The Wicked Governess (Blackhaven Brides Book 6)(59)

Moreover, Marjorie balked at the idea of Miss Grey bringing shame on herself, her family, and her employer’s family by eloping. One way or another, it would surely break her relationship with Rosa. Nothing about Miss Grey gave Marjorie any reason to believe her a schemer, a fortune-hunter—the Braithwaite rumors notwithstanding.

Marjorie nodded twice. “Rosa,” she said firmly. “Ring the bell. I think we need to question the servants.”

“So,” Marjorie said, ten minutes later, after she had spoken to the servants and dismissed all of them save Williams. “So, Ginny took a letter to Miss Grey and then Mr. Richard called for his curricle.”

“He was going to take her to Carlisle, at least, or ‘home’ if she preferred,” Williams repeated.

“And did you tell this to the colonel?” Marjorie demanded, forgetting that she wasn’t meant to use his rank.

“No, he didn’t ask, just rode off without a word.”

“So, he thinks they’ve gone to Gretna Green. And in fact, they’re going to her family somewhere else in Scotland. Or Richard will put her on the mail coach at Carlisle.”

Williams inclined his head, while Rosa looked from one of them to the other.

“Does it seem to you,” Marjorie asked, frowning, “that there is room there for lots more misunderstandings? And scandal? And in spite of all, the wrong marriage? At best, Miss Grey will need a chaperone.”

Williams, who clearly hadn’t thought of Gretna Green until Marjorie mentioned it, began to nod vigorously. He knew his master very well.

“Then we had better go, had we not?” Marjorie said.

“To Scotland?” Williams asked doubtfully.

“If we drive like the wind, will we reach Carlisle before the Edinburgh coach leaves?”

“Maybe. But it will rattle your bones.”

“Well, what else do I use the old things for? Fetch the coach and the horses, Williams! We’ll need food and a blanket.”

*

The way from Blackhaven to the Carlisle road was not great for carriage travel. Javan, riding across country, had every hope of catching up with Richard’s curricle long before it reached the city. The road wound between hills and along the coast for part of the way. Javan cut off several miles by simply riding as the crow flies, over the hills and streams and through the forest, until, galloping fast, he caught sight of the road below him. A horse and cart ambled in the opposite direction. And then, around the corner, came a curricle containing two people, a man and a woman.

With some triumph, Javan turned his horse’s head and galloped onward and downward to head them off. It was then that he noticed the fresh hoof prints again. He’d glimpsed them at various stages on the way without paying much attention, for he knew both his quarries were in Richard’s curricle, not riding on horseback. He followed the hoofprints for a little, but as he came closer to the road, they carried on around the side of the hill while he galloped on downward toward the road and Caroline.

Now that the moment was almost upon him, he realized he’d no real idea of what he would do or say. Every speech he came up with made him sound like a pompous ass, a coxcomb or a pathetic whiner, none of which could he imagine appealing to Caroline.

The trouble was, words could not adequately express his feelings or his desires, or his care for hers.

He would have to wait until he saw her. Once he saw her face, he would know whether he was saving her to be with him, or simply to prevent a disastrous elopement and the damage to her reputation. Either way, he would fight to win her and be worthy of her, and he would never give up…

A flash from the hill above caught his attention. Almost at the road now, he turned and gazed several yards up and to his right, just above the next bend. The low, wintry sun was certainly glinting on something, something so familiar to him it was like coming home. A sword. Or a rifle.

He absorbed the terrain without really trying. From the glint, a sharpshooter had a clear sight of the road below, and yet had plenty of cover. From the road, and from where Javan observed, he could remain hidden. Any vehicle would slow drastically around that bend, giving a good shot his best chance.

Only, who would do such a thing? He hadn’t heard of highwaymen in the area, though it was true he hadn’t been in much of a position to hear of any that were. That, too, was the result of his chosen isolation.

By the time he stopped the curricle now, they would all be in the direct view of any sharpshooter. Before the thought was properly formed, he’d turned his horse’s head, urging it up the hill as fast as it would go. All the time, he scanned the hills for signs of other weapons, other shooters.

By the time he threw himself off the horse, the rumble of the curricle’s wheels seemed to fill his ears. Blending speed and caution, he crept around the rocky outcrop and saw what he’d become sure he would—one man stretched out with a rifle pointing below. The distance was perfect, and the curricle was rounding the bend with slow, smooth perfection. No one had ever accused Richard of driving badly.

“Good morning,” Javan said to distract the shooter, because he wasn’t sure he had time to jump on him before he shot. He hadn’t, as it turned out. A mere instant before he landed on the shooter, the familiar crack of a rifle exploded and echoed around the hills.

The gunman heaved himself around almost in the same movement as he shot—not in time to save himself, but in time to see his attacker’s face. “You!” he exclaimed as Javan landed on his shoulder and punched him hard on the chin.