stilled as she remembered his shocked expression and how it changed to dawning delight. Half lost in the dream of that day, she finished her story. “He said he had always wanted to marry me, but he never thought he had a chance. We went to find the chaplain, and were married that very day. And we had more than a year together before we were separated. Happy, even if there was a war on, because we were together. I loved him, and he loved me.”

For more, preorder Merry Belles, due for publication on December 20th.

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Falling in love in WIP Wednesday

This is an excerpt from “A Bend in the Road”, my story in Love’s Perilous Road, which will be published October 31st. My newsletter story this month will be a little vignette of their meeting and their time in Brussels. In the scene, Justin has been wounded, and Felicity is reading out loud to him.

Justin was seduced anew by the magic of her melodic voice, with the laughing glances Felicity cast at him, inviting him to share her amusement at the florid text. Seduced by dreams he should not have. She had always enchanted him, from the moment he had first seen her on the deck of the yacht Sea Mist off the coast of some remote English village. The sling that had lifted her aboard had been caught by a rogue wave before it lifted beyond the sea’s reach. He was there to welcome aboard some earl’s sister, undoubtedly indignant at the wave’s lèse-majesté and ready to blame the nearest officer—him.

Then Felicity emerged from the sling, a laughing if somewhat drenched fairy, her golden hair sparkling in the sun, but not as much as her blue eyes, and he was her slave from that moment.

Each day in Felicity’s company had enraptured him more. On the sea voyage, he had tried hard to convince himself that she was a social butterfly, all glitter and glamour. But watching her smoothly take charge on the canal boat and the midpoint accommodation house dispelled that impression, and a few days in Brussels taught him she was a consummate hostess, a skilled politician, a stateswoman and—as he worked beside her in the make-shift hospital that received Waterloo casualties, a strong and compassionate woman.

He loved her, and living without her was living with a gaping hole where his heart should be.

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A change is as good as a rest in WIP Wednesday

In Maggie’s Wheelbarrow, which is my contribution to Merry Belles, the next Bluestocking Belles Christmas Collection, my heroine takes a job at a house party.

The hope of soon being reunited with Will, or at least reaching his mother, had kept Maggie moving along the winding roads from Portsmouth to the first village of Ashton in the Midlands. When that proved to be the wrong place, she changed her strategy. Winter was coming. Even now, the heat was gone from the long evenings as soon as the sun dipped below the horizon. If she had to find lodgings for herself and the children during the winter, then she must make more than the few coins she had picked up on her way north.

Having made the decision between one village and the next, she put it into practice at the first opportunity, asking at both inns and the three major houses if there was any work available.

One of the inns took her on to clean rooms and empty slop pails. For one week, she told them. After that, she said, she must be off once more on her search. With Eva on her back and Billy tagging behind, she managed the heavy work with ease, and a week later set off the next Ashton with several more shillings in her purse and a warmer coat for each child to keep them comfortable in the sometimes-cold wind.

The second Ashton was as disappointing as the first, but Maggie got two night’s work at the inn, and moved on the third. Thus it went through the autumn and on into early winter. When the snow came, she would have to be settled, but meanwhile, she moved from village to village, stopping to work whenever her money ran low, and at every village called Ashton or something similar, asking for the Parker family. All to no avail.

She was between Ashtons in early December when, on the strength of a stint as a maid at yet another inn, she was offered temporary work at the local great house, where they needed extra servants during a house party. At first, she thought she’d have to turn the job down, though the wages were excellent. But another woman overheard her telling the hiring steward about her children.

“I reckon they could stay with Ma,” she said. “She’s looking after me own young uns, while I earn a few coins, so two more wouldn’t matter to her none, and she could do with the pennies.” The woman introduced herself as Frannie, and offered to take Maggie to visit “Ma” immediately.

“If she could put you up at night,” said the steward, “I shall add two shillings a day to the wages, for where I could find you a bed, I do not know. Mind you, you’ll have to be at your post by five in the morning, and will not be home until after the guests have had their dinner.”

Frannie’s mother proved to be a kind woman whom Eva took to straight away, and the other children were twins of Billy’s age, so Maggie went off to work the following morning with a light heart. If she saw out the two weeks of the house party, she would earn the princely sum of eighteen shillings! Four shillings of that would go Frannie’s mother, but fourteen shillings would feed her little family for weeks, if she was careful.

