She was gone.

Hamish had scarcely finished showing her the broken wheel before she fled. Her legs might be of a shorter length than his, but she evidently knew exactly how to use them.

God in heaven.

Hamish should let her remain wherever she’d gone. Let her get eaten by wild wolves or whatever beasts roamed about Cambridgeshire. It would serve her right for sneaking onto his coach. He nodded decisively, but the sense of certainty was not prolonged.

God in heaven, he could hardly let her succumb to danger. When had he become so intimidating that a lassie would rather take her chances with the great wilderness, even if Cambridgeshire at least didn’t border an ocean into which she might topple?

Hamish scowled and sprinted after her. Mo Creach.

At least the area on either side was flat and any driver would be able to discern the horses’ presence relatively quickly, provided the horses had the good sense to whinny or neigh.

Not that this area was likely to have many travelers. Anyone with any sense would already be tucked in at a posting inn. No stagecoaches would be on the road now.

Still, she was out there—alone.

His heart thrashed in his chest, and he dashed in the direction Miss Butterworth had headed in. He pounded over the road. The tall hedges disappeared, replaced by a wooden area. Dhia-fhèin. This was hardly an improvement. He raised his lantern, hoping that the glow would reveal her presence.

Nothing.

He shouted her name and crunched over twigs and leaves as he rushed through the forest. If any highwaymen were here, they would know that they were not alone.

They’d driven through fields most of the day, but now, when he needed to find her, they were in a wooded area. The scent of wildflowers should have been pleasant, but it was only a reminder of their isolation. Hamish had never despised the scent of honeysuckle so much.

The lantern’s dim light flickered over the surroundings, revealing dark outlines of long, gnarly trees that brushed against his hands when he ran. A scream sounded. He told himself it was just an owl that had caught its prey. It wasn’t Miss Butterworth. It can’t be.

And then he saw her.

She was sitting on a rock. He couldn’t see her face, but her back was hunched forward, and her hair had fallen completely loose, perhaps from the exertion of her run.

He stilled. Twigs snapped beneath him, and the sound seemed impossibly loud. Her back tensed, but she did not turn around.

“I won’t come with you,” Miss Butterworth said, but her voice had rather less determination in it than when she’d last seen him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said solemnly. “You’re my responsibility now.”

She shifted and turned toward the lantern. Her locks fluttered in the wind, contrasting with her unwavering expression. “What does responsibility mean to a man like you?”

Her words were ferocious, and his shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry about the room.”

“Is that all you’re sorry about?” Her voice trembled.

He took a tentative step forward, but she drew back immediately. He hesitated and raked his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry I broke into your chamber. And I’m sorry I—er—kissed you. I thought you were your sister.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“I apologize.” He wanted to say that that had been also to test her loyalties, but he wasn’t certain, on reflection, whether that had been the case. Something about her had been so vibrant. He’d wanted to kiss her then. He wouldn’t have kissed just anyone.

“What about your brother?” she asked.

“What about him?”

Miss Butterworth inhaled, and even in the dark her frustration was obvious. “You tried to take away his betrothed, and then you got him inebriated.”

“I’d forgotten that.” He smiled, remembering it, and she must have heard some warmth in his voice. 

“You shouldn’t be proud of that,” she said sternly.

“No, you’re right. And naturally I wouldn’t have really harmed him.”

“Hmph.”

“Look. Georgiana.”

Her eyes widened, and he considered taking the word back, but her name had felt correct on his tongue, no matter if it was similar to the name of the very English monarch and all his.

“I’m not a rake,” he said.

She snorted. “Of course you are.”

“No,” he said solemnly. “I know that’s what you think I am, and I know that I’ve given you that impression. I even tried to give you that impression. But I’m not one and have never been.”

“You burst into my room.”

“I lacked expertise in the endeavor.” He knew rogues. Lord Rockport, the Marquess of Bancroft, and Sir Miles all were rogues.

He was not one of them.

“Rogues aren’t content to stay home and handle estate concerns, and they certainly aren’t content to spend the rest of their time designing buildings.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Just because you are a woman and I am a man, does not mean that I will feel compelled to dismantle your maidenhood.”

She flinched, and he sighed. “See, even my vocabulary is not befitting that of a rogue. I’m sure a true rogue would have made some reference to roses and—”

“Rainbows?”

“Aye,” he said, feeling his lips move into a grin. “I would never want you to do anything you don’t want to do.”

“Except kidnap me?” A new wave of guilt came through him, but rustling sounded and relief spread through him as she moved toward him. “I suppose I’ll have to take that chance.”

“Look. We are going to spend the night in the coach, and then we are going to travel to Gretna Green together. You will meet your sister, and somehow we’ll concoct a story that will maintain your reputation. But I will not harm you. Think of me as your—”

“Soon to be brother-in-law?”

The word brother should not be anywhere near her lips when referring to him. Brother-in-law wasn’t even the technical word for what they would be if Callum married her sister, and he was going to do his best so that Callum wouldn’t marry her sister.

“Think of me as Hamish,” he said. “Not a stranger.”

“Not a rogue?”

“Well. You may think of me as a tiny bit of a rogue.” He smiled. “My masculinity might demand it. But I assure you I only want to protect you.”

