As the streets of London flew by, Hamish waited for his chest to brim with pride.

The sensation failed to arrive.

No matter.

It would. If he felt a slight ache inside, well that didn’t mean it had to do with guilt. Likely it only meant he was sorry there hadn’t been a wedding breakfast.

He held the reins loosely, pulling on the leather only occasionally when the horses needed to change streets.

The sun still shone brightly. Evidently it had already begun to celebrate, confident Hamish would succeed in halting the wedding. Hamish tilted his head and basked in the bright light.

He was almost going to miss London.

The city had more parks than he’d imagined. The homes in Mayfair tended to surround verdant squares, and Hyde Park, with its large leafy trees and languid, artificial lake was nearby.

He passed narrow townhomes, imbued with heavy facades, as if an abundance of Doric columns might make up for their diminutive size.

In a week he would be back in the Highlands, and he would be able to work further on his designs.

It might be ten o’clock, when any farmhand had been up for hours, but it was still early for the ton. They would be inside, possibly trying to avoid spilling chocolate on their white gowns or cravats, the most athletic accomplishment of their day.

For their servants’ sakes, he hoped Mayfair would be filled with triumph this morning.

He’d left the sumptuous surroundings of Mayfair, and the road had widened. The fact did not mean the horses could go much more quickly; servants and tradesmen, urchins and beggars lined the streets. Thin men of a certain age who’d likely fought valiantly at Waterloo a year ago now shivered or slept along the road, though Hamish knew their positions were not adopted because of their defensive locations in a tightly packed city environment. Vehicles thronged the streets. Private crests that marked the finest private carriages gleamed amidst the more common hacks and wagons.

Hamish settled back on his perch, reliving his success.

He shifted his legs.

Perhaps it was best not to do that.

That strange gnawing feeling occurred in his chest again.

Guilt.

It was guilt.

Likely it was overdeveloped after spending time with Callum’s former fiancée’s family. He was certain that Miss Butterworth had suspected what he’d done.

It didn’t matter.

He forced his mind to think of other things, such as the stability he’d just bestowed upon Callum’s unborn children. They would have Montgomery Castle to play in, and their wealth would be secure. Generations of future Montgomerys would shudder at how near they’d come to disaster. Callum could marry Isla McIntyre, just as had always been the plan.

Perhaps Callum was upset now, but at some point he’d be grateful and he’d admit Hamish’s superiorly developed foresight.

The spaces between buildings eventually grew larger, and swathes of fields lay before him.

He had exited London, the site from which so many British kings and queens had plotted the destruction of their northern neighbor, ordering deadly invasions with the casualness which they normally may have directed toward pesky wasps.

Soon, he would be in Scotland. All that lay between him were some nights in posting inns. He wouldn’t have to dance waltzes with inconveniently alluring women and he certainly wouldn’t have to make conversation. He could even spend the evenings working on his designs.

He waited again for the relief to arrive.

*

THE DAY STRETCHED ON, and the buildings turned honey-colored, as if to mimic the appearance of sunshine and bright beams even when there was none. The trot of the horses grew less assured, and when Hamish spotted a posting inn he guided the team to it. He parked the carriage in the courtyard and arranged for a silvery haired groom to change the horses. Perhaps he would be able to hire a driver here, though the distraction of driving was not altogether unpleasant.

Hamish sauntered inside the pub. Large timbers crisscrossed along the wall, though their substantial size had evidently not kept the walls from sloping inward. His finger itched. He was eager to return to his drafting table and all normalcy.

Something hearty was definitely called for. Unfortunately the menu was devoid of so much as a bridie, that great Scottish pasty.

He’d have to satisfy himself with a cold collation. Hopefully it included some poultry. Nothing surpassed meat in taste. He thought longingly of the tongue and ham and eggs that would have been served at the wedding breakfast. No matter. He was happy to have sacrificed that cursory pleasure.

Now was not the time to tarry. He’d be a fool to attempt to travel in the dark, and he didn’t want to waste time in England. He may have stopped the wedding, he may have saved future generations from anguish, but he still needed to return. He needed to finish his commission, and the estate required his attention. No steward could care about the estate as much as he did.

