But then, if Maman were still alive, perhaps she would never have formed such a hatred that it would direct her life. When she returned to London, she would tell Jacqueline the truth, tell her why she had really come to England after so long. She deserved to hear the truth. Besides, the need for vengeance was somewhat abated. Perhaps life had taken care of that better than she could, for hadn’t Jacqueline told her that the earl was an invalid, never able to leave his house, confined to a chair most of his days? Yes, it was a much better judgment than she could p
ronounce on him. Maybe it was true that fate took care of all.
But if she hadn’t come to England, she would never have met Colter. Did she love him? Oh, it was an emotion she hadn’t expected to feel, and didn’t know how to gauge. She felt something for him, of course, an emotion that was still so new and raw she wasn’t certain how to explain it even to herself. How could she know? How could she tell if it was truly love she felt, or maybe just a variation of the desire that she felt when she was with him?
The coach lurched to one side and she grabbed at the handstrap just above her right ear to keep her balance. Their speed had increased, but now nothing outside the window looked familiar to her. In the growing light of early dawn she saw hilly slopes and heaths shrouded by misty streamers of morning fog.
They had been traveling for hours, and soon they stopped again in a remote spot beneath an old wooden bridge, where she was once more put into yet another carriage.
“We’ll stop at an inn later,” Colter told her when she asked where they were going. “Tonight you’ll sleep in a bed and have a hot meal, but for now, you’ll have to endure the discomfort. It’s not so bad, is it, love?”
Aware of the man atop the driver’s box, Celia flushed a little when Colter kissed her quickly, then lifted her into the black lacquered carriage that had seen better days. It had begun to rain, the brief sunshine of earlier vanished behind dark low-lying clouds. The roads swiftly became muddy ruts that sucked at the carriage wheels and slowed their progress.
Celia huddled inside, grateful for the warm bricks but wishing they could stop. It seemed the journey would never end. At last they halted in front of a roadside inn on the outskirts of a tiny village. Postboys scurried to take the horses, while Colter came to take Celia inside, his arm around her shoulders as they ran through the pouring rain.
A bright, warm fire provided a cheery blaze and heat and Celia went at once to stand before it, her hands held out. It wasn’t the best of establishments, she could see that, but it was dry and warm and didn’t move or jolt like the carriage.
Near frozen, she paid no attention at first to the voices behind her, until she heard a woman’s scolding, “I’ll have no doxies in me good inn, sir, and never ye mind the coin!”
Glancing up, Celia saw Colter engaged in conversation with an aproned woman who stood with hands on hips, glaring at Celia across the common room. Belatedly she recalled the dress she wore and the silly hat that she’d put back on her head, and flushed. It was obvious the innkeeper’s wife considered her a harlot, and with the other patrons giving her curious looks, she felt suddenly as if she was. Her face was hot with embarrassment, but she refused to retreat.
Let them think what they would! Her spine stiffened, and she turned to watch the fire again, ignoring them.
Apparently Colter soothed the woman’s ruffled feathers with coin or intimidation, for a few minutes later the alewife brought two cups of wine to a nearby table, though her lips were pursed in tight disapproval.
“Yer room’ll be ready soon enow,” she said sullenly, “but it be upstairs at the back.”
Overlooking the pigsty no doubt, Celia thought angrily, but held her tongue as the woman flounced away.
Colter brought two platters of beef, bread and kidney pie to the table, and sat down across from Celia. He pushed one toward her.
“You’ll never see them again,” he said flatly, and she lifted her gaze to his face, knowing what he meant.
“It’s the dress,” she said. “I should have changed. I don’t care what that old cow thinks, but I would rather we not attract attention.”
“There hasn’t been time for you to change clothes. We only have a few hours for you to rest.”
“Why this rush? Why can’t we just go to the authorities and have the constable—”
“It’s not that simple.” Dark blue eyes studied her, then he shrugged. “Tell me everything you remember about the map.”
“I told you twice that I don’t recall anything about it except that he’d made marks of some kind on it—small x’s on some of the streets, but I don’t know the names.”
“Here. Eat this.” He reached across the table to slice her beef, the blade of his knife glinting in the murky light of fire and a flickering lantern. “It’s tough but edible. Put it on bread and it might go down easier.”
She stared at him. “This has something to do with what I’ve been reading in the papers, doesn’t it? About the Six Acts that Parliament just passed. People are angry.”
“We English are always up in arms about something.” He slapped a slice of beef on a bread crust and held it out to her. “Keep up your strength. You may need it.”
Frustrated, she leaned close, her voice low and fierce. “I want to know just why you’re dragging me all over the country! It has something to do with Carlisle and something to do with that map, and I think it has something to do with a brewing rebellion!”
His quick upward glance was abruptly opaque and dangerous. “Keep your bloody voice down, Celia. Unless you intend to have your fencing lessons put to the test in the near future, you’ll watch your tongue.”
She sat back. “I never took fencing lessons. I lied.”
“What a surprise. Eat your dinner. It may be the last hot food we have for a while.”
There was no point in badgering him, she saw that now, for he was as obdurate as a mule, his face closed as he ate the tough, stringy beef and hard bread crusts.