That wasn’t true. That wasn’t true about any man. When one came down to it, they were all selfish monsters. They hid their agenda under ineffectuality like her father or, l
ike Lord Neville, they blatantly expected the world to bow down in worship. She opened her eyes and tried to summon a defiant answer, but the words wouldn’t come.
“You’re cold.” He released her to shrug off his coat and drape it around her shoulders. His tenderness made her eyes prickle with tears. Strange that she’d stayed strong resisting violence, but gentleness split her in two.
“You’ve made a powerful enemy,” she said hoarsely, huddling into the coat. His scent enveloped her. Clean male. Lemon verbena.
Christopher shrugged. “I can live with that.”
She loved his careless courage. “He was jealous that my father favored you.”
“Don’t be a goose, Genevieve. He was jealous because you liked me.”
“You risk making a fool of yourself, saying such things.” She tried to dampen his presumption, but for once, her heart wasn’t in it.
His brilliant smile always made her witless with longing, even when she’d believed him an unrepentant miscreant. “I made a fool of myself over you long ago. But of course you know that, don’t you?”
Did she? She knew he wanted her. She had no idea what else he felt. Except that tonight he acted like he cared. She was too tired and heartsick to talk herself out of the idea that perhaps he did. In his fashion.
“You were clever to scream,” he said.
“I wasn’t clever. I was terrified.” She pressed an unsteady hand to her aching throat. “He… he choked me to keep me quiet.”
“Hell, I should have shot the bugger.”
Once more he took her hand. She returned his clasp, preternaturally conscious of the strong bones and long, sensitive fingers. His warmth made those horrid moments with Lord Neville seem distant and unimportant. “Shooting’s too good for him.”
“I could lock him in a room with your father and an alternative theory for the demise of the princes.”
Surprisingly she laughed. It was strained and short-lived, but nonetheless it was a laugh. Tonight she’d thought laughter lost to her.
Something rustled behind them and her amusement evaporated. Panicked, she cringed closer to Christopher, who raised his pistol.
“Surely they wouldn’t—”
“Shh,” he said gently, pressing her to his side.
She hid her face in his shoulder, his silk waistcoat slippery beneath her cheek. She couldn’t bear to see Lord Neville or to remember his hands on her. Although the grim reality was that she’d relive those suffocating moments in the coach for a long time to come. Beneath her ear, Christopher’s heart pounded and his body vibrated with wariness.
He relaxed when Sedgemoor and Hillbrook emerged from the trees carrying lanterns.
“About time you turned up.” Christopher sounded relieved as he lowered his pistol. She gathered her torn bodice although the coat preserved most of her modesty.
“We let you play Sir Galahad,” Hillbrook drawled. “You’ve had so few opportunities.”
“Very droll, old man.” Christopher kept his arm around Genevieve. She should object, but fear had cut too deep tonight for her to stray from his side. “Better aim your barbs at Fairbrother.”
“You needed to step in?” Hillbrook sounded like he already knew the answer.
“He tried to force Miss Barrett’s consent to marriage.”
“The sodding scum.”
“Good evening, Miss Barrett,” Sedgemoor said calmly from beside Hillbrook. “I hope you’re unharmed.”
“Yes, thank you, Your Grace.” Shame burned her cheeks. At being found with Christopher. At her fatal naïveté in going with Lord Neville. At the way that both these men would surely speculate on what had occurred in that carriage.
“I’m appalled that this happened.” The duke struck her as a man who concealed his emotions, but now she couldn’t doubt his outrage. “Where’s Fairbrother?”