“This is nothing personal, Catherine. Only business. You will thank me, I assure you, for what is to come. All your dreams, every last one, are about to come true.”
“Dreams?” she spat. “You speak in riddles. If you think I do not know my aunt and uncle are behind this…”
Stafford’s laugh was sharp as a whip-crack.
“Those blithering fools? They could not even keep a defenseless young woman in the grip of my Poppy confined until her inheritance was secured. Pathetic creatures.” He scoffed to his side.
Catherine’s blood went cold. Even McKay had the grace to look startled at the revelation. Before she could even gather herthoughts on his confession, his smile widened like a Cheshire cat.
“Yes, yes—it was my idea. Stroke of genius, if I may say so. Your dear aunt and uncle were so desperate for funds, so eager to maintain their lifestyle. I merely suggested a way to... manage you. Keep you docile. Dependent.”
He waved a hand dismissively. “We spun a convenient yarn. That you carried some fever that claimed your parents. That without careful treatment, you would succumb as they did. Natural causes, of course. A tragic weakness in the bloodline.”
“My parents…” she whispered, the words catching in her throat.
“Died of a fever, nothing more sinister than that. Though your aunt and uncle were happy enough to let you believe otherwise when it suited their purposes.” Stafford leaned forward slightly. “The poppy was insurance. Unfortunately, your guardians proved incompetent even at that simple task.”
Catherine felt bile rise in her throat. The casual cruelty of it. The calculated manipulation. Years of her life stolen, her mind and body poisoned, all for money.
He shook his head. “No, I want nothing more to do with them. If you are to be won, Catherine, it shall be by stronger hands than theirs. I have taken charge now.”
Her chin lifted in defiance in spite of it all.
“I am married. If you believe you can force me to wed you, you are gravely mistaken. It is impossible. Both in the eyes of God and of the Law.”
“Nothing is impossible,” Stafford replied, oil slick, his eyes glittering. “Though your hand would be an agreeable prize, it is not the chief one I seek. My sights are set rather higher.”
Her lips pressed tight. She threw out the only weapon she had at her disposal,words.
“Aaron will see to it that Sir Obadiah leaves you out of his business dealings. If he cannot, then I will persuade him myself.”
At that, Stafford laughed uproariously, the sound filling the carriage until it was almost unbearable.
“Oh, my dear, you will change your mind soon enough.”
Catherine turned her face to the window, feigning nausea.
“Air,” she murmured faintly. “I need air.”
McKay opened the window, the servant’s instincts hard to kill. As the cool rush of wind struck her face, Catherine let slip one of her gloves. It tumbled onto the road below, unnoticed by her captors. She concealed the remaining glove beneath her bonnet, which she held in her lap.
If Aaron wants to claim me, let him come. Let him follow the trail. Please God, let him come for me!
Later, as Stafford lit a cigar, filling the carriage with choking smoke, she dropped her second glove, using the same ruse of needing fresh air.
Catherine watched the landscape roll by until they reached another crossroads. Aaron would need to know which path they had taken. She bit her lip, feeling McKay’s stolid gaze upon her, alert to tricks.
“I need some air,” she said.
“You have it,” Stafford replied, tossing his cigar out of the open window.
Catherine shifted as though to lean towards the window, but McKay clamped an iron grip on her arm. As the carriage turned, she stamped her foot down hard upon his and lunged for the door handle.
She did not make it.
McKay seized her, but not before she managed to let fall a small silver hair clip. Another token, a prayer, a breadcrumb trail.
Will Aaron follow? After what he said last night, perhaps he will be so angry at my leaving that he will wash his hands of me…
