He swallowed hard as his gut tightened. That couldn’t be. He knew that she was the one. Scooting over to her, he put an arm on her shoulder. “So tense, Ester. You think that I have doubts about a woman that danced in the bushes, placing herself in danger for me? You knew I would come back for you. Ester, what’s between us is new but it feels right.”
Turning to him, she looked up, and he captured her gaze.
He wasn’t ready to call what he felt love, but it was more than passion and thankfulness. “We have a beginning, Ester Croome. Something thick and rich to build upon. Yes, I am an actor playing parts in the theater, but my trust in you is no act. I hope to keep earning yours.”
“Maybe, but I’m sure my parents must suspect something is wrong. Hopefully, my absence has ruined my chances of marrying Jordan. You’ve done enough, Bex. Send me home by coach at the next inn.”
“Ester, your reputation. No one will think—”
“I know, Bex. I know. I hope this won’t end up in Mama’s scandal papers, but I need to protect you. Without me you can take a room and rest. You’ll get a great deal of sleep and make it back to London for rehearsals.
No.
He couldn’t lose her over sleep. She cared about him, perhaps more than she did herself. No one had done that in a while. The last woman he’d cared for, the Countess Devoors, had liked his fame and the attention his name brought, but she would have sold his hide for her name to be put in the papers. That’s why bashful, brave, beautiful Ester was perfect.
“Put me on a stagecoach, Bex. Then go on being London’s best actor.”
“No. I will not send you away unless you have decided against me as a husband. Do you not care for me?”
“You know I do, but this is not right.”
It hit him like a dropped line, a bad review. Somehow, she’d taken up the notion that this was too hard for him. She surely thought he couldn’t do well in a mixed-race marriage. He slipped a frizzy curl behind her ear. “You’re wrong to give up on me, Ester. In four hours or less, I’ll have you in Scotland. We’ll marry as planned. I’ll not send you back to face the scorn of the world. I care too deeply for you.”
He framed her face within his palms, claimed her wide-eyed gaze, and came within a whisper of her mouth. “You still wish to marry me, Ester Croome, don’t you?”
“I…maybe…yes, yes, Bex.”
The garbled words scented in apple were like a sultry kiss, exactly what he wanted. He started the horses. “Good, I want to be married to you, too.”
But Bex knew the matter wasn’t settled. As the horses regained speed, he looked over at her fanning herself with a sketchbook, perhaps a little breathless, like he was.
He wanted Ester, the right way, to be given to him in marriage. His past, like the miles ahead, was just an obstacle to overcome. He had to prove himself to her today, to wed her today, or lose her forever.
Chapter Twelve
Almost There
Ester sat in the phaeton as Bex paid for the horses to be changed. She saw a couple traveling with a girl maybe a few years younger than she. The mother figure hugged the young woman, combing through the girl’s ash-blonde hair, as they climbed into their carriage.
She wanted to turn back to her sketch, but Ester couldn’t and watched them sitting behind the window of their carriage, laughing, enjoying each other’s time. The picture sank her heart as she remembered Mama’s soft laugh, her knitting on the couch. When had their laughter stopped? When was the last time Mama had done her hair?
Unable to help herself, Ester eased her charcoal from the dress she’d started, to glance at the back of the ebony barouche pulling away from the coaching inn’s courtyard. A sob collected in her throat. Ester wanted her mother. She couldn’t wait for this elopement to be done to see Mama again.
Bex climbed back onboard, and she caught his half-closed eyes. “Not much farther, my future wife.”
The yawn in his voice could not be denied.
Her heart sank, hitting the bottom of her soul. She grasped his hand. “Bex, you are putting yourself at risk. An hour will change nothing. It’ll barely get us to the blacksmith at Gretna or back to London any sooner. Let’s stay at Carlisle, pull into a grove, and you can sleep for an hour. We’ll still have plenty of light left to make Scotland.”
He shook his shoulders as he took up the reins. “Carlisle is ten miles from Gretna Green. Ten miles. We are thirty minutes away. I’ll sleep well in a room with my wife. Not in a stable or by the side of the road, but a proper room with my proper wife.”
There was no reasoning with him. Though his determination to marry her touched the deepest parts of her, his bloodshot cobalt eyes ruined her peace, made her pulse race with fear. How could she stop someone so set on killing himself?
If she didn’t voice her objections, did that make her a couch wife—or perhaps a phaeton wife, but without the knitting needles?
“I’m fine, Ester. Put away that frown. We’re so close. We’re pushing through. Now don’t wear yourself to ribbons fretting. Why not finish the sketch you’ve been working upon. What is it, a dress?”
He swayed and peered over her. “My, with a trimmed low-cut bodice. What color should it be? Scarlet? I think you’ll look so pretty in it.”