It was hard work, but in some ways, it was also a holiday. No walking for hours with Eva on her back and the wheelbarrow before her. No need to find dry spaces through the day to feed the children or to change a wet clout. And she enjoyed the walks with Frannie in the pre-dawn quiet and the velvet dark of the late evening.

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A Bow Street Runner in WIP Wednesday

Some of the Bluestocking Belles’ more complicated box sets have had not just a common setting or event, but a bit of a puzzle – Who is sending gossip to the Teatime Tattler? (Storm and Shelter) Whose baby is the orphan with the amulet belonging in the village, delivered by a travelling couple who found him in France. (Under the Harvest Moon) And the one coming up, Love’s Perilous Road, in which the overarching question is, who is the highwayman?

Of course, that sets up a question about how to order the stories so we don’t let the cat out of the bag too soon! I hope, when you read our ten stories, that you’ll agree with the order we have chosen.

Of course, people in our stories were also asking that question, and one of them was Principal Officer Robert Pierce, sent by the Office of the Magistrate’s Court, Bow Street, London. My Bow Street runner’s case book forms a little vignette between each story, as he writes his thoughts about the events of the day, consigning his frustrations and sometimes his successes to paper, for his own eyes only. And yours, dear reader. Here is Casebook entry number 4.

The Casebook of Principal Officer Robert Pierce

The Office of the Magistrates’ Court, Bow Street, London

The clue of the trousers on the church steeple led nowhere. No one knows who put the trousers up there, and the curate swears he was the only man with a key. The locals are protective of “their” Captain Moonlight, but there will be a break soon. I am certain of it. Everyone makes a mistake sometime.

The second highwayman robbed another coach. Had ladies not been present, I am certain the man would have been shot, for the ladies were accompanied by some very competent gentlemen. It is a risky business, being a highwayman without a gang.

I am getting closer to Larcenous Lucy! Word has it she has been active in Brighton itself, so I am heading there in the morning.

If you’d like to know more about Robert, the trousers on the steeple, the two highwaymen (and possibly a third), Larcenous Lucy, smugglers, a ghost, a blackmailer, Fennians, and more – not to mention ten delightful romances, read Love’s Perilous Road, now on preorder, and published October 31st.

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Happy reunion in WIP Wednesday

Another reunion in An Unpitied Sacrifice, this time for one of Valeria’s abandoned war brides. A letter arrives from the army, giving the addresses for the missing husbands next-of-kin, and one of them is in London.

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“It is a twenty-minute drive,” Harry told them. “If the Atkinsons are still butchers in Cheapside, Señora Hernandez, you shall soon have your answers.”

“It was a family business, Colonel. I think the family will still be there. I hope so. We were separated when the army invaded France. Jorge and I were with the regiment’s baggage train, crossing a river on a bridge made of boats. The bridge broke apart, and the boat we were in was swept downriver.”

She shrugged and grimaced, a silent and somehow comprehensive commentary on the vicissitudes of war. “We survived, but we did not come ashore for many miles, and in the end, we were still on the Spanish side of the river, and far from anyone who knew us. And I was ill, and winter was coming. There was a convent offering beds to those who were displaced by the war. Jorge and I owe our lives to them.”

Valeria had heard the story before. Maria-Lucia had been pregnant when the pontoon bridge collapsed under the pressure of a storm-surging river. She and Jorge had parted company with their boat at some point in the wild ride. Somehow, the mother had kept the child above water, at least enough that when the pair of them finally made it to shore, Jorge was still with her and alive.

Maria-Lucia, though, had borne the brunt of blows from storm-rack travelling downriver with her, and had gone into labour, losing a tiny daughter who had been too little to survive. She did not remember much after that. Nuns from the convent must have found her and her son, and given them refuge.

By the time Maria-Lucia had been well enough to write to George Atkinson, and had been able to scrounge paper and enough money to send a letter, the war had been over. Whether her letter ever reached the army was questionable. It was even more unlikely that George had received it, especially given today’s revelation, that he had left the army.

Valeria had personal experience of the disinterest of British army clerks in the foreign wives of British soldiers, particularly those whose relationships had not been through the formality of a Church of England wedding.

The carriage was drawing to a halt outside of a butcher’s shop, the entire face of which, except for the opening into the interior, was covered with animal carcasses hanging on hooks. Above the display of meat, the name Atkinson Bros., in bright red against a light green background, spread the full width of the shop.

