Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)

“But our lives are in danger if—”

“What? If we don’t marry?” he mocked. “While I admire your original approach to improving your prospects, you do not want to marry me.”

Before she could challenge his opinion, Fitchett entered the room and Mr Sloane fired a barrage of instructions. “The storm is passing. I want the carriage brought round immediately. Turton is to take Miss Hart and her … her Scottish companions back to town.”

“Yes, sir.” Fitchett nodded and left the room.

Mr Sloane turned to her. “I shall arrange a meeting with my lawyers,” he continued in a business-like fashion. “We will thrash the matter of the contract out there. And as I have no intention of bringing children into this world, the debt ends with us.”

There were two types of actions—those motivated by love and those motivated by fear. Could he not see she was at her wits’ end? No doubt this handsome and physically powerful man had never been pushed to the limits of his sanity. Yes, it was utter lunacy to marry a stranger because of a pact made seventy years ago. But she had to say something to make him comprehend the genuine threat to their lives.

“You don’t understand, Mr Sloane. We both hold clues to the missing treasure.”

But he was already ushering her towards the drawing room door. “I understand, madam. Desperate people say desperate things. But I shall see that you’re compensated for your grandfather’s sacrifice.”

Vivienne shuffled back into the hall. “Sir, you fail to see the gravity of the situation.” She clutched his forearm. “Why will you not let me explain?”

Hard muscle flexed beneath her fingers and the gentleman shivered visibly. He glanced at her hand for a few seconds, his brow furrowing in confusion. When their gazes locked, recognition flashed in his eyes. He must have felt it, too, the prickle of excitement, the spark of recognition.

“We cannot fight our destiny,” she said, reluctantly pulling her hand away and breaking the connection. Vivienne reached down between the valley of her breasts and removed the tiny scroll. Oh, she was more than desperate. “If you won’t listen to me, then take this. Keep it safe. Should I meet a grisly end, you must return it to Buchanan.”

Mr Sloane seemed more interested in the swell of her breasts than her prized possession. When he failed to take the parchment, she grabbed his hand and thrust it into his palm.

“I am placing my trust in you, sir. This is the first clue to finding our legacy. You already possess the second clue.”

The gentleman appeared more confused than ever. “Why would you trust a stranger with something so important, Miss Hart?” Suspicion darkened his tone. “Why trust the man opposed to your plan?”

Vivienne inhaled deeply. He would think her a candidate for Bedlam if she spoke the truth, but needs must. “You’re floundering, I can see. But you will marry me, Mr Sloane. During the coming days, the devil will seek to destroy us. Finding our legacy is the only way to save our lives.”

The crunching of carriage wheels on the gravel sent her pulse soaring. She was out of time, and he refused to listen.

Fitchett appeared, carrying Vivienne’s wet cloak and gloves. “Miss Hart’s servants are in the carriage, sir, and I sent Dawson to pay the jarvey’s fare.” The butler glanced at Vivienne, his expression brimming with sympathy. “Your outdoor apparel, Miss Hart.”

Vivienne took her cloak and gloves. Perhaps she should leave before Mr Sloane attempted to return the scroll and the contract. She would visit Keel Hall tomorrow, after he’d had time alone to process the information.

“And what of my boots?” she said, noting their absence. A maid must have wiped the muddy footprints from the marble floor and mopped the puddle.

“They were in such a terrible state, miss, I fear they’re ruined. Mrs McCready tried her best to clean them, but the lining is soaked through. She has them in the carriage.”

In the carriage? “And pray, how I am supposed to walk across the gravel in my stocking feet?”

Fitchett stared blankly. “With the master’s permission, I shall carry you, miss.”

“Carry me?” Based on Fitchett’s stick-thin frame, he’d struggle to cover a few feet. And with him possessing only one good eye, she envisioned him tumbling down the front steps. “Never mind. I shall tread carefully.”

Fitchett glanced at Mr Sloane. “Sir, Dawson broke a lantern yesterday. Slivers of glass covered the gravel. A cut to the toe often ends in amputation.”

Mr Sloane arched a brow. “Have you been reading those morbid seafaring stories again, Fitchett?”

“Sir, there’s many a truth found in fictional tales.”

If they continued in this vein, Mr Sloane was likely to forget all about the small scroll in his hand. Everything depended upon him honouring the debt to Lucian Hart.

“Perhaps you’d allow me to summon a footman to carry the lady to the carriage, sir,” Fitchett said. “Carter is just finishing his supper and can—”

“Oh, for the love of God!” Mr Sloane slipped the scroll into his boot. “I shall carry Miss Hart to the carriage.”

Mother Mary! Panic rose to her throat, coupled with a shiver of delight. She was about to protest, but did she not need to foster a level of intimacy with the man she hoped to marry?