How to Lose a Bride in One Night (21 page)

The day had turned to dusk. Thin gray light filtered in between the part in the drapes. His arms stretched out beside him, reaching for her. Not finding her, he frowned and lifted his head. She was not in the vast bed.

Assuming she had left him to his sleep, he rose. No doubt she had wanted to bathe and refresh herself. A deep sense of satisfaction spread through his chest. He had introduced her body into the carnal act. His cock hardened at the memory of how sweet she had been.

He rose in one swift motion, his frown returning as his gaze swept over the bedchamber. He did not care for waking to find her gone. The experience left a strange hollowness inside him. A foul taste rose to coat his mouth.

He would have to correct the matter of separate rooms. He wanted her in his room, in his bed—in his life. He couldn’t fathom that he had ever wanted or expected her to leave. The man he had been when he first returned home . . . the dead shell that had faced his brother and Paget was a distant thing. He felt alive. As though he had woken from a deep sleep. She had filled the hollow places inside him again. Sensations, emotion, flooded him.

He wanted,
needed,
to be able to reach for her in the middle of the night. To sink into her softness. To feel her thighs wrap around him as her nails scored his skin.

As untried as she was, she had satisfied him like never before . . . like no other. She had dispelled his demons. Her sweet body bewitched him.

Sliding his trousers on, he ignored the twinge of skepticism his thoughts elicited. He sounded like a romantic, and he had never been that. Even before the rebellion, he’d been more practical in nature. He had assumed he would marry Paget because he liked her, loved her even. Not because she burned a fire in his belly. It had never been this for him before.

He fastened his trousers, eager to find her and resume where they left off. He didn’t bother donning his shirt. He strode bare-chested to the adjoining door, opening it without a knock. The room was empty. He entered and glanced about before starting for the door leading into the corridor, ready to locate her within the house. However, he paused, the open door of her armoire catching his notice. Scowling, he moved forward and yanked the door wider, revealing . . . nothing inside.

The few garments Mrs. Kirkpatrick had obtained for her were missing. Gone.

His stomach sank, and he knew. Her clothes weren’t the only thing missing.

She was gone, too.

Chapter Twenty-five

I
t was pouring when she arrived at the inn. A boy rushed out to take her valise from the coachman. She knew the hour to be late. Her body ached from sitting long hours on a less than comfortable seat cushion.

Even as wearied as she was from a long day crammed into a coach with other passengers, she hurried to the building in the rain-shrouded night, her feet swift and eager to reach the hulking shape.

She lifted her skirts and avoided the worst of the puddles, but was still quite drenched by the time she entered the taproom.

The innkeeper’s wife greeted them, offering them warm, spiced wine and a place before the fire as their rooms were prepared.

Shivering, Annalise stared into the flickering flames and half listened to Mrs. Felham chatting merrily about the cousin she was journeying to see in the North country. She knew quite a great deal about Margaret Penderplast and her solicitor husband (who frequently missed church) and their twins: Rose (with the unfortunate lisp) and John (who terrorized Cook by hiding creepy crawling things throughout the kitchen).

Mr. Felham snored where he sat beside his wife, his head nodding upon his neck—much as he had since they departed Town.

Annalise had met the couple upon boarding the coach. Mrs. Felham declared that a young and unchaperoned lady was clearly in need of her vigilant eye. Annalise didn’t object. Especially when the other occupant of their coach, Mr. Snyder, spent a good portion of his time brushing against her. A fact Mrs. Felham noted with a deep frown.

“Mr. Snyder, be so good as to keep your person on your side of the carriage or I will have words with the driver.”

Mr. Snyder had glowered at the matron, angry color staining his pock-pitted cheeks. He muttered unintelligible words beneath his breath, but stayed on his side of the carriage. It seemed even busybodies served a purpose.

Last night Annalise had found a room to rent near the coaching station in Town. Not that she had slept a wink. She was quite certain her eyes were red from a combination of tears and lack of sleep. She was exhausted. Yet she could not stop her thoughts from returning to Owen. What had he thought when he woke to find her gone? He could never know how hard it had been for her to leave him—or that she had done it
for
him.

She had taken the notes he dropped on the floor. The measure felt mercenary, but she could see no other way to leave Town. A necessary sin to keep Owen safe. The funds would see her far from Bloodsworth. She did not have a specific destination in mind. She would simply travel north until she found someplace that
felt
right. Somewhere she could call home, hidden enough so Bloodsworth would never find her.

