Love and the Single Heiress

Chapter 19

Today’s Modern Woman must be prepared to face the unexpected. Sometimes it can be delightful, such as a surprise gift from her lover, in which case a thank-you kiss is appropriate, which in turn may well lead to more delightfully unexpected things. Occasionally, however, the unexpected proves most unwelcome, in which case her wisest course of action is to say as little as possible, then quickly extricate herself from the situation.

A Ladies’ Guide to the Pursuit of

Personal Happiness and Intimate Fulfillment

by Charles Brightmore

Andrew watched all the color leach from her face as she stared up at him in mute, wide-eyed shock. Memories he’d fiercely fought to keep buried for years roared to the surface. Now that he’d begun, and there was no turning back, he was desperate to finish.

He wanted to look at her, but he simply couldn’t stand still. Pacing before her, he said, “My father was the stablemaster for a very wealthy, influential man, Charles Northrip. Father and I lived in rooms above the stable, and I grew up on the estate. I loved it there. Loved being with the horses. When I was sixteen, my father died, and Mr. Northrip promoted me to stablemaster.”

He paused and looked at Catherine, who sat ramrod straight on the settee and regarded him through solemn eyes. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire and the ticking of the mantel clock. After resuming his pacing, he continued, “Mr. Northrip had only one child, a daughter named Emily who was four years my junior. I mentioned her when we made the strawberry ice.”

“Yes. I remember.”

“Emily was painfully shy. Awkward. Clumsy and tongue-tied. All conditions worsened by the forceful personalities of her parents. The Northrips were dismayed at their daughter’s reserved ways. Emily was much more at home with horses than with people, and consequently she spent a great deal of time at the stables. Whenever her father would find her in one of the stalls or in the loft, he’d complain that he didn’t know what to do with her. How had he and his wife, two gregarious, friendly people, produced such an unsociable child who preferred animals over people? He said these things as if she were deaf, and I could see how much they hurt her. Over the years, a friendship blossomed between me, my father, and Emily.”

Memories he hadn’t allowed himself to resurrect for years rolled through him. “I’ll never forget the night my father died. I was standing in the stables, staring at his empty chair. I felt… gutted. And so alone. The next thing I knew, Emily was standing next to me. She slipped her little twelve-year-old hand into mine and told me not to worry. That I wasn’t alone because she was my friend, and that she’d be my best friend, if I’d like.” Nostalgia tightened his throat. “I told her that I’d like that very much. And over the next seven years the bond we’d formed strengthened. We truly were each other’s best friend.”

Pausing before the fireplace, he stared into the dancing flames. “Because he had no son to whom he could pass his business, Mr. Northrip was determined that Emily marry a man capable of running his enterprise, and he believed he’d found such a man in Lewis Manning, the only son of another wealthy merchant. A marriage-to say nothing of a lucrative business merger-was arranged. Emily accepted this, knowing it was her duty to marry in accordance with her father‘s wishes. She was actually relieved she’d finally be doing something her father approved of after disappointing him her entire life.

“But I soon learned that Lewis Manning possessed a violent temper. One night, only several days before the wedding, Emily came to me, crying, in pain from what turned out to be a cracked rib. Although there was not a mark upon her face, the rest of her-where the blows wouldn’t show-was bruised where Lewis had beat her for daring to question one of his decisions. She told me then that while this was the first time he’d hurt her this badly, Lewis had lost his temper several times before and struck her. She’d told her father about those earlier instances, but he’d dismissed her concerns, saying that all men occasionally lose their tempers. After this last instance, however, Emily feared that the next time Lewis flew into a rage she might not be able to get away from him.”

He pulled his gaze from the fire and looked at Catherine, who was listening with rapt attention. “My first instinct was to tear Lewis apart, but Emily begged me not to. Said I would only be imprisoned for my trouble and that Lewis wasn’t worth it. I reluctantly agreed, but I was determined to protect her-from that bastard Lewis, and her father, who obviously cared more about the connection this marriage would make than his daughter. And the only way I could think of to do that was to marry her myself. We both knew she’d be giving up everything, as her father would be furious and surely disown her, but so be it. We left that night and eloped.”

