She crossed the distance between them and lifted her chin. Only her hands, gripped tightly at her slim waist, and the tic of a muscle near one dark eye revealed her tension.

He bent closer and she placed a hand on his chest. “Wait.” Color suffused her and she inhaled. “We can marry in Scotland.”

The buzzing started up in his head again and the big bed past her shoulder beckoned him. She wanted to marry him, and to be quick about it.

He eased in a breath and tried to think around the swelling in his trousers. She knew he wanted to go to India, and she wanted to serve both their purposes and elope to Gretna Green. And what the devil purpose of hers would be served?

“In Scotland?” he asked stupidly.

She clenched that wee hand into a fist, as if he’d just challenged her. He wrapped it in both of his and lifted it to his lips, feeling a tremor ripple through her.

“Why Scotland, Paulette?”

She exhaled. “You do not categorically object to the idea then?”

His head swam with visions of the wild north. Object? Hell, Scotland was a good idea. With the settlements already in place, eloping offered expediency and privacy, no bother with two more rounds of banns or Doctors’ Commons. “I’m warming up to it. But why Scotland?”

“Lady Tepping said if we marry in Scotland, we can divorce later—”

His chest squeezed. “Divorce.” He dropped her hand.

“You…you want to…to tup me, but you don’t want to marry, not truly. You want to go to India, Thomas said.”

The summer light sparkled off dust motes and blinded him. “And you’ll be settled here in this big, empty, decaying house.”

Managing Little Norwick, bringing it into order, would keep Paulette occupied, and close to the Hackwells who’d be sure to look in on her. And maybe that had been Shaldon’s plan. The old man had sensed her restlessness from afar.

And perhaps she didn’t truly want to be alone. Perhaps his own restlessness would be curbed for a while by helping her manage. He reached for her hand again and kissed it. “It’s not a bad plan.” Except for the idea of divorce.

A smile lit her face. “We can split the income equally. You’ll have your share.”

“I imagine we’ll need all of it until we can bring this place around.” He spotted a shelf filled with games and slim books. “And then, of course, if there are children—”

“Children?”

He cupped his hands on the proud bones of her shoulders. “Do you think, after last night, I’d be content to remain in my own bed when we marry?” He stroked a line down her jaw. “I don’t think you’d be content with that arrangement either.”

She started up with more trembling and heating, her scent filling his senses. Heart thrumming, he drew her close and kissed her.

She wrested herself away and touched a hand to straighten her bonnet.

“I would not hold you from your dream. If there is a child, you may still go, and we will decide how much money is needed.”

Blast the woman. Could she not see what she wanted? What they both wanted?

They might make a bloody mess of it, but now that she’d pushed it this far, he would have her, honorably.

“Do you suppose, Paulette, I would go off and leave a child of mine?”

Her frown slid into understanding, her brows furrowing.

“What would it have meant to have your father at least in the same country?” Releasing her, he stalked to the window, shoved aside a table and turned the latch, struggling with the sash.

It was stuck, and he pounded and pushed, unable to budge it.

He heard the swish of her skirts and with his next breath took in her scent again. “There is another lock here.” She slid back a bolt he hadn’t noticed. “Try now.”

This time the window lifted. An insect whizzed past them, and the late afternoon breeze brought the smell of mown hay. In fact, someone was farming near here. He wondered how many tenants there were.

She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. “I have upset you. I’m sorry, but you must tell me. Will you marry me or not? Or will you only keep your promise and see me safely to London? Whether I am Miss Heardwyn or Mrs. Gibson, I still must go there and see what is what.”

He slid an arm around her waist, trying to collect himself, like some silly lass.

“I know it is not done,” she said, and her voice was tiny, “I know you are wanting to do your own proposing, to choose your own wife, someone more to your liking. I just—”

He kissed her fiercely then, for long minutes, to stop her, to reassure her she was to his liking.

Voices in the hall made him break off. He straightened her bonnet and smiled at her dazed look. “Yes, I will marry you,” he said, panting. “Yes, we will go to Scotland, and then to London.” He lifted her onto the table and held her gaze. “But there’s to be no talk of divorce.”

“All right.”

“And the marriage will be consummated.”

She nodded, and this time she kissed him.

The next morning at dawn, Hackwell met up with him in the front hall.

“Take this.” He slipped a purse to Bink, and when Bink tried to give it back, he held up his hands. “Take it. You may have need of it, and either way, you may consider it a wedding gift.” He clapped a hand on Bink’s shoulder. “Remember, avoid the roads around Manchester.”

Fears of an uprising had been the topic at every aristocratic table, and Hackwell’s frown reflected his own worry. If the government was called back, he would want to be there, and if he went, Lady Hackwell would insist on accompanying him with all of the children, which would probably be safer than staying in a great country house alone.

And of course, there was the matter of Agruen’s valet, still sequestered in a shed.

He gripped Hackwell’s hand. “Thank you. Call on Little Norwick’s caretaker if you need help. Otherwise, the staff will hold the household together. Grey can help with correspondence. We’ll be back, five days at the most.” And then they needed to leave for London, but how was he to explain that to Hackwell?