The sun continued to shine when he left the posting inn, and he grinned as he approached the carriage. Fresh horses were hooked onto it, and they stood, swinging their tails, stomping their hooves and snorting.

He nodded at the groom. “Thank you.”

The man had a strange expression on his face.

It seemed almost...disapproving.

Hamish sighed. Likely his Scottish accent had put the man off. He would have thought the groom would have noticed his accent before, but now was not the time to ponder the limits of English intelligence.

Hamish had wanted to inquire about a driver, but he decided against it, lest the man declare no driver would desire to visit Scotland or some other such nonsense. Perhaps he’d inquire at the next posting inn.

He neared the carriage. Some woman was wearing a bright yellow dress on the other side. He hardly thought this posting inn was worthy of fine attire. Most women were clothed in sensible traveling gowns, the drab colors suited for the inevitable mud and dust that would upon them.

In fact, the dress looked rather like something that someone might wear for a wedding. Miss Butterworth had worn something quite similar. Remarkably similar. The same yellow with the same net overlay. Even the woman’s ivory slippers appeared the same, though Hamish supposed that if one had the poor sense to attempt travel in a flimsy fabric certain to be pierced easily, one likely also had the poor sense to attempt travel in ivory slippers. The glossy sheen looked very like silk, and he had a moment of sympathy for the hardworking silkworms who’d toiled over the thread and the merchants who’d arranged transport for it from some far flung Chinese port only for the shoes to be slathered in Cambridgeshire mud.

Perhaps the elder Miss Butterworth was regretting not accepting the proffered coin on behalf of her sister when she’d the chance. Oh, well. He’d had a duty to the Montgomery name. One day he hoped she would understand. Besides, her opinion didn’t matter. He’d never see her again.

He hardened his jaw and approached the coach. He glanced again at the dress, whose owner had decided to move.

It did appear most similar. He shook his head. Obviously, it was a delusion. He’d spent so much time with the Butterworth family yesterday and this morning, that his mind evidently was accustomed to thinking about them. Likely Miss Butterworth had actually worn a blue dress with no netting at all, and his mind shouldn’t be musing over her in the slightest.

All the same, he swung his gaze about the carriage park of the posting inn. None of the scruffy carts or finer post chaises resembled something the Butterworth family might travel in, and he ascended to the coach’s perch.

“Lord Hamish Montgomery.”

Hamish’s heart stopped.

The voice was female with an English accent that was not quite as refined as the other women in the ton, as if she’d not spent all her time in Kent or any of the other places designated as the home counties.

He thought again of the dress...of the shoes. A traitorous thread of curiosity ricocheted through him, but he pushed the thought away.

“Lord Hamish Montgomery!” the voice said again.

Hamish turned.

It was Miss Butterworth.

Of course it was Miss Butterworth. The woman had the same auburn hair, the same wide-set eyes, and yes, the same yellow, wildly inappropriate dress.

“What are you doing here?” His voice sounded hoarse, and he coughed.

“I’m afraid I fell asleep in the coach,” she said. “You’ll have to bring me back to London. I am sorry. How silly of me.”

The one thing he knew about Miss Butterworth was that she was not silly. He rolled his gaze over her, but she managed to maintain an innocent expression. Still... Her words sounded almost...rehearsed.

Why on earth would she have claimed to fall asleep inside his coach if she hadn’t?

“You’re too intelligent to do that.”

She paused for a moment, but then she gave a slight giggle. “How kind of you to say that.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why did you enter my coach?”

“Well, I was ever so exhausted.” Her lashes fluttered at a distinctly faster pace than normal.

Outrageous.

She was attempting to flirt with him.

The woman didn’t like him, so if she was attempting to flirt that probably meant she had something to hide.

He glanced in the direction of the posting inn to see his reflection.

No.

He had not gotten more attractive since this morning and he would have had to get substantially more attractive for her to be fluttering her lashes at such a rate. Since the lassie had spent the majority of their conversations berating him, she would have had to have undergone a considerable personality shift as well.

