Page 69 of Any Rogue Will Do
Perhaps emotion couldn’t be excluded in this matter. Logic coexisted with emotion, surely. Going forward, balancing the two might be the only way to fix the mess she’d made.
If Woodrest needed an infusion of capital to recover from the sabotage, she’d be the worst possible woman for Ethan to marry. But what if they could figure out a way? The situation would present a unique challenge to an estate manager—or a woman of her interests. Instead of being handed a property and a fat purse by her father, she could step out of that safety net and help Ethan rebuild. Together they could make a difference. Really, that was what her dream always boiled down to—making a difference.
There wouldn’t be the independence of being on her own. Risking a glance at Montague, she tried to imagine the future he demanded. She’d have independence. In fact, she’d have everything she’d initially wanted when she rolled into London with her stupid, detailed, narrow-minded plan.
Whether he’d meant to or not, Ethan had changed everything. If she were entirely honest, she didn’t want to be independent of Ethan. She wanted to work alongside him. Hear the rumbly burr of his accent when he teasingly called her Princess and see the way his face lit up with laughter when she made a face at the nickname.
Objectively speaking, if her dreams could be fulfilled with Ethan, then Father’s ultimatum held little weight beyond finances. Their relationship had never been terribly close to begin with, and almost nil since Mother died. It pained her to consider losing him, but it was killing her to imagine a future without Ethan.
So, new plan. First, escape this damned carriage. Second, find Ethan and apologize. Finally, explain about Father’s letter in detail, then try to concoct a way to somehow rebuild Woodrest without her dowry.
The landscape outside the window hadn’t changed significantly in hours. Everything whizzed by in a blur of brown and green, broken by gray stone fences. The midday light played over Montague’s perfect features. Even on the second day of their journey, Montague managed to be clean-shaven with crisp linen and polished boots. No wayward curl to brush off his forehead, or scars with stories tucked away under his shirt. Montague would never dream of padding around his library in stocking feet. And no way would Montague let her cut his hair in front of the warm kitchen hearth late at night.
God, she missed Ethan.
Leaning her head against the padded wall, she closed her eyes and let the swaying rhythm of the carriage lull the tension from her bones. Nothing could be done right now. A huge yawn split her face until her jaw popped. “I’m exhausted. I’ll take a nap if you don’t mind, Mr. Montague.”
“We established long ago that you were to call me James. Now that we’ll be married, I insist,” he said.
Lottie closed her eyes, exhausted on every level. “Yes, James.”
Go to the devil, James.
Finally, she slept.
By the end of the day, he left her unbound, as she’d hoped. They stopped for the night at a cozy inn nestled beside the road, shadowed by the great limbs of a black walnut tree. An owl called from somewhere in the nearly bare, menacing branches silhouetted against the night sky.
With or without help, tonight she would escape. If rescuers didn’t arrive, she’d steal clothes from a groom, then sneak into a nearby barn to hide until Montague left the area. Her mind buzzed with contingency plans and scenarios.
When they arrived inside, Lottie stood quietly, fixing a vacant, placid expression on her face as he repeated the lies from the previous night. Montague obviously relished explaining how unhinged his poor wife had become to necessitate a trip north to a convent, where he would leave her in the Lord’s hands. He brought his hands over his heart when he said he’d pray she might find sanity once more and be returned to him—a farce worthy of the stage.
Lottie almost smiled. Let him have his fun now. She’d have the last laugh soon.
The innkeeper’s wife, Mrs. Mitchell, clucked over Lottie, calling her “poor lamb.” The burly innkeeper appeared less impressed, but as his pocket was heavier by the end of the dramatic spiel, he didn’t ask questions.
As Mrs. Mitchell led her by the hand toward their room, Lottie said over her shoulder to Montague, “Why don’t you relax with a pint? I’ll speak to this kind woman about replenishing those female supplies you gathered for me yesterday.”
A moue of distaste crossed his face, and he stayed behind in the taproom. Montague made a lousy fake husband. Not that she had any comparison, having only had a fake fiancé before this.
Fussing over the linens, Mrs. Mitchell sent for a maid to fetch water for the washbasin. “You mentioned feminine supplies. Are you on your courses, dear?”
There would be no better opportunity. Holding out her wrists so the woman could see the shiny red marks, burnt and rubbed raw around the delicate skin, she said, “I need help. My name is Charlotte Wentworth, and that man kidnapped me. That is why I have no luggage. I’m without a maid, because he attacked her on the street when he abducted me.”
While Mrs. Mitchell didn’t look entirely convinced, she didn’t pat Lottie on her head and fetch Montague either, so Lottie continued. “He imprisoned me in the carriage, bound at the wrists and ankles, with a gag in my mouth. Please. If I were going to a nunnery for therest of my life, wouldn’t I have trunks? Gowns? I beg you, Mrs. Mitchell, help me.”
The red marks on Lottie’s wrists held Mrs. Mitchell’s attention for what seemed an eternity before she asked, “What can I do?”
The relief nearly brought her to tears. “Thank you.I believe my family is somewhere on the road behind us. Until they catch up with me, I must do what I can to stall our travel.”
“Smart, my dear. How do you plan to do that?” The innkeeper’s wife appeared to warm to the subject. After two days of feeling so very alone, Lottie wanted to hug the woman.
“Do you have an herb garden or apothecary nearby? With lady’s slipper, white willow bark, and hollyhock, we can make a draught. All we need do is upset his stomach and then induce him to sleep. As tempting as it is, I can’t hurt the man permanently. I just need to make him too miserable to travel tomorrow.”
“Perhaps some poppy syrup to sweeten the mix?” the lady innkeeper said. “Yes, I think I have everything you need.”
Lottie cocked her head to the side. The woman’s dark-stained fingers triggered a memory from the hours spent making rounds at Stanwick with the midwife. “Is that black-walnut dye from the tree out front?”
“Yes.” Mrs. Mitchell hid her blackened fingers under the corner of her apron. “Today I mixed the darker pulp with wax to stain my wood floors. It gives a great shine.”
