She pointed toward the side of the drive from where he’d come, then made a shooing gesture to indicate he should return to his horse and wait for her. His shoulders stiffened, and he gave a sharp shake of his head.
“Yes,” Lucy whispered. She laced her fingers together under her chin.
Please.
He hesitated, frowning, but after a moment he did as she bid him and vanished back into the shadows.
Lucy snatched a hairpin from her hair, rushed to the door and knelt before it. There was no time to lose. If she didn’t appear on the drive in the next few minutes, she hadn’t the slightest doubt Ciaran would come after her.
Fortunately, she’d picked so many locks she didn’t need much time.
Escaping the asylum undetected proved a great deal more difficult than escaping the bedchamber. Three flights of stairs had never seemed so many before, but between diving into alcoves and around doors—and, at one point—into an unlocked room with a sleeping occupant—Lucy made it to the first-floor landing.
She eyed the entryway just below her. Every doctor, nurse, and servant in Oakwood Asylum seemed to be gathered there. She was obliged to wait for some time, one eye on the staff milling about and the other locked fearfully on the front door, dreading the moment when Ciaran would burst through it.
After a long, torturous, breathless wait, a bell rang. It seemed to be some sort of signal to the staff, because within minutes they’d all dispersed, some down corridors and others up the stairs. Fortunately, none of them spotted Lucy quivering behind a half-closed door.
Once the sound of footsteps faded, Lucy took a deep breath, threw her shoulders back…
And fled.
If anyone called after her, she didn’t hear them. If anyone chased her, she didn’t notice them. She simply ran, as fast as her legs could carry her, a muttered prayer on her lips.
Down the final set of stairs and across the entryway, her one stockinged foot slipping over the slick marble floor, and through the door. Once she was outside she skidded around the corner, heading blindly for the side of the drive where she’d last seen Ciaran, and…
Flew straight into his arms.
“Ciaran.” She hurled herself against him and clung to him tighter than she’d ever clung to anything in her life. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t look at him, could hardly breathe, but she pressed her face into his chest, dragging in great gulps of him, the dark, rich scents of wood and leather.
“Lucy. Thank God.” He didn’t say anything more, but he was trembling as he gathered her against him and buried his face in her hair.
She could have held him like that for hours, days, a lifetime, but the front drive of the Oakwood Asylum wasn’t the place to bare her heart to him.
They had to get away at once. Uncle Jarvis’s carriage still lingered in the drive. There was no sign of Bexley, thank goodness, but either of them could appear any moment. Lucy didn’t intend to be there when they did.
Ciaran seemed to come to this realization at the same time she did. Without a word he led her toward the trees and lifted her onto his horse. He mounted behind her and wrapped a muscular arm around her waist. “Lean back on me,” he murmured, his warm breath drifting over her cheek.
Lucy didn’t argue. Why should she? There was no other place in the world she’d rather be. So, she snuggled closer, her back pressed against his chest. Then she closed her eyes, and let her hero take her away.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Under the best of circumstances, it was a full day’s ride from Maidstone to Windsor. Two people on one horse, both of them dazed and exhausted, weren’t the best of circumstances.
Even so, Ciaran pushed on, riding for hours through the night until his thighs burned and Lucy was a limp bundle of shivering limbs in his arms. It was midnight by the time they reached Sevenoaks, but they only paused long enough to exchange their horse for a carriage. They followed a southern route from there, skirting around London to evade any pursuit by Jarvis.
Ciaran looked over his shoulder the entire time.
It wasn’t until they rode into Windsor that he was able to draw an easy breath. The sun had been peeking over the horizon for an hour or more before he found a tiny inn off the main road and led Lucy upstairs to a small but clean bedchamber tucked under the eaves.
Once again, he asked for one bedchamber only. It wasn’t any more proper now than it had been before, but there was no way Ciaran was letting Lucy out of his sight after what had happened with Jarvis. Even now the villain might be chasing them across Kent, determined to drag her back to that godforsaken asylum. Lucy wouldn’t be safe until they reached Buckinghamshire. He wouldn’t leave her alone until then.
Noteventhen, if he had his way.
She wouldn’t ever truly be safe from Jarvis until she married. Jarvis was her only male relative. If he got his hands on her again he could have her locked away, regardless of her age.
Ciaran didn’t say so to Lucy. There was no need. She knew the danger as well as he did.
So, he said nothing. In fact, they both remained strangely silent on the subject of a marriage between them. Ciaran wasn’t certain why. His love for her, his wish to marry her never wavered. A plea hung constantly on the edge of his lips, but he didn’t speak it aloud, and Lucy didn’t question him.
