Page 91 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
Bakeley’s eyes gleamed. “Kincaid. Have you discovered his secrets?”
“What secrets would those be?”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t ask you. But, ah, you’re being cagey. You know something of him.”
“He’s a Scotsman, he says.”
“If that’s his real name. Shaldon would not discuss him. Said you and I would have to find out on our own.”
“You and I?”
Bakeley laughed ruefully. “Him and his damn secrets. Now it’s our turn to play at this game, I only wish I knew what the hell it is, and what Agruen was after with Paulette.”
As did Bink.
“In any case, we’d best move on before we lose the light. She’ll be safe in this cottage while we head down to London to meet the solicitor.”
She might be safe, but whoever was left to guard her would be in for trouble.
Bink signaled to the coach to move on, the question of who would keep watch on Paulette weighing heavily. In her own way, she was a winsome thing, pretty, and passionate. If it was Bakeley or Kincaid, or himself, she’d be in good hands. He wasn’t sure, under the circumstances, he’d trust any other man.
“Why have we stopped?” Paulette asked Ewan as he helped her down the steps of the coach.
Her husband came over and relieved Ewan of her arm. “Get the bags,” he said gruffly.
Around the bend in the road she spotted a plain black coach stopped further down, pulled to the side in a flat stretch, leaving enough room for another coach to pass.
The evening was warm, yet she felt chilled to her very bones, stiff from the days of bumping and sitting, and so tired it was like wading through a dream.
And her prickle of nerves told her the dream was likely to turn to a nightmare.
She allowed herself to be led down the road to where the new coach sat. “What is this, Bink?”
He grimaced and clamped his lips shut.
A gentleman on horseback paced closer and her heart dropped. The corner of her eye ticked, the trembling threatening to spread through her every nerve. She stiffened her jaw and tightened her fists. “You are not. Sending me. To Cransdall. I won’t go.”
“Good evening, Paulette.” Bakeley swept off his hat and gave a little bow from the saddle. “My congratulations on your marriage. We are officially brother and sister now.”
“Give us a minute, Bakeley.” Her husband’s hand had moved to her shoulder in a gesture that was much like an irritating petting.
Bakeley shrugged and took his mount away.
“Shaldon has a manor near here. Hackwell is worried enough he’s sent Annabelle off to stay with Lady Cathmore.”
Her breath eased a fraction.
“We are all going there in this new coach, and letting the postilions take the other one on. If someone is following us, they won’t be able to trace you through the coaching inn.”
That made sense. “So much secrecy. Is there news?”
“I don’t know any more than you.”
She searched his eyes for a lie. “Does your brother know anything?”
“He says not. We’ll question him more tonight.”
She exhaled. They were going to this manor together. He was not leaving her, at least not tonight. “And then?”
