She wished she had a book to read. She wished one of her cousins were here to talk to. She wished Westman wasn’t such a typical man.
She had known he would be angry when she refused his offer. She could have anticipated his response exactly, right down to the way he pouted now—not that he would think of it as pouting. He probably thought he was punishing her with silence. He’d retreated into that man cave as Josie had seen her father and brothers do so often, and she didn’t know when or if he’d ever emerge.
And she didn’t care.
Despite all of Westman’s reasons for marriage, Josie couldn’t get past all the reasons they shouldn’t. He didn’t love her. Sometimes she wondered if he even liked her. And she knew he didn’t like himself much at present. He blamed himself for his family’s misfortunes and . . .
There was something else. Something he needed to atone for.
A past scandal? On that point Westman was right: There would be scandal when they returned from Cornwall. Catie was always telling Josie that just because she wanted something didn’t make it true. Josie was afraid that this was one of those times. She could not wish the scandal away, even the treasure might not be enough to buy her forgiveness.
But she could fight scandal. She would stand up to the criticism, the ostracism, and the censure. And if there was a baby—she gulped hard at that thought—then she would do her best to protect the child from Society’s slings and arrows as well.
What she would not do was marry a man like Westman—a man who, under the guise of protection, took away all her freedoms.
Because, make no mistake, Westman was an arrogant, pigheaded man. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted without asking. He was the kind of man who expected women to do what he said. He was the kind of man Josie knew she should never love.
In the carriage, she shifted again, and bit her bottom lip hard.
Love. Back to that again. She drew her gaze to Westman’s face
Did he love her? Could he love her?
“Is there something wrong with my face or have your eyes just gotten stuck?” Westman growled suddenly, and Josie quickly looked away. She hadn’t meant to be caught staring at him, but he so resembled a statue that she’d quite forgotten he was actually awake and alert.
“I was just wondering whether you were still alive, my lord.”
“Why? Because I can sit still for more than three seconds at a time?” His blue eyes flicked to her, and she almost drew back at the sneer in them. “Some of us were taught not to fidget.”
“Some of us were taught to be polite.”
He snorted. “Why bother, when those you are with do not appreciate it?”
Oh, now this was too much. He was insulting her? “Look, Westman, I know I hurt your feelings this morning—”
“Hurt my feelings?” He laughed. “Miss Hale, I was simply trying to do you a favor this morning. The only person you’ve hurt is yourself.”
Josie rolled her eyes and went back to her view of green fields patterned by shadows of clouds. And she thought she’d been defensive.
The rest of the journey loomed long and arduous before her. But then she should have expected it to be fraught with conflict. The treasure obviously deserved its reputation for causing bad luck.
A few more miles rolled by, and the driver inquired if they would like to stop and stretch their legs at the next inn. Westman agreed, and Josie was soon being helped out of the carriage by the footman. She’d sent Valentine’s coach back to London with a note to Catie not to worry. Now she wished she had kept the conveyance. Anything to be away from Westman for a bit.
With that in mind, she decided to forgo the inn and walk the stiffness out of her legs. She started off at a brisk pace, heading toward a pretty paddock where several of the inn’s posting horses were grazing. It was a sunny spring day with a nip in the air, but the flowers were already beginning to bloom. She brushed past pale lemon daffodils and sun-kissed primroses, stopping to admire them, and then trekking on.
The pip, pip, pip of a blackbird echoed across the afternoon, and she measured her step to its rhythm.
The farther from the coach and Westman, the better she felt. Why, she could almost smell the sea air of Cornwall and feel the gentle ocean breeze. And on that breeze she swore she could hear the tinkle of gold doubloons tumbling over one another.
Soon, she thought, trying to keep her excitement from bubbling over. It was too much to contain now that they were so close, and she did a little hop-skip. The blackbird suddenly abandoned its treetop post with a sharp, staccato warning call. She looked up and heard a crack and felt something hot and hard whiz past her cheek.
She held a hand to it, touched her cheek gingerly, surprised when the hand she pulled away had a scarlet trickle of blood on the finger. Her body rigid with alarm, her eyes snapped quick images of the field and narrowed when she spotted two men several yards away.
As soon as she caught sight of them, they ducked back into the copse of trees, but not before she saw the glint of the pistol. She was on her belly in the next instant, and this time when she heard the crack, she didn’t mistake it. She hid in the tall grass, her heart pounding and sweat breaking out all over her body. She tried to think how far it was back to the inn.
Too far for the patrons to have heard the shot? Too far for her to run?
“Did ye hit ’er?” she heard one of the men say in a lower class accent.