“What are you not sharing with me?” He glowered, and her eyes widened in a predictable manner.

From the distance he spotted the groom. The man was frowning and approaching.

Likely the groom thought they were having a marital dispute. Well, he didn’t have time to defend himself. Hamish scowled. “Get up.”

Miss Butterworth blinked. “Excuse me?”

He grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the seat, conscious of soft curves and shifting fabric.

“W-what are you doing?” Miss Butterworth stammered.

The lassie retained such a startled expression, that he grinned. “My muscular frame is not just for show.”

Her face pinkened in a delightful manner, and he focused on the reins, and not the fact that Miss Butterworth and he were wedged tightly together.

Hamish urged the horses to trot, and they left the posting inn.

“We’re going in the wrong direction,” she exclaimed. “We should head back to London.”

He smirked. “Is that so?”

“Yes,” she squeaked.

He pondered what would have compelled her to have sneaked into his carriage.

“Are you attempting to compromise me, lassie?”

“Me? Compromise you?” She scooted away. “That would be nonsense. Quite impossible. How could you think such a thing?”

Hmph.

“I would make an excellent husband,” he grumbled.

Her eyes widened, and warmth stung his cheeks. “I only meant you needn’t be quite so outraged.”

“Oh.”

And then another thought occurred to him. If Miss Butterworth did not intend to spend time with him, perhaps she intended him to stay away from something. Miss Butterworth seemed eager to return to London. Had she sneaked onto his coach purely so he would have to return her, knowing he would be unlikely to let her risk harm by attempting to travel back alone?

For some reason, she didn’t want him to go to Scotland. He scrunched his eyebrows together. Did she desire people to think he’d compromised her? It seemed like she would be eager for him to be as far away as possible.

Gretna Green.

The thought leapt through his mind. The small village had profited from the Hardwick Act of 1754 and had gained notoriety throughout the British Isles as a haven for not quite appropriate weddings. Callum must be planning to take his bride there.

It all made sense. His brother hadn’t given up on Miss Charlotte Butterworth after all. He’d only decided that Hamish could no longer be trusted, and had not only not invited him to the wedding, he’d also assured him it wasn’t even going to occur. That was why Miss Butterworth didn’t want him to go to Scotland now.

His chest ached. Not only had his brother not respected his opinion—he’d lied.

“My brother still intends to marry your sister,” Hamish said.

She was silent.

Miss Butterworth would have certainly let him know if he was wrong. His lips almost quirked. They would have quirked if he’d been slightly less angry.

“They intend to elope in Scotland, where they won’t need a marriage license,” he said.

She remained silent.

God in heaven.

Hamish tightened his grip on the reins, and his knuckles whitened. “My brother lied to me.”

“I’m sorry,” Miss Butterworth said finally. “I imagine it must be hard for you.”

“It is,” Hamish said. “I’m his brother.”

“He was worried you would try to stop the next wedding, so he—”

“Lied to me,” Hamish finished.

His voice wobbled uncharacteristically. Callum was his twin. He wasn’t supposed to lie to him. They didn’t have parents. Even their guardians were now gone. Whom did they have except each other?

He has Miss Charlotte Butterworth.

The thought had been absurd. Callum and the other Miss Butterworth hadn’t acted as if they were in a love match, but had Hamish simply been blind to everything except his preconceptions?

For the first time he was unsure.

Either way he had to speak to his brother. He wasn’t going to allow him to marry this person on a whim or an act of rebellion. Hamish had always been the stable one, and Callum had always been more rebellious. Callum had always been thankful when Hamish had stepped in and saved things. Why wouldn’t he be now?

Miss Butterworth shifted on the seat, and the wood creaked below them.

“Damnation.” Hamish scowled.

She gasped.

“Oh, you can’t tell me such dreadful things and expect me not to be upset,” Hamish said.

“N-naturally not,” Miss Butterfield said, glancing back in the direction of the capital.

He urged the horses to go faster. He needed to get to Scotland.

At once.