Page 49

Ian jolted awake, confused and disoriented. The coach no longer rocked and swayed. Bending forward, careful not to disturb Vangie nestled against his side, he peered through the window. He breathed a sigh of relief upon spying The White Stag Inn. It was well into the late-night hours; a dangerous time to be on the road, which was why a loaded pistol lay on the seat beside him.

He nudged her. “Sweeting, wake up.”

The gut-wrenching terror pummeling him when he’d seen her cornered at gun-point whipped him anew. He well-knew the salacious intentions of the blackguard he’d consigned to the grave, courtesy of the lead ball he planted in him. Reflexively, he tightened his arms around her. God help anyone intending to harm this woman. Hiswoman. His wife.

“Vangie.” He kissed her forehead.

“Hmm?” Shivering, she snuggled further into his side.

“We’ve arrived at the inn.” Ian’s gaze roamed her face, relaxed and unbelievably beautiful in repose.

He hoped she felt something for him too. Mayhap, she didn’t understand the feeling, but perhaps it had compelled her to take a life to protect him. The elusive emotion was foreign to him, and only now did he recognize the sentiment. The understanding left him desperate and vulnerable. And utterly terrified.

Were he and Vangie predestined for one another? Had God ordained from the beginning of time that they should find each other and through freewill, or otherwise, bound them together? A week ago, he’d have scoffed at these fanciful notions, calling them fustian nonsense, balderdash and claptrap, but now?

She stirred sleepily, her eyes fluttering half-open, a shy smile teasing her mouth.

He placed another feathery kiss upon her tempting lips. Her smile widened beneath his mouth. Elation sluiced him, and he settled her closer, never breaking contact with her lips. This was not a kiss borne of desire but one of tender, awe-inspiring emotion. A tantalizing kiss which wordlessly offered his heart to her.

Somehow, he knew she perceived the gift. She reached between them, laying her palm against his heart. He raised his head, dropping a reverent kiss upon her forehead before edging away.

“I’ll see to our rooms.” With his forefinger, he flicked the sable curls tumbled to her shoulders. “You might want to restore your appearance.” He winked wickedly. “People might talk.”

A tiny squeak escaped Vangie, and she immediately reached to straighten her hair.

A roguish chuckle reverberated in Ian’s chest. He teased her, and she grinned. The ramparts he’d erected around himself had disappeared, and even in the coach’s dim light, an unmistakable glimmer shone in his eyes. She drew in a calming breath. His doting attention excited her, causing her heart to beat a pace or two quicker.

“I’ll be but a few minutes,” he said. “Stay here.”

Once he stepped from the equipage, she smoothed her skirt, donned her hat and gloves, and waited for him to return. She deliberately avoided looking at the dark stains on the opposite seat.

A wave of nausea assailed her, accompanied by a burst of pain behind her eyes. The discomfort spread, becoming an incessant throbbing, spanning her forehead and temples. Searing pulsations radiated from her temple to her jaw.

Another headache? So soon?

Would she never be free of them? For thirteen long years she’d suffered these horrid megrims. Better now than when I needed my wits about me to save Ian’s life.

She could yet see the face of the man she’d stabbed, and a shudder rippled through her. Surely God would forgive her for taking his life. His wasn’t innocent blood, but that of a devious, black-hearted scoundrel. Besides, she’d killed to protect her husband.

She drew in a raggedy, shallow breath. She’d do it again too.

The drumming in her head increased ferociously, pounding and thrumming like the leather-topped djembe’s played during Romani celebrations. She raised a shaky hand to cup her forehead. Dear, God.

Through the buzzing in her ears, Vangie was vaguely aware of Ian speaking to Malcolm and Gifford. No doubt giving them instructions for the night and departure on the morrow. The door opened, and smiling, he poked his head inside.

She detected a smidgeon of worry when his perceptive gaze lit on her face.

“Have you a headache, sweeting?”

She didn’t dare nod. “Yes.”

“Come, I’ll help you alight.” Ian lifted her from the carriage then set her on her wobbly legs.

Grateful for the bracing arm he slipped around her waist, she attempted a weak smile.

“The White Stag Inn is a farmhouse turned public lodgings,” he said, escorting her inside.

As long as there’s a bed.