“Very well, Hamish,” she said. Her voice was warmer, as if she were smiling, and he hoped that just maybe everything would be fine.

Only a few more days until Scotland.

*

THEY TRUDGED BACK TO the coach together. Hamish’s lantern illuminated the path, revealing thick gnarly branches that she could have collided into and ditches into which she could have fallen.

An owl hooted, and rabbits scampered away. They knew the forest was dangerous—why hadn’t she?

She shivered and pulled the blanket more firmly about her.

She’d been foolish and too impulsive. Just like always.

She swallowed hard.

Hamish strode confidently toward the coach, evidently relieved at having found her. His reassurances had been somewhat amusing. He seemed to be convinced that rogues were only found in the finest parlors and ballrooms in London or Edinburgh, when Georgiana was quite certain that a true rogue was far more likely to be rambling about craggy peaks on the very edge of Britain and doing daring things like disrupting weddings.

They were soon at the carriage, and Hamish opened the door. She slipped inside and he followed her, settling onto the other side of the carriage.

Cold gusts of wind blew through the carriage. The windows and doors which had seemed sturdy on the drive through London and into the countryside, when the coach had moved at fast speeds of five miles an hour, now seemed at risk of blowing off, even though they’d stopped moving. The door rattled against the latch, groaning in a manner not conducive to sleep and in no ways reminiscent of a lullaby. If only they’d stayed at the last posting inn. Georgiana shouldn’t have insisted they continue on.

“You were right,” Georgiana said mournfully. “I thought there would be something else, another place to stay.”

“There probably is something else,” Hamish said magnanimously. “Eventually. Maybe even quite soon.”

Georgiana nodded.

“Take my coat.” He stripped the woolen material away, and even in the dim light she could see his shirt. The ivory color glowed under the moonlight, and his sleeves billowed in ways quite unlike the refined, polished look of his tailcoat.

“I can’t wear that,” she said.

“And I can’t wear it when I know you’re cold,” he said.

She hesitated for a moment, but then he said, “I’ll help you.”

He moved across the narrow seat, and in the next moment she was aware of long legs beside hers and that masculine smell of cotton that seemed more distracting than any floral combination a parfumist in Paris could conjure.

He slid his tailcoat over her shoulders and lifted her arms. The action shouldn’t have caused her pulse to quicken. His movements didn’t differ from when her maid dressed her.  The sleeves reached to her wrists, and his hands never touched her skin, and yet the action felt impossibly intimate.

“Now rise,” he whispered, and his voice sounded close to her ear.

She shivered.

She did so, and he pulled the tails straight to keep them from wrinkling.

She huddled inside the new material, conscious that the tailcoat’s shoulders collapsed over her smaller ones. “I must look ridiculous.”

“Nonsense. No one can see you.”

*

THAT PART WASN’T TRUE.

The fact she was ridiculous was nonsense, but she wasn’t quite in the dark. Moonlight drifted through the coach windows. It seemed to play on Georgiana’s cheeks, illuminating the contours of her face in a manner that sent an ache of something that seemed awfully like longing tumbling through his body.

At some point she’d removed the pins from her hair, and the auburn locks, the color now muted, hung over her shoulders, as if to tempt him to touch it.

Vanilla inundated his nostrils. Whoever made coaches should be scolded for their narrow width and short length, for no sensible distance separated them.

He found the blanket she’d used earlier and wrapped it around her shoulders, tucking her hair over it. The silky strands contrasted with the coarse wool. She shouldn’t be here. He should have taken her straight home to her family once he’d seen her.

“Let’s get you warm,” he whispered.

“I’m f-fine,” she said, her voice more high-pitched than normal.

“Your teeth are chattering.”

“P-perhaps.” Her voice seemed small.

God in heaven.

He couldn’t let her freeze here. He cursed modistes and their habit of making overly thin dresses for women. He tentatively placed his arms around her shoulders. She tensed at his touch, and he almost moved back, but then she relaxed against him.

“Better?” he murmured, tucking a strand of her silky hair behind her ear.

“Mm-hmm.”

“Good.”

They were silent. At some point her teeth stopped chattering, and she no longer shivered. He could have moved his arm away, but it felt right to have it there.

Well.

He’d hardly want her to start shivering again. Leaving his arm about her shoulder was truly the sensible thing to do.

“If I hadn’t been here, you wouldn’t be sleeping in this coach,” she said in a small voice.

“Don’t worry about me, lassie. It’s much better than a tent at Waterloo.”

The blanket rustled, and he felt her turn toward him. “I’m sorry you had to go.”

“I’m glad I was there.”

He’d helped. He’d led troops into battle. His life had been meaningful.

“So you didn’t sneak into my coach in the hopes of compromising me?”

“Me compromise you?” Amusement rippled through her voice, and it was easy to imagine the manner in which her lips would be breaking into a wide smile.

God in heaven. If only it were light and he could see her fully.

Except... If it were light, he would probably be doing something foolish like turning away from her and pretending she didn’t affect him at all.

He didn’t want to pretend anymore.

Not when they would be in Gretna Green in a few days. Not when he would then disappear.