“Atkinson Brothers,” Harry commented. “Perhaps George has gone into the trade with his brother.”

Now that the time was upon her, Maria-Lucia descended reluctantly from the carriage, and immediately reached for Valeria’s hand. “What if they do not want me?” she asked.

“Then we shall find a place for you and Jorge on our estate,” Harry said firmly. “If that is what you wish. Or we shall send you back to Spain with money to set up somewhere as a widow.”

“Let us find out,” Valeria said, and she led the way under the animal carcasses and into the shop.

As her eyes adjusted to the change in light, Maria-Lucia gasped and gripped her hand more tightly, peering at the man behind the counter. “You are not George,” she declared after a moment.

The man stared back, his eyes widening, and then he stepped back from the counter and lifted a curtain behind it to disclose a doorway. “George!” he shouted into the space beyond.

Turning back toward them, his gaze fixed again on Maria-Lucia, he said, “He’s upstairs.”

Upstairs, but coming down, for Valeria could hear the thud of boots on wood, descending from the floor above and approaching.

The curtain was pulled back from the other side and another man stepped into the shop. He was very similar in appearance to the first man, and Valeria could see why Maria-Lucia had gasped. But it was obvious neither the second man nor her friend had any doubt about the identification of the other.

George—for it had to be he—vaulted over the counter even as Maria-Lucia dropped Valeria’s hand and threw herself forward, saying, “George!” Then they were in one another’s arms, Maria-Lucia repeating her man’s name, and he saying, over and over, “I thought you were dead. They told me you had drowned.”

The first man, presumably the brother William, watched the embrace with a fond smile, and Valeria’s worry for her friend eased. Maria-Lucia had found the welcome she had hoped for.

By the time the pair had calmed enough to share their stories, William had introduced himself to Harry and Valeria, put a “Back in ten minutes” sign up on the door, and called back up the stairs for his wife. Soon, Maria-Lucia was being introduced to a plump cheerful woman called Molly, and then the whole story of being saved from the river and what happened after had to be told again.

The upshot was that George came back to Harry and Valeria’s house in the Redepenning carriage, with his brother’s blessing to retrieve his family and bring them to the residence above the butcher’s shop.

“Bring back our nephew, brother,” William instructed, “and all of our sister’s things. What a happy day this is!”

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Family feuds and arranged marriages on WIP Wednesday

Or one of each, at least, from the story I’ve just started for a Dragonblade Publishing anthology that will be published next year. The theme is Romeo and Juliet! Of course, everyone will have their own take on it.

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The people in the neighbourhood of Keldwood Cross hated the bride. Not that they had met her, of course, but village, manor, farm and hamlet were agreed. No female from Marshhold-Over-Water could possibly be anything but a villain, and it was a terrible thing that the Young Master was going to have to marry the daughter of Marshhold’s earl.

Or so they were saying in the tavern. Pelham Townwell sat so quietly in the corner that they must have forgotten he was there. On the other hand, perhaps they remembered, for they did not blame his father, their own earl.

Neither did Pel. Lord Harwood was in a difficult spot, and clearly his people realised that. The Prince Regent himself had taken an interest in the Marshhold-Keldwood feud, and the two earls had been commanded to make peace and to seal it with a marriage!

Since Lord Harwood had an unmarried heir, and Lord Ilton’s eldest daughter was also unwed, they were the obvious choices for the arrangement. Pel’s older brother was furious about it. Clay—Viscount Clayton was the Harwood courtesy title—Clay had been drinking for two solid weeks, and his prognostications for the marriage got gloomier by the day.

Pel wondered what the bride thought. Were the people of Marshhold as upset about the marriage as the people of Keldwood? Did Lady Margherita Ruthermond dread the marriage as much as Clay? Probably more. After all, Clay would have to live with Lady Margherita, but the lady would have to live with Clay, his family, the household, and an entire countryside who had already decided to hate her.

At least Ilton had shown some consciousness of the size of the problem. He had asked to have it written into the marriage agreement that his daughter must be treated well, and that—if she could show grounds for complaint—she could return to her family and the Earl of Harwood and his family would need to pay massive damages.

Father’s reaction to that clause had been to send his secretary with a letter to the Prince Regent, complaining that the clause was an insult, and showed Ilton’s ill intentions.

The Prince Regent had decreed that the clause was to stand, and Father had spent fifteen minutes breaking every vase, dish, cup and china statue in the library, where he had been when his secretary reported.

