Page 68 of Any Rogue Will Do
Tugging the thin blanket over her shoulders, she cradled her head on her arm and stared into the fire. Their small room contained one narrow bed, which Montague had claimed, and a table barely large enough for a washbasin of water.
Today had been hell. True to his word, Montague had trussed her like a piece of wild game at each change of horses. The shiny pink skin on her wrists glowed red in the firelight. No doubt her ankles showed the same marks of abuse, although her walking boots provided some measure of protection. By the end of the day, Montague believed her sufficiently cowed to stay quiet without a gag. And she had, since she’d been too busy plotting her escape.
Montague had shared their “tragic” story with the innkeeper, along with a coin. She’d stared at her feet, wishing the earth would open and swallow her, then meekly followed him upstairs. The bastard should count his lucky stars she didn’t smother him in his sleep with a pillow.
With no money, transportation, maid, or protection of any kind, all Lottie could claim was her father’s name. Unfortunately, the Earl of Brinkley held little influence this far east, and she had no way to prove the connection. Montague had a fat purse borrowed from someone with equally shady morals. The flashy carriage, the horses, the steady flow of coins—none of it belonged to him. Through circumspect prying, she’d determined that Montague owned nothing except clothing, debt, and a substantial ego. There could be a valid argument made that the clothing wasn’t his, since she’d bet the tailor remained unpaid.
Montague’s snores overpowered the snaps and pops of wood in the hearth. Did most men snore? During their one night together, Ethan hadn’t made such a racket. The snoring paused. A bubbling gurgle of flatulence echoed through the room. The snoring resumed.
How could anyone think eloping to Scotland was romantic? Hours upon hours cramped in a carriage, barreling up the Great North Road, relieving themselves in front of one another, and now spending a night on a hard floor, listening to a man break wind. Ballrooms and lusty novels did not prepare one for this. Thankfully, Montague had turned his back willingly enough when nature’s call had finally forced the use of the bourdaloue, and then she’d disposed of the “dirty” linens in the small pouch within the bag he’d fetched for her.
All a ruse, of course. A ruse that needed to continue if she was going to have any chance of Montague keeping his hands to himself. They were one day down, with several more ahead of them. Lottie prayed an opportunity for escape would present itself during that time. She could only natter on about bowel distress, nausea, and cramping for so long before the man knocked her out again.
This—by far—had been one of the worst days of her life. Lottie finally allowed her eyelids to drift shut.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would escape.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Doesn’t kidnapping and elopement strike you as rather melodramatic?”
“Blame your precious Lord Amesbury. He didn’t leave me much choice in the matter,” Montague said.
“What does Ethan have to do with this?”
“Ethan, is it? He and Lord Carlyle bought my gaming debts, then wrote my father threatening to ruin me. Father isn’t happy. To add insult to injury, there’s a rumor that Father cut me off. This last week men tried to collect debts left and right. Hounding me as if I were some commoner, instead of a gentleman. I’m not going to debtor’s prison.” Montague curled his lip in a cruel expression that fit him perfectly. “If I marry money, everyone is satisfied. You’re conveniently rich, and the man who attempted to ruin me seems awfully attached to you. That’s what I call a winning hand.”
A winning hand. Something Montague must not be terribly familiar with if his gambling debts were crippling. She studied her intertwined fingers instead of looking at his smug face. Funny that someone so vile could remain beautiful on the outside. Thanks to her actions that day by the pond, his nose had a distinctly crooked angle to it, forever marring his perfection. Good. No less than what he deserved for using his physical appeal as a tool, and his ego as a weapon. There wasn’t enough room in the coach for them and his ego.
Catering to the third occupant of the carriage might be key. Pander to his ego. Make him think he’d won. Yesterday Montague had believed her willing to wait in silence, so he’d left off the gag by the end of the day. Perhaps if Lottie convinced him he’d converted her to a willing captive, he’d create an opportunity for escape through complacency.
While nothing appealed to her more than the thought of smashing the delicately painted bourdaloue over his head, she’d need to lie convincingly. “Let us call a spade a spade. I broke things off with Amesbury earlier this week.” Lottie feigned earnestness. “You need money. I need a husband or else I’ll be firmly on the shelf. I see no reason we could not lead entirely separate lives if we married.”
Montague cocked his head. “How separate?”
“No heirs. No more contact than needed, and only then through a solicitor. You live the life you currently enjoy, while I manage the estate. An estate that’s far, far away. You stay in London doing whatever you wish.”
“You wouldn’t mind if I used your piles of pretty pound notes to keep a mistress or two?”
Focusing her gaze out the window, she searched for clues to their location. “I don’t care what you do with your man parts, as long as you don’t do it with me.”
“One woman is as good as another. I won’t need any snot-nosed brats to carry on my name unless I somehow end up inheriting. If that happens, you’ll need to do your duty and give me an heir. What you describe sounds like the perfect marriage.” He laughed. “We are of an agreement, then?”
Even the abstract idea of bearing this man’s child made her throat burn with bile. Lottie hesitated—because the idea of sex with a crazy man should be enough for any sane woman to pause—then nodded. Whatever she needed to do or say to pacify Montague long enough for her to get away, she would.
How ironic. She’d just manipulated her way into a man agreeing to everything she’d wanted when she arrived in London. A hollow victory, indeed. One thing her time with Ethan had taught her was to raise her standards. He’d shown from the beginning how wrong she’d been to want an uninterested husband—not that she’d listened. Throwing herself headlong toward disaster, all the while believing she knew best, appeared to be her strength these days. How ridiculous that it took an escapade of this scale to show her what a great nodcock she was.
Even thinking Ethan’s name brought a spike of pain. Would that ever go away? She might forever compare men to a certain giant, rough-hewn Scotsman. They’d had one night to fully enjoy each other, and it would have to be enough.
It would never be enough.
She wanted more mornings waking up in his arms. More pillows that smelled like him. A child with his blue eyes. One hand rested on her belly. What if they’d made a child? The French letter wasn’t guaranteed protection. Except then Ethan would marry her out of obligation instead of desire. And she’d be an even greater burden on him, penniless, with a ruined reputation and a child.
At some point her heart had slipped past affection and friendship into unknown territory where she didn’t want to imagine a future without him. Due to her strong pragmatic streak, she knew he’d need money to rebuild Woodrest. Thanks to her father, money was something she couldn’t offer. She’d been so sure it was the right choice to free Ethan. Noble, even. After all, Woodrest and Ethan’s people were more important than her heartache.
Here she was, finagling and lying and doing what she had to do to escape this kidnapping. It was a hell of a reminder that she wasn’t by nature someone who capitulated easily. Why, then, had she rolled over when Father sent his ultimatum?
Ignoring the headache brewing behind her eyes, Lottie tried to logic her way through the mess she’d made. If she gave up her fortune but had Ethan, would it be worth it? He’d never said he loved her. But then, she’d never spoken about her feelings either. Did she love him and not just desire him—as scary as that idea was?