“Sleep well, my dear,” Mrs. Felham trilled as she was led from the room. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

Annalise could hardly keep her eyes open as she followed the innkeeper’s wife upstairs.

She nodded absently as she was shown to a small spartan room with a single bed, chair, and washstand. A narrow window overlooked the yard and washstand. It could have been a broom closet for all she cared. As long as she could be alone and catch a few hours of sleep.

Left alone, she did not bother to undress. She simply removed her boots and fell onto the bed, instantly falling into a dreamless sleep.

O
wen rode hard through the night. Heedless of rain and the mud-filled ruts in the winding road. He could think only of Annalise. Of reaching her and holding her. And wringing her neck. He was not certain which urge was strongest.

He would not allow himself to consider that he would never see her again. That she had somehow slipped from his world as suddenly as she dropped into it. His stomach rolled at that unthinkable notion and he dug in his heels.

Of course, tracking her couldn’t have been a simple matter. He’d had more luck hunting rebels through inhospitable terrain.

A woman fitting her description had taken a coach last evening heading south to the coast. He had given pursuit, only to catch up with a female several years older and bearing little resemblance to Annalise aside from possessing brown hair. At that point he backtracked to Town and returned to the coaching station, where he learned that another woman of her description had taken a northbound coach earlier that morning. Since she had fled last evening, he had assumed she would catch the first conveyance out of town. His mistake. Apparently she had stayed the night somewhere.

Now he rode with a vengeance, trying to catch up with the northbound coach, hoping she had not gotten off at one of the posting inns along the way and gone in a different direction from there.

If that were the case, her trail was hopelessly lost to him. His only hope was to catch up with the coach that had a half day lead on him. If she wasn’t on it, then perhaps someone on it remembered her and even knew where she was headed next.

One thing was for certain.

He would not give up.

A
nnalise was still groggy from slumber when she woke to a room that had grown much colder than when she first entered it. For some reason, she resisted burrowing deeper into the small bed. An instinctual wariness held her motionless.

It took her a moment to recall where she was in the dark. The room was as black as when she dropped onto the bed earlier in the night. Her body still felt as heavy as stone. Her muscles dead weight.

She held herself still, unmoving, on the bed. And not simply because she was exhausted. Something else kept her immobile.

A voice whispered across her mind. Owen’s deep familiar voice counseling her.
Trust your instincts.

Awareness zipped along her nerves. She listened, tensing. A floorboard creaked to her left and she knew she was right. Her instincts were right. She woke for a reason, and it wasn’t simply the cold.

Her limbs tightened in readiness. It was impossibly dark. If she could not see with ease, then neither could the individual who had dared to invade her room.

Her mind raced, calculating what his next move could be. He wouldn’t simply grab her. He couldn’t clearly see her position on the bed. He would need to reach out and
feel
his way toward her. That was when she would have her chance.

She braced herself, waiting, her heart hammering wildly in her too-tight chest.

And then it came. A slight sinking of the bed to her left.

She took her chance. Shot her fist through the dark and struck him. She was awarded a grunt. Rolling to her right, she sprang to her feet and skirted the bed, determined to reach the door before he regained his wits enough to catch her.

Her fingers closed around the latch the moment a hand seized her, clutching a handful of her dress. “Come on now,” he rasped as he yanked her hard enough to send her tumbling into him. She smacked back into his wiry frame with a muffled cry.

“Now don’t fight it, love. It will go easier.” She instantly recognized the nasal sound of Mr. Snyder’s voice in her ear, ruffling her hair. “Nothing personal, but I got to do what I was hired for. That rich bloke paid me well.”

Hired.
Instantly she knew. “Bloodsworth sent you?”

“Don’t know the gent’s name. Don’t matter. All I need to know is he’s going to pay me double when the job is done.”

She felt such the fool. Snyder must have followed her when she left the town house.

Bloodsworth had never intended to let her go. She should have known he wouldn’t honor his word.

She whirled around and crashed her fist into the side of his head, making contact with his ear.

He howled and she flew back to the door, yanking it open. She plunged into the corridor and ran into a hard wall. A body. Arms came up to close around her.

She cried out, struggling wildly.

“Annalise!”

The sound of her name stilled her. She lifted wide eyes to the man holding her, then blinked as though her eyes deceived her.

“Owen?”

He couldn’t be here. He shouldn’t.

He opened his mouth, starting to say something, but his gaze lifted beyond her shoulder.

She followed his gaze, looking behind her at Snyder standing in the threshold, eyeing them both warily.