Clay and Pel had taken the secretary out for a drink, and then another, until they heard exactly what the Prince Regent had said. “Wise man, Ilton. Young Clayton had better behave himself and treat the Ruthermond girl well, or she will beggar the Townwells.”

When Father was over his tantrum, he had decreed that the new bride was to be given every courtesy, and pampered like princess, and Clay had begun drinking and had, so far, not stopped.

Pel was glad to be only an observer in the coming carriage wreck of the Harwood-Ilton marriage. Right up until the moment that Father realised that his eldest son was too drunk to send to the wedding, so he decided to send Pel, instead.

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Surprises on WIP Wednesday

A longish excerpt from An Unpitied Sacrifice, the next Golden Redepenning novel. Harry arrives back in London after a visit to make up his mind about a prospective bride. But his family has unexpected news for him.

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Harry was riding through Mayfair now. Home soon. He hoped Father was home, for Harry was keen to talk to him about Miss Bretherton. Once he had told Father, and once he proposed to that lady, the die was cast, and perhaps then, when marrying the lady became a matter of honour, he would be at peace with the decision.

Here was the mews—the lane that ran behind his father’s townhouse. Perhaps the horse sensed the end of the journey, or perhaps his own eagerness to step into the comforting embrace of the place that had always been his London home communicated itself to the beast, for it quickened its pace, and they completed the last fifty yards in a brisk trot.

“Halloo, the stable,” he shouted, as they drew to a stop.

A stable boy came to the open door. “Major Redepenning, sir,” he greeted Harry, and ran the few steps to the horse’s head. Harry left instructions to take it to the White Swan, the London end of the circuit that had provided the mount for the last leg of his ride.

He hurried up through the garden, his saddle bags over his shoulder. It was late in the afternoon, but this side of the house faced west, and the garden doors were open from the family parlour, letting light and warmth stream into the room. Harry went up the steps to the terrace, took a moment for a deep breath, then stepped over the threshold.

Father looked up with a smile of greeting, as did Alex and Ellie.

“Welcome, Harry. Have you eaten? I shall send for something to sustain you until dinner. Alex, you are nearest, pull the bell rope, will you?”

“Just a cup of tea, Father. I had a superb repast at the Crown and Goat not three hours ago. Ellie, I am sorry to walk in on you in my dirt. I expected Father to be on his own.”

“Do sit down, Alex,” Ellie told him. “It is just family this evening.”

Harry sat in his favourite chair and smiled around at these three beloved family members.

“It is only a flying visit,” Alex said.

“We came to Town for some shopping, Harry,” his sister-in-law explained. Alex’s wife was one of Harry’s favourite people. She had been an army wife, so she understood military men. She had been an apprentice to her father who had been an army doctor, so made certain that Alex looked after his lame leg and ran a clinic for her entire neighbourhood.

Of medium height and build, with brown hair and a pleasant face, one might consider her looks only average, until one noticed her lovely eyes and splendid complexion. But it was in character that she shone. Baroness Renshaw was adored by her husband and children, loved by her husband’s family, and nigh worshipped by her servants and tenants.

“It is too far to bring the children for just a few days,” said Ellie, as a footman entered the room silently, accepted Father’s instructions for a fresh pot of tea, and took Harry’s saddle bags away to be sent to his room.

“Melly and Freddie are safe enough with Jonno and Mattie,” Alex said. The pair had a habit of alternating sentences, as if they were one person with a single message. Harry caught the note of doubt in Alex’s voice, which confirmed that—though he trusted his valet and housekeeper—he did not think anyone else could protect his children as well as he could.

“Of course, they are safe,” Father said, soothingly.

“Of course,” Alex agreed, and turned to his wife, “so we could stay, couldn’t we? Until this business of Harry’s is sorted out?”

Harry, who had been riding all day, on horses of differing quality, was thinking about how his bones were less tolerant than they used to be, and was only half aware of Alex’s words until he heard his name.

“What business of mine?” he asked, wondering if they had somehow heard about his courtship of Miss Bretherton. And, of course, he had not made a secret of it. Not precisely. It was just that he’d not trumpeted it about.

“It is your wife, Harry,” said Father.

Harry chuckled. One should never underestimate the power of gossip. He would lay odds that his sister Susan had heard something and passed it on to the rest of the family. “Wife is a bit beforehand, to be fair. I have not yet proposed to Miss Bretherton. I have made up my mind to do so, however. I look forward to introducing her to you all.”

