You cannot come?
You smell strange?
I don’t want to sit next to you?
“Yes?” he prompted, adjusting the scarf at his neck.
“Nothing,” I muttered.
I reached for the side of the carriage—and felt his hands close around my waist.
Firm. Certain.
He lifted me easily, setting me onto the padded seat before climbing up after me. He sat close. Too close. Shoulder brushing mine. Thigh pressed along my leg.
Touching me.
The open carriage lurched forward without warning. I gasped, pushing my boots hard against the floor and gripping the handrest. Instantly, his arm swept across my chest, bracing me back until he was satisfied I had my balance.
Snow began to fall—lightly at first, drifting and quiet. But the farther we travelled from Eilidh House, the heavier it became, thickening the air and dulling the world to white.
An ominous start.
A journey begun with the wrong man.
? ? ?
Despite the harsh, icy wind and the constant flutter of snow, I wasn’t as cold as I’d expected. Something moved into my line of sight and I frowned, focusing on the dark brown leather gloves being waved in front of my face.
“Take them. Your hands must be cold,” he murmured.
“I cannae take yer gloves, Lord Wulverton,” I said, shaking my head.
“Aye, ye will,” he replied—mimicking my accent.
My head snapped up, irritation flaring sharp and instant. I was ready to give him a piece of my mind—but he only waggled the gloves again, that crooked smile firmly in place.
Fine. Let him freeze.
I released the handrest at the side of the carriage and tugged the oversized gloves on. They were warm. The leather creaked softly as I flexed my fingers.
“Tell me about your family,” he said quietly.
I dropped my gaze to the road we left behind. Hoofprints marked the snow in neat, even lines, perfectly aligned with the carriage wheels. There wasn’t another soul in sight—no cottages, no travellers. Only the soft huff of the ponies and the rhythmic creak of the carriage beneath us. Far finer than the rough cart I’d been expecting.
I stayed silent—not out of rudeness, but because I wasn’t ready for that conversation. Not with him.
After a moment, I spoke without looking up.
“Tell me aboot yours.”
As he spoke about his parents, his friends, and a life so foreign to me, I found myself aghast at the sheer excess of it. The waste. The ease. The certainty that the world bent to them.
And yet… the longer he spoke, the less I could hold it against him. He’d been raised in luxury—born into it, shaped by it. I had no doubt his family profited from the suffering of others somewhere down the line; most English families of means did. But to my knowledge, the Wulvertons had never harmed us. Nor had his people worn military colours.
Between stops at the farms and the granary, we paused for a meal at a popular tavern. A place my uncle would never have taken me.
Yet the Laird made certain my belly was full—and even paid for the driver’s meal.