Again he could not remain still and resumed his pacing. “The next day, after settling Emily at a nearby inn, I went to see her father. I wanted to tell him about the marriage face-to-face, and let him know that further harm to Emily would not be tolerated. He was, as expected, incensed. He said he would have the marriage annulled and intended to see me charged with kidnapping and hanged. When I told him there were no grounds for an annulment, his fury doubled. Said that one way or another he’d get his daughter back, even if it meant seeing me dead. I didn’t doubt for a moment that he meant what he said. I returned to the inn. Shortly afterward, as we were preparing to depart, an enraged Lewis Manning arrived. He said hateful, disgusting things about Emily, and my patience reached its limit. He informed me that he did not intend to wait for justice-he wanted to see the job done immediately, and he challenged me to a duel. I accepted despite Emily’s pleas not to.”

He continued on, the words coming faster now. “The Northrip’s groundskeeper, Adam Harrick, was my closest friend besides Emily, and he served as my second. At the duel, unbeknownst to me, Lewis cheated by turning to fire before the full count was made. Emily, who was supposed to have remained at the inn, saw his treachery. In an attempt to warn me, she ran forward… and was hit by Lewis’s shot.”

He closed his eyes, the image of Emily crumpling to the ground, her eyes wide with shock, the midsection of her ivory gown stained crimson, indelibly carved in his mind.

“I fired, and my shot hit Lewis,” he said, his voice a rough rasp. “I dropped my pistol and ran to Emily. Although she was still alive, there was no doubt her wound was fatal. I… I held her, trying to stop the blood, but to no avail. With her dying words she pleaded with me to escape. To leave America, go where no one could find me. She knew her father would either kill me or make certain I hanged for Lewis’s death, and no doubt try to blame me for her death as well. She begged me, over and over, not to let that happen. She desperately wanted me to live, to have a full and happy life. She loved me and did not want me to die.”

Fixing his gaze on Catherine, he pressed his palm against his chest, and said in a ragged whisper, “I felt her final heartbeats against my hand after I finally promised her I would do as she asked. And then she was gone.”

His voice broke on the last word. Then silence hung heavy in the air as he relived the horror of that chilly day with a gutting, vivid clarity he’d forced from his mind for years. The day he’d lost everything. His home. Life as he’d known it. The sweet, gentle friend who’d been his wife.

He coughed to clear the tightness in his throat. “After saying my good-byes to Emily and making certain that Adam would see to her, I kept my promise. Several hours later, using a false name, I sailed away from America.”

Dragging his hands down his face, he tipped his head back and looked at the ceiling. “For the first five years, I lived… recklessly, not really caring if I lived or died. It was a very dark time for me. Lonely. Bleak. Empty. I’d done what Emily had asked me to do, yet I hated myself for doing it. For running away. For all my actions that had led to her death. I felt like a coward, and that I’d compromised my honor. I actually hoped that her father would somehow find me, yet he never did.

“But one day, your brother found me-just in time to save me from the machete-wielders, a rescue I wasn’t immediately grateful for, by the way. Since I had nothing better to do, I returned with Philip to his camp, and for the first time in five years I had a sense of belonging somewhere. Your brother not only saved my life, but through him, I found the will to live again. To make something of myself. He was the first real friend I’d had since leaving America, and my friendship with him changed my life. I eventually managed to bury deeply that horrifying day on the dueling field, but when that shot was fired in London, when I saw you on the floor…”He briefly closed his eyes. “I relived my worst nightmare.”

He drew in a deep breath, feeling utterly depleted, yet lighter than he had in a decade. He turned toward Catherine. Her hands were clenched in her lap, and she stared into the fire. He desperately wanted to know what she was thinking, but forced himself to remain silent, to allow her to absorb all he’d told her. A full minute passed before she spoke.

“Does Philip know all this?”

“No. None of it. I’ve never told anyone before.”

He wished she would look at him so he could see her expression, read her eyes. Would she look at him with disgust and shame-the same way he’d looked at himself for years? Unfortunately, he feared the fact that she steadfastly did not look at him told him everything.

Finally, she turned and gazed at him, her eyes solemn and bright with unshed tears. “You loved her very much.”

“Yes. She was a quiet, lonely, gentle girl who’d never hurt anyone in her entire life. We’d been the best of friends for years. I would have done anything to protect her. Instead, she died protecting me.”

“Why, after remaining silent all these years, did you tell me this?”

He hesitated, then asked, “Before I tell you, may I have use of a piece of vellum and a pen?”

There was no mistaking her surprise, but she rose and walked to the escritoire near the window, sliding a sheet of vellum from a slim drawer. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” He sat in the delicate upholstered chair and picked up her pen. From the corner of his eye he watched her cross to the fireplace. After several minutes, he joined her there and handed her the vellum.