What was up with his family? They were exchanging looks of alarm.

“Oh, Harry!” Ellie sounded distressed.

Did they know something to Miss Bretherton’s discredit? He could not believe it. If so, she must be the best actress in the world! Yes, and her parents, too. “What is wrong with Miss Bretherton?” he asked.

“I had no idea…” Father trailed off. “That is not to the point. I’ll be blunt, Harry. Your wife Valeria may be alive.”

It was as well Harry was sitting. The room swam before his eyes and for a moment, he struggled to breath. Blunt, indeed. If he had been hit over the head with a blunt object, he could not have been more disoriented.

From a great distance, he heard Father say, “Pour your brother a brandy, Alex,” and a moment later a glass was pressed into his hand.

He took more of a gulp than a sip, but the burn of the alcohol did the trick, drawing him back into himself. “Alive,” he repeated, and his heart, racing in his chest, demanded that he leap to his feet and begin tearing the world apart until he found her.

“A lady claiming to be your wife called this afternoon,” his father told him.

It was a second shock on top of the first. His reeling mind could not produce meaningful words, but could only repeat Father’s words. “This afternoon.” He took another sip of the brandy and managed to add, “Tell me.”

“I did not even know you had a wife,” Alex complained.

Father handed over a piece of white pasteboard of the standard size for visiting cards. “She sent this up with the butler, so we saw her straight away.”

Harry was reading the card. On one side of it was written, in blue ink, Valeria’s names—at the top, Señora Valeria Eneco Izquierdo, with Mrs. H. Redepenning underneath. He had not seen Valeria’s handwriting for a long time, but it could, indeed, be hers.

“She knew how the two of you met,” Father added, “and she explained why she was not with her band when they were ambushed. Harry, she claims that she had stayed behind in a convent because she was about to give birth.”

“She thought you were dead, Harry,” Alex interjected. “She might be someone who knew Valeria, and hopes to batten on to a rich English family by passing her own child off as yours.”

“She was genuinely happy to know you were alive, Harry,” Ellie said. “She had tears in her eyes, and she spoke in a language I did not know.”

“It was not Spanish,” Alex growled.

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Courtship trials on WIP Wednesday

The girls’ chaperone is determined to thwart a courtship in A Gift to the Heart. Three extra ladies on a walk to Hyde Park might deter all but the most determined of suitors. But Bane has an idea.

Ahead of them, Bane and the other two Marple sisters had stopped by a woman wearing a large basket on her back and carrying a tray. Cilla’s sister looked around as Drake and his two ladies approached, and grinned at Cilla, who raised her eyebrows in question.

Miss Livy pointed at the ducks, who were hastening toward the vendor and her customers. Ah! Drake understood what had excited them. Clearly, they knew what the vendor was selling, and what happened after that. “My brother is buying bread to feed to the ducks, ladies. Would you enjoy feeding the ducks?”

“I would love to feed the ducks,” Miss Ruby declared.

Bane heard, and declared, “I have purchased enough for everyone who wishes.”

A cunning fellow, Drake’s brother. In less time than it took to tell, Miss Ruby was tearing small chunks off a loaf of bread and dropping them as she walked toward the Serpentine, a trail of ducks processing behind her. Her sisters, with a loaf each, had hurried ahead, and were feeding those birds who had not joined the exodus.

Bane was carrying three more loaves under one arm and had offered the other to Miss Livy. They followed the Marple sisters and the ducks, but at a slower pace.

“Do you wish to feed the ducks?” Drake asked Cilla, hoping she didn’t, for Bane had bought them time to actually talk, and the bread would not last forever—or even for very long, given that every waterfowl in sight had converged on the three young ladies and quite a few blackbirds and sparrows were darting under the beaks of ducks, chasing crumbs that were too small for the larger birds.

“What I would like is for us to talk, Mr. Sanderson,” Cilla said. “My aunt likes you as a person, but does not approve of you as a suitor. I will make up my own mind, however. And I want to know more about you before I do.” She blushed prettily. “That is, if you are courting me. Do I need to apologize for speaking so openly?”

“You do not owe me an apology,” Drake told her. “Straight talking saves a lot of misunderstanding, and I’m pleased you have spoken so honestly to me. Yes, I am a suitor. Like you, I need to know more but I very much like what I have seen of you so far. Will Lady Marple’s opposition cause problems? For you or for us? Or is it your father’s approval that is most important?”

