Page 15 of A Private Wager
“I am uncertain what you wish to be called,” she admitted ruefully. “Indeed, there is a great deal we do not know about one another.”
He stepped forward, taking her hand in his, the pad of his thumb caressing the signet ring which rested on her finger. “We have all the time in the world to learn what we need to about one another. And you may call me War, as others do. Or Warfield. Or even Harrison. Now, if your bag is ready, we shall depart.”
“Harrison,” she said. “I do not wish to call you what others call you.”
He kissed her cheek gently. “As I will never be to others what I am to you, I think that is grand.”
Those gentle gestures left her even more unsettled than the passionate kisses. They spoke of a kind of affection between them that she desperately wanted but was afraid to believe could be possible. But there was no time to ponder it further, as they were heading down the stairs. A servant met them at the bottom with a hamper of food. The carriage was already waiting just beyond the doors. Within minutes, they were both seated inside, and the carriage was rolling forward, toward her new home.
***
Ethan waited until the carriage had pulled away, giving it space but not letting it fully out of sight. He’d overtake them before the next coaching inn, two hours or so to the north. They had only a driver and a footman. He had a brace of pistols and a musket. Those would allow him to take out the men easily enough. The woman would be last. She posed the least threat.
With his weapons all at the ready, he mounted his horse and nudged it out onto the road, keeping a steady and plodding pace. The carriage was no more than a dot on the road ahead of him, but it was close enough for his purposes. It was easier to kill when one’s prey did not seem human and when you didn’t have to look them in the eye. Another lesson he’d learned in his army years. It was a matter of just biding his time and finding the right moment for his attack. He would overtake the carriage on adeserted stretch of road and position himself to have a clean shot at the driver with the musket. Then the footman would be next.
Strategizing how to eliminate all threats, he kept his eye on the horizon and the swaying carriage that held his prey.
***
War couldn’t shake the feeling of unease. It had begun the moment he left their chamber. In the taproom, while he’d been procuring their provisions for the journey, he’d had the uncomfortable sensation of being watched. He hadn’t been able to pinpoint precisely from whence it originated. But he wasn’t so foolish as to ignore it. That sort of persistent sensation of danger had assailed him in the past, and attending to it had saved his life.
“You are preoccupied,” she noted.
“An overabundance of caution,” he offered. A glance at his watch showed they had ridden in silence for almost an hour. What miserable company he was! “The road can be a dangerous place. There are all manner of brigands who roam this stretch of highway.”
“We are not well armed,” she noted. “We have only two servants with us.”
“We are armed enough,” he stated. “I have a multitude of weapons in this carriage. Always readied. Always primed. In my younger days, I did a bit of clandestine work for Whitehall—before I came into the title and such things were frowned upon. It’s a long habit. One I shall likely never break.”
Her eyes had widened with alarm. “You were a spy?”
“Hardly that. I was a courier, nothing more. I carried information that others gleaned back to the powers that be. It was not a particularly dashing or dangerous occupation. Still, I took all the precautions possible.”
“I suppose this is us getting to know one another, isn’t it? Learning facts about one another that are surprising and sometimes even alarming,” Lucy observed.
“Tell me something about you that I do not know,” he urged her. “I know you love to read. I know you waltz beautifully. I know that you have little tolerance for fools. Beyond that, I am at a loss.”
“I do not just love to read. I have always wanted to write my own novel. Even if it is never published, even if it is never read by another soul. I have countless stories tossing about inside my mind. Like a stormy sea at times.”
War blinked, taking it in. And then he offered, “Then you should. You should write your novel. You will have time. My housekeeper is quite excellent. The household practically runs itself at this point. You must follow this dream of yours, Lucy.”
“You don’t think it’s foolish?”
“I daresay it’s less foolish than the only son and heir of a viscount playing at being a spy,” he laughed. “It’s a much safer dream to have and I would want you to have all that you dream of…all that you desire.”
That statement was laden with meaning. Meaning he had not intended to infuse into the conversation. And, yet, when he saw her cheeks flush and her pupils dilate, he did not regret it. The attraction between them held the possibility of growing into something more—something he had not anticipated having in his life. Surely such desire would lay the foundation for better and more lasting things to come. It was a romantic notion, one quite unlike him, but he rather liked the notion.
But his pleasant musings were cut abruptly short. The crack of gunfire echoed from outside. Then the carriage began to careen wildly, the horses apparently having been spooked.
“The driver, m’lord! He’s been shot.”
That warning had been called out by the footman on the outboard.
Biting out a curse, he rose from his seat and opened the carriage door. It slapped against the body of the vehicle with a loud bang. Then he was grasping the door frame to haul himself up.
“What are you doing?” Lucy cried. “You’ll be killed!”
“If those horses aren’t slowed or stopped,” War answered firmly, “we will both die.” With that, he levered himself up and onto the roof of the vehicle, crawling forward until he could reach the reins that were looped around the hands of the obviously dead servant.