He would fix that battle plan later.

Hackwell led him out and stopped on the front step. A sly grin creased his face. “Don’t cut short your wedding night, man.”

The Hackwell coach waited, the horses restless in their traces. Johnny stood holding two mounts, and Ewan was tying a case to the coach roof, chatting with Kincaid, seated next to the coachman.

“Some honeymoon, with this lot along.” In addition to Paulette’s maid, Mabel, and Shaldon’s three men, Paulette had insisted they bring Jenny.

Hackwell clapped him on the back. “Five more minutes alone in the Little Norwick nursery, and you’d have had the honeymoon done, and been on your way to filling one of those nursery cots.”

Bink couldn’t help smiling. Paulette’s enthusiasm had matched his own, and they were fortunate the throat-clearing interruption had been Hackwell’s. Once they’d returned to Greencastle, they’d endured a tense dinner with the assembled guests, including an unapologetic Agruen, before making known their plans to Hackwell and his lady, and then in the hustle of secret preparations, he’d not seen her again until the morning’s hurried breakfast.

The coach door opened and the lady in question poked her head out. “Shall we leave soon?”

She was cross, tired, lacking sleep. He forced back a laugh and shook Hackwell’s hand again. “I have my orders.”

Hackwell waved to her. “He’s coming right along.”

He leaned in close and whispered. “Get used to it. And I’d heartily suggest you put the two maids on the roof for a bit and ride inside.”

Bink laughed and went to mount his horse.

Mr. Gibson changed horses so often and so quickly they were almost flying along the Great Northern Road.

“I’m about jostled to death,” Mabel muttered.

“It could be worse,” Jenny whispered.

The poor girl peered out through two blackened eyes, and her voice had not yet had a chance to recover.

“We could be riding on Mr. Cummings’s dog cart.” Paulette rearranged herself on the cushioned seat for the hundredth time. “This carriage is actually rather well-sprung.”

“Well, that would be Mr. Gibson’s doing,” Mabel said. “And the poor man, spending an entire day on horseback.”

Paulette looked out the window. She’d thought—hoped—he might come inside for part of the journey. Nothing would happen, but she felt a need to see him, to know this was real.

“Thank you for taking me,” Jenny said.

Mabel patted the girl’s hand. “She’ll replace our Mrs. Everly, won’t she, Polly.”

Mabel was trying to coax a smile. Jenny obliged, looking half-hearted.

“If she tries to replace Mrs. Everly, we’re putting her to work in the dairy.”

Mabel leaned forward. “Is there a dairy at Little Norwick?”

“I don’t know. I suppose there could be.”

“Fresh cream and good home-made cheeses. Imagine that, Jenny.”

“Who is Mrs. Everly?” Jenny asked.

“Why, she was Miss Paulette’s companion. When Paulette’s mother died, Mrs. Everly took over teaching Paulette how to be a lady.”

Neither woman had taught her anything about being a woman. Paulette had asked about what went on in a bridal chamber, but both her mama, and then later, Mrs. Everly had mumbled and stalled until they thought Paulette’s curiosity had passed.

It hadn’t passed. She’d consulted with Mabel, who’d offered no answers either, perhaps because she didn’t know herself, though how could that be at her age?

The coach rattled on, and when Mabel began to snore, Paulette crossed to the rear-facing seat. “You are much younger than me, I think, Jenny.”

“I’m sixteen, miss.”

“I imagine…you might know more, in some ways, than I do. Having lived in London.”

“Not much that is pleasant, miss.”

Oh. She fumbled around in her mind for words. She did not wish to stir unpleasant memories.

“What is it you wish to know, miss?”

Mabel snorted loudly and went back to sleep.

Paulette lowered her voice. “The wedding night. No one will tell me exactly what goes on. Though I have an idea.”

Jenny’s gaze was solemn. Paulette clasped her hand. “I do not mean to stir bad memories. Forgive me.”

“That man didn’t enter me in the laundry, though it were close.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“It weren’t God. It were Mr. Gibson.” Jenny squeezed her hand hard. “With a kind man, it is pleasant, leastwise that’s what the girls say.”

Jenny shared the whispered details of her education, her early years crouched in the corner of a room warmed by many bodies, some of them engaged in carnal acts. “I did see his…his shaft, miss. It did seem very big, but they say it does fit, and some say they even do enjoy it if the man knows his way about a woman’s body, and if they like him.”

Heat blasted through her, remembering the kiss that had been more than just one kiss.

“And pardon me saying, but I think Mr. Gibson does care for you.”

Her body thrummed with excitement, or need, or both.

Across from them, Mabel stirred and yawned. “I wonder if there is any of that loaf left. I’m ever so hungry.”

Paulette felt the emptiness of her stomach, but no hunger, and she had barely touched food all day. They’d been traveling since dawn, sustained by the cold meats and cheeses packed by Greencastle’s cook. She had no idea what the men had eaten. Even their few privy stops had been quick.

She wondered if Mr. Gibson was too excited to eat also.

A smattering of cottages passed in their side view.

“Where are we now, Polly?”