She tipped her head on one side and regarded him with a steady blue gaze. “My approval is most important. If you gain that, Mr. Sanderson, I shall deal with my father and my aunt.”

 

 

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Proposal under pressure on WIP Wednesday

Here’s an excerpt from my novella in next month’s Bluestocking Belles’ collection, Love’s Perilous Road. My heroine has come to warn my hero of the villain’s plans, but he has other things on his mind.

***

“Was that Grant I saw leaving?” she demanded, as he drew her inside and shut the door to protect her from the eyes of scandalmongers. “What did he want?”

“To tell me I wasn’t good enough for you,” he blurted.

She raised her eyebrows and gave an unamused chuckle. “At least there is something the two of you agree about.”

I hurt her. Justin supposed he must have known it before, but seeing her use humor to deflect possible hurt brought it home to him.

“I told him we are betrothed,” he blurted. “I shouldn’t have. Not when I haven’t even asked you. I love you, Lady Felicity Belvoir. I have loved you since I first met you. For the past two years, even while I kept telling myself that it was hopeless, and that I was an arrogant bumptious fool for ever thinking I was fit to touch the toe of your shoe, I have loved you. Will you forgive this poor fool for running away without talking to you?”

Somewhere in that impassioned speech, he had caught up her two hands. He lifted them to his lips, and then said, “Will you marry me, and join me in a partnership to make our dreams come true? Will you, Felicity?”

Felicity lifted her lovely face and touched her sweet lips to his. “Yes, Justin. Yes, I will.”

During the kiss, Justin lost his wits for a while, allowing Felicity to instead fill his senses, sinking into the web of desire even as he wove it. He was not ready when she drew back after several glorious minutes, but he immediately loosened his grip so that she did not feel confined.

She had an urgent matter on her mind.

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Ruination on WIP Wednesday

The fear of ruination was real in a society in which rank, power, and wealth depended on male primogeniture–that is, inheritance based on the eldest legitimate son being heir to everything. Of course a man wanted no doubt that the baby the wife delivered after their wedding was, in fact, his. Hence, even being alone with a man, if you were a maiden of the upper classes, could be enough to cause all other men to avoid you. Who knew what you had been up to? Of course, the consequences for the maiden were dire, and that is why historical romance writers find the situation so tempting! Here’s the first part of my new newsletter subscriber story:

A country road in the Midlands, 1815

Miss Amber Williamson muttered insulting epithets as she stalked down the road. “Arrogant idiot.” Stamp. “Stupid fool.” Sniff. “Despicable loon.” With her chin in the air, she gave another stamp, which proved to be mistake, for her slipper landed in a puddle she had not noticed until then. The displaced water splashed across her calves and petticoat, and the standing water soaked through both footwear and stocking to chill her foot.

“Botheration.” Amber wished she knew a few worse words, for if ever there was a time for unladylike language, this was it.

Slippers were not made for country walking, and she must have at least another two miles to go. At least that awful man was not likely to be after her. In fact, she would be surprised if he dared chase her even when he did finally manage to escape from her knots and the room she had locked when she left.

Dare to kidnap me, did he? Try to force me into marriage? Intolerable! “I should have shot you. I hope you do follow me, you swine. It will give me an opportunity to repair that oversight!”

Just in case, she would stop and load her muff pistol. It had worked well enough unloaded at that nasty little inn the not very Honourable Wilbur Menningham had chosen as a place to change his horses and ravish his victim. But she could not rely on the stupidity of other villains she might encounter.

“Bird-witted blaggard.” Menningham had believed her frail little lady act. Didn’t he know her better by now? He had been courting her for weeks, ever since her cork-brained brother had doubled her dowry. Again.

Amber amended her first assessment. While Menningham was largely and most immediately responsible for her current state, Kit’s ridiculous and increasingly desperate attempts to marry her off by increasing her dowry had also played a part.

From the moment Menningham had attacked her, Amber’s instinct had been to play helpless and dumb. Fighting back then would not have worked, for she was a slightly-built woman. She had no choice but to let him drag her into his carriage, shove a handkerchief into her mouth, and tie her up.

What she could do, though, was pretend he had subdued her—that she was weak and frightened. She had, in fact, been scared. But not witless. At some point, he would have to stop. At some point, he would have to untie her. And then, she could surely escape, for the man was a fool.

The opportunity had come sooner than she expected.