No woman could have disappeared so cleanly and efficiently as she had from Harlton Hall, which meant one of several things. Either she had somehow wandered from the main roads and she was now hopelessly lost, or she had been picked up by a conveyance.
And since Ludlow’s sources had suggested Arden’s arrival at Harlton Hall had been imminent, he was betting on the latter, rather than the former. By the time he reached an inn three quarters of the way to London, his mount was tired, he was tired, his back ached, his heart hurt, and his belly was grumbling for sustenance.
The Sheep’s Head seemed an inauspicious place to settle for the evening and raise the flag of surrender until another day, but it would have to do. Until he noticed the carriage bearing Arden’s coat of arms.
Shewas here. Violet.
Somewhere.
The weight that had been pressing down upon his chest, threatening to cave it in, lifted. He could breathe again. He could hope again. As he handed off his mount to the stable hand and strode toward the entrance to the inn, her name was a litany inside his mind, ringing with each step.
Violet. Violet. Violet.
Thank Christ.
And somehow, he did not give a proper damn he was about to commit himself to prison, the very thing he had been attempting to avoid this last, mad fortnight. All he cared about was that she was within the stone walls of The Sheep’s Head, and he was going to find her. He would tear apart every wall and door in the place with his bare hands if he needed to.
Suddenly, he was not even hungry. He turned over the necessary coin to procure himself a room, and then he was moving. Prowling. Searching for her. There was no finesse in his execution. He simply began knocking on doors.
Banging, really.
He interrupted an angry hoary-haired fellow, a young husband and wife. He moved to the third door, rapping upon it.
The portal opened.
And there she was, face averted as she gazed at something behind her in the small, dimly lit chamber. She was barreling forward, not a pause in her locomotion, and he made no effort to stop her.
“Lucien, I am almost ready for—” She collided with his chest.
He caught her around the waist. God, she felt so good. So right. Her waist was cinched small, but well-curved. And he knew how if felt bare beneath his hands. Knew what she felt like in his arms, how hot and hungry, how precious.
It hit him then, the realization he had not seen her since that morning over their shooting lessons. He had not held her or touched her in hours. Too damned many hours.
“Why are you here?” she demanded, curt and cold and angry.
He took a breath. “Because I told you wherever you run, I will follow, and I meant it.”
Had it only been yesterday, during their wedding breakfast? It felt as if it had been a lifetime ago.
She shook her head. “Perhaps I do not wish for you to follow.”
“Vi.” Her name was on his lips, emerging from deep within. From a place inside himself that belonged to her alone. A place that had always been hers and had merely been waiting for her to claim it.
She flinched as if he had struck her, her palms on his chest, pushing. Creating distance. He allowed it, taking a step back, but his gaze would not cooperate. His gaze ate her alive. Had it only been hours? In her borrowed morning gown, skirts crushed from her travels, she was the loveliest creature he had ever beheld.
“Do not call me that,” she said coolly. “You do not have the right.”
No, he supposed he did not. But he was still her husband of one day, and she was his wife. He swallowed, stared at her.
“What shall I call you then?” he asked, his voice a rasp, strange and unfamiliar to his ears.
She gazed back at him, unmoving, a slow flush blossoming in her cheeks. Her lips parted. She licked them. Swallowed. “Violet will suffice.”
She felt this untamable energy between them too, the undeniable attraction, burning hotter and brighter and more dangerous than ever. He would bet his life she did. She may be angry with him, and she may have run from him, but she was not impervious. He could see it in her eyes, the way they widened, and how her pupils swelled. He could sense it in her hitched breath, in the manner in which she held herself, so stiff, and yet, unwilling to move away.
Seeking him, and yet, needing to keep him at bay.
It was how he had felt about her, and he knew it well. So very well. And that was how he also knew, no matter how much of a wall she erected between them, it would not matter. He would scale it, smash it apart, render it useless.