She looked at the markings with a confused expression. “What is this?”

“Egyptian glyphs. They spell out the reasons why I told you about my past.”

“But why would you write your reason in a way that I cannot understand?”

“At your father’s birthday party, you commented on Lord Nordnick’s methods with regards to Lady Ophelia. You said he should recite something romantic to her in another language. This is the only other language I know.”

Her startled gaze flew to his. He touched the edge of the vellum. “The first line reads You saved my life.”

“I do not see how you can say that, as it is my fault that you were hurt tonight.”

“Not tonight. Six years ago. The morning after I joined Philip at his camp, I came upon him sitting on a blanket near the banks of the Nile, reading a letter. From his sister, he told me. He read me some amusing snippets, and I sat there listening to the words you’d written him, filled with envy for the obvious affection in which you held each other. He went on to tell me a bit about you, the fact that your marriage was unhappy, the joy you found with your son, and also about Spencer’s affliction. After we returned to camp, he showed me the miniature you’d given him before he’d left England.”

He briefly closed his eyes, vividly reliving that instant when he’d first laid eyes on her image. “You were so lovely. I could not fathom how your husband did not worship the ground you walked on.

“From that moment on, with every story Philip told me about you, my regard and admiration grew, and I believe I anticipated your letters to Philip even more than Philip himself. Your bravery, fortitude, and grace in the face of your marital situation and Spencer’s difficulties touched me deeply and inspired me to examine my deep shame and guilt over my past and the dissolute manner in which I’d lived my life since leaving America. Your goodness, your kindness, your courage inspired me to change my life. Redeem myself. I knew that someday I would return to England with Philip, and I was determined to be a person that Lady Catherine would be proud to know. You showed me that goodness and kindness still existed, and you gave me the will to want that again. I’ve wanted to thank you for that for six years.” He reached out and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

Catherine’s heart thumped in slow, hard beats from his words and the utter sincerity in his dark eyes. She swallowed. Her heart ached for him, for the despair he’d lived with for so long. “You’re welcome. I had no idea my letters had… inspired you so. I’m very sorry for the pain you suffered, and I’m glad you were able to find peace within yourself.”

Without wavering his gaze, he released her hand, then reached out and touched the edge of the vellum. “The second line reads I love you.”

Catherine went perfectly still, except for her pulse, which jumped erratically. His feelings for her blazed from his eyes, without any attempt to hide them.

“My mind understands that my social status and past renders me not good enough for you. But my heart…”He shook his head. “My heart refuses to listen. My logic tells me I should wait, take more time to court you. But I almost lost you tonight and I simply cannot wait. Our friendship, our time together as lovers, everything we’ve shared, every touch, every word, has brought me more joy than I can describe. But being your lover is not enough.”

He reached into his waistcoat pocket, and withdrew an item he held out to her. “I want more. I want it all. All of you. I want you to be my wife. Catherine, will you marry me?”

The bottom seemed to drop out of Catherine’s stomach. She stared at the single, perfect, oval emerald set in a simple gold band resting in his callused palm. He must have purchased the gem while he was in London. Tears pushed behind her eyes. Dismay, confusion, unexpected longing all collided in her. Her emotions were a raw jumble, all vying for her attention until she simply couldn’t differentiate one from the other. “You know how I feel about marriage.”

“Yes. And given your experience, your reservations are understandable. But you also know how I feel about it. I told you in the carriage on our journey to Little Longstone that I wanted a wife and family. Did you think I’m the sort of man who would compromise you, then walk away?”

“Andrew, I am not a young virginal miss to be ‘compromised.' I'm a grown, Modern Woman, indulging in a mutually pleasurable affair. When you said you wanted a wife, you described a paragon of perfection whom I doubt exists.”

“No. I was looking right at her. You are all those things I described and so much more-a woman with flaws, who in spite of them, because of them, is the perfect woman for me. I’m asking you to reconsider your feelings on marriage. To instead consider your feelings for me.” He studied her for several seconds, then said quietly, “I know you care. You never would have taken me into your bed, into your body, if you did not.”

Heat stung Catherine’s cheek. “I did not take you as a lover to pry a marriage proposal from you.”

“I know. And there is no need to pry. I offer my proposal willingly. And with great hope that in spite of all I told you tonight, you will accept.”

“When we entered into our liaison, we agreed it was only temporary.”

