She couldn’t resist wryly observing, “Yet here you are, set on marrying me.”
His brows lowered. “That’s something I can’t entirely explain, not even to myself.”
She smothered a snort of her own, yet at least he was admitting that much—that he didn’t fully understand how they had reached this point.
They turned the first corner and started down the central alley of the shrubbery. Now they were enclosed within the high hedges, the mild sunshine no longer reached them.
Suppressing a shiver brought on by the cooling touch of the shadows, she focused on what she needed to know. “For argument’s sake, let’s say we marry. Obviously, I’ll be largely fixed here, in Sheffield, at the steelworks, while you have businesses scattered around the country and, as you’ve mentioned, a base in London.” She glanced at him. “How would you see that playing out?”
His reply came immediately. “With respect to the steelworks, I thought we could get in people you trust as your seconds there. Someone competent to manage the day-to-day ordering and administration, plus someone you have confidence in to oversee your instructions regarding the alloys. While I envision us spending most of our time in Sheffield, I hope you’ll accompany me when I visit my other businesses, especially those that, in the future, will work with Carmichael steel.” He caught and held her gaze. “I would value your insights into the Rotherham Foundry, Nottingham Wires and Cabling, and Bloomfield’s Knives. And I would like you to work with me on the new factory and production line I want to build here for making steel-plated safes.”
She couldn’t stop her enthusiasm from showing. Tipping her head, she held his gaze. “So you see us working as, essentially, partners?”
He nodded decisively. “Yes. Exactly that.” He grinned charmingly. “Partners in business and in life.”
She looked ahead, thinking of the scope of all he’d proposed, the magnitude of it. She wanted to believe it—wanted to reach for it.
“Can you see the vision?”
His voice was a seductive murmur by her ear.
She could—and she wanted to make that vision into her reality.
The next corner loomed, and as they made the turn, she opened her lips—
Thump!
Martin groaned and collapsed at her feet.
Stunned, Sophy stared at him, then a large man pocketing a cosh stepped up to stand over Martin.
Sophy hauled in a breath to scream, but another man pushed past the first and thrust her roughly along the alley.
“Keep your lips shut!” the second thug ordered.
Furious, she whirled. Her gaze fell on Martin, and her breath seized.
The first thug had crouched over him, wrapped a meaty hand under Martin’s jaw, lifted his head, and was holding the edge of a wicked-looking knife against Martin’s throat. “Better do as he says,” the thug with the knife advised, “leastways if you want this fine gent to survive.”
A medley of emotions erupted and surged through her—horror, rage, fury, fear, and others equally potent and powerful. But if they were threatening Martin’s life… At least he was alive.
She took in his lifeless face. Clearly, it was up to her to keep him alive and ensure that their now-mutual dream had a chance to become reality.
Pushing her tumultuous feelings deep, she swallowed and pressed her lips tightly shut.
Heavily built, bald, and beady eyed, the thug holding the knife had been watching her closely. He nodded approvingly. “Good decision.” He shifted his gaze to his friend, who was hovering beside her, and tipped his head at Sophy. “You bring her, and I’ll lug pretty boy here.”
The second thug—a wiry individual with small eyes, a weaselly-looking face, and lank brown hair—gripped her arm. “No struggling,” he growled. “Not if you want your beau there to keep his pretty face intact.”
Lips tight, jaw clenched, she allowed the man to pull her around and tow her on through the shrubbery.
Rapidly, she canvassed her options. The shrubbery was neat and tidy, and she seriously doubted Old Joe and Reggie would be anywhere near. Martin’s men had left for Sheffield, and Oliver and Charlie would be far distant by now.
The heavyset thug lumbered after them with Martin draped over his shoulder. Martin’s arms swung limply; he was clearly still unconscious.
Worry for him tugged at her mind, but she pushed it aside. For both their sakes, she had to keep her wits about her.
The wiry man led her to and through the rear arch of the shrubbery and across the verge of the back lane—not much more than a rough track—that skirted the rear of the gardens.
