How had he known to come for her? Had he seen her slip upstairs? How had he arranged so quickly for the horses in such mayhem?
Too many questions thronged her brain, and the fog of them clouded her vision. She focused on his back in the moonlight. His rigid position. Or the horse hooves clomping upon the mucky road. Or her hands, white and cold, gripping the leather reins.
If only she’d listened to Father when he’d told her of such plunders.
If only she’d asked him more questions, learned more of the raids, understood better what had happened tonight. What manner of men could execute such atrocities and not yet be apprehended? Could not the King put a stop to this? Could no one?
’Twas inhuman.
Unfathomable.
Devilish.
She tried to shake herself free of the screams, but they shrieked within her at everyclip-clopof the horse hooves.
Ahead, the faint lights of a village glowed dim in the waning darkness. Fog rose from the ground. Faded pink and orange streaked the horizon, and by the time they rode their horses down the cobbled street, morning had dawned enough that any villagers peering from windows might have seen them.
Heaven have mercy.Father might as well forget any profitable marriage now. No one would have her after the tales this would stir.
At a wattle-and-daub inn with three gables and a squat chimney, Lord Livingstone dismounted his horse. Bridget must have been asleep, for he shook her before pulling her down.
Isabella jumped down herself before he could offer assistance. A new shiver ran through her. “Where are we?”
“Nasmyth. Come with me, if you please.” Guiding both her and Bridget with a hand to each of their arms, he took them inside the inn. Warm scents of yeast and mutton filled the open taproom, the aroma somehow comforting.
“A private room for the mistress and her lady,” said Lord Livingstone to an aproned young woman. “Send a chambermaid up as well to assist them. They shall desire a hearty meal and a fire in the hearth.”
Relief trickled through Isabella as she reached for Bridget’s hand. She squeezed. “My lord—”
“I shall write to your father at once.” He turned to her, his expression impassive yet careful. “He shall retrieve you as quickly as possible, I do not doubt. If you remain in your chamber until such a time, I imagine your reputation will suffer very little. I regret any damage tonight has done you already.”
“Nothing can be laid to your blame, my lord.” She glanced down at her slippers. Her muddy, wet slippers. “Indeed, we owe very much to you. I am in your debt.” She imagined he would agree, or at the very least unleash some disconcerting promise that he would collect on such a debt.
But he only muttered them good tidings, bowed, and departed the inn.
Isabella quivered and rubbed her arms. When the aproned innkeeper led them to an upstairs chamber, she could not help but hurry to the window.
Lord Livingstone was already mounted and riding away, his back straight and unbending as ever.
At the manor, he easily could have escaped himself without hurrying to find her. He could have easily compromised them during the journey. He easily could have used the present situation to soil her reputation enough that a marriage would have been her only option.
But he had done nothing more than rescue her and ride away.
Perhaps she had misjudged him.
Perhaps Father had been right.
CHAPTER 11
November 1809
He did not know what it was he missed. Perhaps the long rides on a steed he knew belonged to himself. Or shutting the door to his own chamber and drifting asleep atop feathered mattresses. Or passing Miss Ettie in the hall, with her smile falling on him or her hand grasping his.
All things he wished to forget.
Neededto forget—if he was to keep his sanity.
Dumping the contents of the last chamber pot into one of the slop pails, William hauled the buckets outside into the biting morning air. The wind cut through his livery, stirring his stained apron. He held his breath as he emptied the buckets into the cesspool, but the stench clung to him as he turned back for the house.