“No, you insisted it was temporary. I never agreed. And even if I had, I hereby formally renege. I do not want temporary. I want forever. I want to be your husband. I want to be a father to Spencer-if he wishes me to be so. At the very least, I want to be his friend and champion.” He drew a deep breath. “I’ve told you about my past. I’ve told you how I feel about you. My heart, my soul are yours. Tell me what you want to do with them.”

Catherine locked her knees to steady their trembling. “You don’t understand what you’re asking of me, and clearly you don’t know what marriage means to a woman. It means I cease to exist. I would lose everything because it would no longer belong to me, it would belong to my husband. My husband could banish me to the country, neglect our child, sell off my personal belongings-and all legally. I’ve already lived through that horror. I do not require more money, or family connections. Marriage has nothing to offer me.”

“Clearly we use different dictionaries, because to me, marriage means caring for one another. Loving together. Sharing laughter and helping through pain. Always knowing that there is another person standing beside you. For you.”

“I must admit, your definition sounds lovely, but experience has taught me marriage is not that way. Do you honestly believe your definition is realistic?”

“I suppose that depends on why a person marries. If one marries for money or social position, then I agree it could prove disastrous. But if the marriage is based on love and respect, because you cannot imagine not spending every day of your life with the person who owns your heart, then yes, I believe it can be all those wonderful things.” He reached for her hand. After gently placing the ring on her palm, he folded her fingers closed and nestled her fist between his hands. “Catherine, if you decide you don’t want to marry me, let it be because I’m not from your social class. Because I’m a common American. Because I have a scarred past. Because you don’t love me. Please don’t refuse me because you think I’ll take things away from you when all I want to do is give to you. Everything. Always. I want to take care of you.”

“I believe I’ve demonstrated quite well over the past decade that I do not need a man to take care of me.” A sick feeling of loss washed through her at the hurt that flared in his eyes. True, she did not want a husband, but she realized with sudden stinging clarity, neither did she want Andrew simply to disappear from her life. “Why don’t we just continue on as we have?” she said, hating the note of desperation she heard in her voice.

“Having an affair?”

“Yes.”

Her breath stilled while she waited for his answer. Finally, very quietly, he said, “No. I cannot do that to you. Or Spencer. Or myself. If we continue, eventually someone would discover the truth, and the gossip would only hurt you and Spencer. I’ve no desire to sneak around, grabbing stolen moments, and keeping my feelings hidden. I want it all, Catherine. All or… nothing.”

The floor seemed to shift beneath her feet. There was no mistaking the resolution in his voice and eyes, and anger shot through her. “You have no right to issue such an ultimatum.”

“I disagree. I believe the facts that I’m painfully in love with you and have shared your bed gives me that right.”

“The fact that we shared a bed changes nothing.”

“You’re wrong. It changes everything? ”He squeezed her hand tighter. “Catherine, either you feel the same things I do, or you don’t. Either you love me, or you don’t. Either you want to spend your life with me, or you don’t.”

“And you expect me to give you an answer right now? All or nothing?”

“Yes.”

Catherine stared at him, the pressure of the ring pressing into her palm. A myriad of conflicting emotions battered her from every direction, but she shoved the jumble aside and focused on the anger-toward him for forcing her to make a decision like this and toward herself for even hesitating. Her choice was clear. She didn’t want a husband. So why was it so damnably difficult to say the one word that would send him away?

Because that word would do just that-send him away.

She moistened her dry lips. “In that case, I’m afraid it’s nothing.”

Several long, silent seconds passed, and she watched his expression go blank, as if he’d pulled a curtain over his feelings. A muscle jerked in his jaw, and his throat worked as she imagined him swallowing his disappointment. He slowly released her hand, and a small voice inside her cried out No!, but she kept her lips pressed firmly together to contain it. She slowly opened her hand and held out the ring to him. He stared at the gem for so long, she thought he would refuse to take it. And actually he did just that by finally holding out his hand, forcing her to place the ring into his palm. After she did, he quickly stepped away from her and quit the room, softly closing the door behind him without a backward glance.

Still staring at the closed door, Catherine sank onto the settee. The warmth from where his hand had held hers only seconds ago had disappeared, leaving a chill in its wake that shivered through her entire body. Her mind, her logic, told her she’d made the right choice. The eviscerating ache in her heart, however, indicated that she might have just made a terrible mistake.

Just before dawn Andrew sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows propped on his knees, hands cradling his aching head. But the dull throbbing there was nothing compared to the soul-ripping pain in his chest.

