But as Jasper opened the door with an apology on his lips, he found himself speaking to an empty carriage and his heart dropped into his shoes.
Various catastrophic scenarios flashed though his mind. Had someone followed them? It was possible she’d wandered away, perhaps seeking a place to relieve herself, and gotten lost—or worse. Brush lined the edges of the stream, making it difficult to identify the shoreline, and if one wasn’t watching carefully, it would be all too easy to fall in.
Even the best of swimmers couldn’t survive these conditions.
His chest tightened as very real fear took hold of him. She easily could have been nabbed by one of her father’s men. Or worse, a highwayman could have taken her.
He glanced back at the other vehicles. She wasn’t milling around them, and aside from the general discontent from the inconvenience of the conditions, nothing seemed amiss.
But damnit, Nia was his responsibility now. He was not prepared to lose her. And he would not. If someone had absconded with her, by God, he’d ensure they regretted it for the rest of their natural lives. Which, based on his current temper, wouldn’t be long.
He slammed the carriage door shut, pushed his hair back from his face, and jogged around the other vehicles that had accumulated behind them. Only one of them carried a passenger—an elderly woman—but otherwise, he saw only men, mostly in blacks, grays, and dingy brown garb.
He approached one, asking if they’d seen a young woman wandering about. The man’s brows shot up, but then he shook his head.
Jasper moved onto another. This one winked. “Lost your bit o’ muslin, did you? She’s probably in the bushes somewhere, doin’ ‘er business.” But they’d been stopped for going on an hour now. Jasper’s heart was beating in double time now.
His next step, he decided, was going to have to be a search party.
Searching for some answer he’d not considered, he turned to stare across the river and a flash of gold and pink caught his eye.
There, on the opposite shore, Nia stood, hugging her arms in front of her for warmth. Catching sight of him, she lifted her chin.
And then she raised her hand in a hesitant wave.
Relief nearly turned his bones liquid.
Most unfortunately, for Nia anyway, on the heels of that relief, a slow, burning rage boiled up from the soles of his feet through his legs, past his loins, and nearly exploded in his chest. Jasper didn’t anger easily, but if Lady Gardenia Hathaway had been within arm’s length at that moment, he’d have been tempted to strangle her pretty little throat. She was damn lucky a raging river stood between them.
She made a move toward the bridge, as though to return to him, and he held up a hand.
“No.” His mouth formed the word, but he had no idea if the sound actually came out.
He wasn’t the only one who’d seen her. A few of the men he’d asked were pointing, and then Coachman Will gestured there with questioning eyes.
Jasper required unspeakable discipline to bring his temper under control. “Bring the coach across,” he shouted over the winds. “I’ll meet you there.”
Jasper sprinted across the bridge, jumping over spaces where planks had broken and been torn away, wobbling a little on the weaker boards. And as he stared through the gaps at the brew of water and debris below, he rehearsed a barrage of recriminations under his breath.
If she thought she could do whatever she wished, why the devil did she need him? He was nearly a decade older than her. He’d seen the world. He was nearly twice her size and had gone damned far out of his way to protect her.
He knew better than her, by God, and she’d best learn to listen to him.
Or else!
His hands itched to grab her by the shoulders and shake even an ounce of sense into her. He’d demand that, from this point forward, she cease playing these little games.
Because her games were going to get her killed, or him, or both of them. What could he have done if she’d fallen into the water? He dismissed the thought because it was too disturbing to consider.
And, of course, when he stepped off the bridge onto the shore, his foot landed in one of the ubiquitous puddles. He paused, inhaled through his nostrils, and then very deliberately shook the water off his boot.
He then turned, pinned his gaze on her, and marched across the small section of soggy grass where she stood.
“Nasty storm,” she said, staring up at him, her cobalt eyes looking even brighter against the lush grass and trees. Her lips were nearly blue from the cold but her cheeks were pink, and water clung to a few of her thick lashes.
One fell off and he watched as it rolled along her cheek, to the tip of her jaw, and dropped onto the bare skin above the bodice of her gown.
That lucky droplet proceeded to take its sweet time meandering into the valley between her breasts.