She opened her mouth to explain but never had the chance.

Snyder slipped his hand inside his jacket and yanked out a knife. A leer took over his pock-pitted face as he brandished the blade in front of him. “I was hoping this wouldn’t get messy.” He shrugged one shoulder. “No help for that now.”

Owen shoved her behind him and launched himself at Bloodsworth’s hired man, moving so quickly she hardly registered his movements.

The two men lost themselves in the gaping darkness of her bedchamber. She rushed ahead and peered into the gloom, trying to see what was happening. She heard powerful thwacks and pained grunts.

“Owen!” Her eyes strained for a glimpse of him, praying the knife had not found him. She looked left and right down the corridor, considering pounding a door for help but was also afraid to step away for even a moment . . . as if in that moment he would somehow need her.

Suddenly they quieted. The only sounds that of their ragged breaths.

“Owen?” she whispered, her heart hammering wildly in her chest as she stood silhouetted in the doorway.

A light flared to life within the room. Owen stood over the lamp, only slightly worse for wear, the knife, clean of blood, in his hand.

Snyder was curled into a ball on the floor, clutching his ribs, panting as though he couldn’t catch his breath.

She stepped inside the room, her gaze returning to Owen. “Are you hurt?”

He shook his head.

“How did you find me?”

He slid the back of his hand against his bottom lip, wiping the thin ribbon of blood clean. “You forget. There was a time when I hunted people. I was particularly good at it.”

She nodded, a lump forming in her throat. “Of course.” Of course, indeed. How foolish of her.

Steps sounded in the hall. Mr. Felham appeared in a dressing robe, his wife peering over his shoulder, clutching his arm with both hands.

“Oh!” she sputtered when she took in the scene. Her wild-eyed gaze landed on Snyder. “Oh, that wretch! I knew he was up to no good, sniffing about you. Are you injured, dear?”

Before Annalise could answer, Mrs. Felham’s gaze swung to Owen. “Who is this man?” Her eyes narrowed distrustfully. “Mr. Felham, send for the constable at once!”

“Mrs. Felham, he’s a friend! He came to my assistance.”

Mrs. Felham sniffed, mollified.

“I shall alert the innkeeper to send for a constable.” Mr. Felham nodded in Snyder’s direction. “Come, Mrs. Felham. I think the young lady is quite safe now.” He nodded at Owen before guiding his wife from the room.

Safe
. The word echoed hollowly through her. She would never be safe. Not as long as she was married to the Duke of Bloodsworth and he preferred her dead.

The couple shuffled off down the hall. She stared after them for a moment before looking back at Owen, stark resignation filling her heart.

Just the sight of him made her ache. All the feelings were still there. Stronger. Leaving, saying good-bye in her mind, hadn’t put him away from her thoughts . . . her heart. He was there, etched indelibly into her soul.

Regret consumed her that she had ever met him. That her heart had even known what it was like to be held and kissed and loved by someone so extraordinary. Someone who could make her shiver with a look. Whose touch could reduce her to a quivering, breathless, boneless mass.

No
. She had to have something. Had to know passion, love. She deserved that, at least, didn’t she? Her life shouldn’t have all been longing. Longing with no actual satisfaction. At least she’d tasted desire, even if only fleetingly.

Owen motioned to Snyder, who was trying to rise. He failed, crumpling back into his pathetic ball. “What is this?” he asked her.

She struggled to swallow the lump, knowing she couldn’t hide the truth from him anymore. She wouldn’t pretend ignorance. “I woke to him in the room . . .” She stopped, the thickness in her throat getting the better of her. And there was the realization that the truth meant explaining to him why this man had been there, and who had sent him.

Owen’s face drained of all color. He was before her in two strides, his hands on her arms, then sliding up to frame her face. “What did he do to you?”

She shook his head.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No. I escaped into the hall and collided with you before he could.”

Some of the color returned to his face, but something else remained there. A muscle feathered the flesh of his cheek, and she knew his control was hard-won. He looked down at Snyder like he wanted to return to him and hurt him all over again.

“Owen,” she said, turning his face back to her.

His eyes narrowed, focusing on her with an intensity that practically burned. “Why did you leave?”

To keep us safe.
To keep you safe
.

She inhaled deeply. “I’ll go back to Town with you.”

There was no reason to keep running now. Bloodsworth would scour the country until he found her and made certain she was dead. She couldn’t run from him. She saw that now. Snyder might not be the only one he even sent after her. There would be more. Others to come. She knew it. She inhaled thinly through her nose.