How was it possible for his heart to hurt so badly yet continue to beat? He wished he could blame the outcome of his proposal on its precipitous delivery, but he suspected that even if he’d taken months to court Catherine, in the end, she still would have refused him.

But at least then you would have had those months with her, his inner voice taunted. Now you have… nothing.

He groaned and pushed himself to his feet. Clearly he’d made a mistake forcing her to choose all or nothing, but damn it, he’d wanted her for so long, been waiting so long. Had been so hopeful that she’d come to care for him. Would realize they belonged together.

An image of that bastard Carmichael dragging her toward the springs flashed in his mind and his hands clenched. What had triggered such deep hatred of the Guide that he’d been driven to kill the author? Yes, the Today’s Modern Woman premises and explicit content were scandalous-but to the point of inciting murder?

He recalled meeting Carmichael after the shooting at Lord Ravensly’s birthday party. Something odd, almost familiar, had struck him about Carmichael while he’d listened to him give his account of witnessing a man running into Hyde Park after the shot was fired. And he’d experienced that same sensation at both the duke’s soiree and at the museum yesterday. Philip had said Carmichael had spent time in America…

Andrew closed his eyes, forcing himself to recall every detail of his encounters with Carmichael, first at the parties, then at the museum-

An image flashed in Andrew’s mind, of Carmichael stroking his chin, prisms of light bouncing off the square-cut diamond-and-onyx ring he wore. Recognition hit Andrew, and everything inside him froze. Carmichael had been wearing that ring at both parties as well. It wasn’t the man who had inspired that flare of memory-it was the ring.

Andrew dragged his hands down his face, his heart pumping hard. If he hadn’t relived the day Emily died, he would have missed it. He’d buried that hurt, that image so deeply… but there was no mistake. Carmichael’s unusual diamond-and-onyx ring was identical to the one that Lewis Manning was wearing the day Andrew had shot him.

Carmichael isn’t after Charles Brightmore. He’s after me.

The truth struck him like a blow, and his mind reeled. Carmichael must have some connection to Lewis Manning. There was a resemblance, around the eyes, he realized as pieces rapidly clicked into place. Was Carmichael Lewis’s father? Uncle? Father, most likely, Andrew decided. Which would certainly give him a motive to hate Andrew.

When Catherine was shot, Andrew had been standing next to her. The bullet had been meant for him. And tonight, Carmichael had planned to kill him-a plan set awry by Catherine’s presence. She’d unknowingly saved his life and nearly drowned in the process.

He blew out a long breath and raked unsteady hands through his hair. Jesus. All he’d ever wanted to do was protect her, and he was the danger. Which meant he had to get away from her. Immediately.

After eleven years, it appeared his past had finally caught up with him. And had twice nearly killed Catherine. Well, Carmichael wouldn’t get another chance.

Andrew walked swiftly to the wardrobe, pulled his leather satchel from the bottom, and quickly began shoving his belongings inside.

Don’t worry, Carmichael. You’ll find me. I’m going to make it very easy for you.

Catherine sat in her wing chair, staring at the grate of the fire that had burned out hours ago, the dead, gray ash a perfect reflection of her mood.

With a sound of disgust, she rose and paced. What on earth was wrong with her? She’d made the right decision, the only decision she could have made under the circumstances. All or nothing? How could she possibly have agreed to give him “all”? She couldn’t have, and it was that simple. Yet in spite of that logic, she somehow still felt as if she’d been sliced in half.

Dear God, the things he’d told her. His past should have shocked her, but after hours of thought, the ordeal he’d been through only served to reinforce her sympathy and admiration for him. Yes, he’d killed a man, but a man who only seconds before had tried to kill him. A man who had killed his wife-a young woman he’d risked a great deal to help. Andrew had lost everything, and all in the name of love. Yet he clearly had not turned his back on love, on marriage, as she had. He was kind, noble, generous, thoughtful, and…

Oh, my, the way he’d looked at her, his heart in his eyes, all raw desire and naked emotion. She halted, and her own eyes slid closed, picturing him as clearly as if he stood before her. No one had ever looked at her like that before. And God help her, as much as she hadn’t wanted it, as much as she’d tried to deny it, she wanted Andrew to look at her like that again. She simply wasn’t ready to give him up as a lover.

She opened her eyes and resumed pacing, her mind racing. Surely if she put some effort into it she could convince him that his proposal was precipitous and persuade him to continue their liaison. Today’s Modern Woman would not allow him simply to have the last word and walk away. No, Today’s Modern Woman would use all the ammunition in her feminine arsenal to tempt, allure, entice, and seduce him around to her way of thinking.