She pressed her nose to the window’s wavy glass. The twilight was thickening. “I don’t know. I hope we’ve reached Scotch Corner.” Mr. Gibson had explained the route at breakfast. At Scotch Corner, they would turn off the Great Northern Road and use the summer route, from Barnard Castle, following the River Tees through Alston and Brampton and Carlisle. They were all just names on a map to her, except for their destination, Gretna Green.

If they made good time, he’d promised to stop for a meal at Scotch Corner before they pushed on, like they were in one of Wellington’s campaigns, running toward battle.

Her stomach was so rattled, she wouldn’t be able to eat, but at least she would see him and talk to him.

The thought sent a shiver through her.

Minutes later, they’d stopped in front of an inn. The coach swayed as the men on top climbed down, but the usual quick bustle of horses being changed was absent.

“Praise be to God,” Mabel exclaimed. “We’re stopping for dinner.”

Moments later, Johnny reached a hand to help Paulette down. She looked around, unable to spot Mr. Gibson. While Mr. Kincaid spoke with an ostler, Ewan unstrapped their travel bags and handed them down to an inn servant.

They were spending the night. Relief and the need to stretch out in a proper bed…

Her breath caught. Perhaps she wouldn’t be all alone in her bed. Perhaps Mr. Gibson would want to be with her tonight. The thought sent all of her nerves dancing and heat rushing through her center.

And worry crept in. A stopover hadn’t been part of the plan. What if he’d changed his mind?

“Where—” She bit back the question—Where is Mr. Gibson? She was always looking for him, always a step behind. She needed to let him ask after her.

Anyway, she didn’t need to ask where he’d expect her to be. This inn surely had a private dining room. She lifted her chin and marched across the yard.

The meal was a good one, and Bink plowed through it. After a full day on horseback with sparse food he was glad to have one appetite satisfied.

“Fetch two brandies,” he told the serving wench. “Will you not eat, love?” he asked Paulette. She hadn’t touched a bite.

She turned a scowl on the maid’s back and when the door closed, scooted her chair closer.

His pulse thrummed. If he crooked one of his fingers could he move her into his lap? In another twenty-four hours, she’d be his to do as he pleased with, and by God, he wanted her right now.

Her hand touched the back of his collar, a tremble traveling from the point of contact up her arm and all the way down to his cock. Either she’d had more experience in that tiny village than anyone knew, or she was one of those women with a natural sensuality.

Didn’t matter. He was taking her, and the sooner the better. The thought tightened his trousers and made him ache.

She stood and leaned over the table to reach the flagon, her breasts straining against her gown. His to bed.

And his to protect, and from what—besides the usual louts—he still hadn’t been able to discover. He’d questioned Kincaid, to no avail.

He tugged at his neck cloth. He should have stayed at Greencastle and posted banns, and to hell with Scottish divorces. He’d meant what he said about that marriage loophole. What was his, would be his. His own lust to take her honorably—and quickly—had made him agree to this hair-brained scheme.

On the road, they’d passed groups of men from the north, traveling afoot to join the worker’s rally scheduled to take place in Manchester.

In his best burr, with his pistol tucked into his belt, he’d defused the tension, and tension there was aplenty. The loss of a livelihood and hunger drove men and women to do fearsome things. Hadn’t the French demonstrated that?

The next day’s route should be less traveled, but if a fight came their way, either through travellers or Paulette’s mysterious threat, he needed a rest, as did the other men.

Paulette spoke, but he barely heard her words.

“What did you say, love?”

She frowned at her plate, her fork making circles in the untouched peas. From the line of her jaw, she was brewing a head of steam.

The serving wench reappeared with a bottle and two glasses, and Paulette’s frown turned into a glare.

What the devil was wrong now?

Drat the lass, and damn him for a fool. It would have been easier to keep her safe at Greencastle.

Except, Agruen was there. And Bink hadn’t kept the place safe for wee Jenny.

He swiped a hand through his hair. He should have ignored Paulette’s pleas and ferried her directly from her cottage back to Cransdall where the spymaster’s army of loyal lackeys could keep her safe until the wedding. Except, if they hadn’t seen Little Norwick, there’d have been no wedding.

The thought brought him back to his senses. She was marrying him for the property, not for some great passion. Best to keep that in mind, take his pleasure, and make the best of it.

While the girl cleared the table, he passed a glass to Paulette and they drank in a less than companionable silence.

Devil take it. His sore arse and his aching body begged for sleep, while his nerves wound up tight, the way they had before battle, and his shaft…his shaft was a damned distraction.

He escorted her up the stairs. Outside her door, he handed her the candle, took her free hand and saw the storm brewing in her eyes. “Tomorrow is another hard day. We both need to rest.”

She lifted her chin and he saw that her lips trembled and his heart started up a brisk tattoo to match.

“If I kiss you, I’m not sure I’ll have the strength to stop. And if I don’t, I’m not sure I’ll have the strength tomorrow to keep going.”

“Good night then.” She opened the door, and slipped in.

The snick of the door brought him up. Too quick that had been. He shook his head. Ah, Bink, you dog, you’d hoped to be seduced.