The instant the realization hit her, it was as if the sun broke through a bank of dark clouds. Why had it taken her all night to realize something that now seemed so obvious? She roundly cursed her stubborn streak, but at least she’d come to her senses.

The sooner she began her persuasive campaign, the better. And what better way to start than issuing him an invitation to return to Little Longstone next week? Even better if she were to issue the invitation right now. In the warm intimacy of his bedchamber. While she was dressed in her nightrail and robe.

The pale light of dawn was just breaking through the windows as she left her bedchamber and hurried quietly down the corridor. When she reached his door, she tapped lightly. “Andrew?” she said softly.

Silence greeted her, and she tapped again, but still heard nothing from within. Concerned, she turned the handle and opened the door enough to peer inside. Her heart stuttered, then she slowly pushed the door wide.

The room was empty, his bed undisturbed. She scanned the room, noting with stunned dread that none of his personal items remained. As if in a trance, she crossed to the wardrobe and pulled open the oak doors. Empty.

A sharp, acute ache stole her bream. With hot moisture pushing at the backs of her eyes, she turned toward the bed, and her heart leapt at the small bundle set on the pillow. She dashed across the carpet and snatched up the note on top of the parcel. Breaking the seal, she scanned the words.

My Dearest Catherine:

I believe Carmichael is Lewis Manning’s father, and that it is not you, but me whom he seeks. In my attempt to protect you from danger, I brought it right to you. Keep the doors and windows locked, and you, Spencer, and the staff remain in the house. I’ll see to it that Carmichael never hurts anyone again.

I leave as a parting gift my most prized possession. Philip was going to leave these behind when we departed Egypt, so I took them. From that very first time I heard the words you ‘d written to Philip, I felt as if I’d been turned inside out. I fell deeply, hopelessly in love with you the moment I saw your beautiful image in his miniature. You’ve lived in my heart since that day. I lived off your every word for years, and I thank you for the courage and hope they brought me. Please keep the ring as a token of my gratitude and affection.

Andrew

With shaking fingers, she unwrapped the white linen, realizing with a heavy heart it was the handkerchief she’d given him. Unfolding the last piece of material she looked down. The emerald ring rested on top of a thick bundle of faded letters tied with a worn piece of leather. She instantly recognized her own handwriting.

She felt the blood drain from her face. These were the dozens of letters she’d written to Philip while he was abroad. Andrew’s most prized possession.

The truth hit her like a backhanded slap, and she felt an overwhelming need to sit down. His love for her was not of a recent nature as she’d assumed. He’d been in love with her for… six years. He’d rescued these letters before leaving Egypt, keeping them with him all this time. And now had given them to her. Wrapped in the handkerchief she’d made him, leaving everything of her behind. Because she’d sent him away.

Something wet plopped onto her hand. Dazed, she stared at the tear, as another, then another, fell onto her skin. All those years she’d ached with loneliness, endured her husband’s cruel neglect and rejection of her and Spencer, Andrew had been wanting her. Needing her. Loving her.

The realization, the depth of his feelings, his devotion, humbled her, enervated her, and she could almost feel the wall she’d built around herself and her heart crumbling, leaving her exposed and her feelings utterly bare. Undeniable. She could hide from them no longer. She did not simply desire Andrew. She loved him.

A sob escaped her, and she pressed her trembling lips together. With an impatient exclamation, she dashed the back of her hand over her eyes. Later. She could cry later, although she dearly hoped she would not need to. Right now she needed to figure out where Andrew had gone, think of a way to help him find Carmichael. Then tell him what a fool she’d been. And pray he’d forgive her for the hurt her fears and confusion had caused both of them.

Clutching the letters and ring to her chest, she paced to the window and stared out at the soft, golden light signaling dawn. Her gaze drifted toward the stables in the distance, and she blinked at the sight of Andrew’s familiar, broad-shouldered figure approaching the wide double doors. Her heart jumped in relief. He was still here. If she hurried, she could reach the stables before he left. But with Carmichael possibly about, she needed some protection.

She dashed to her bedchamber, then dropped to her knees before her wardrobe and pulled out a worn hatbox. After opening the lid, she removed the small, pearl-handled pistol hidden beneath a pile of old gloves. She then set Andrew’s letters and the ring on top and replaced the hatbox. Cursing the further delay, she hurriedly dressed, then, slipping the pistol into the pocket of her gown, left the room.