Captive Bride (41 page)

“May I hold her? My sister is grown now and I miss cradling a babe in my arms.” In truth, Faith had been a fidgety infant. But
Diantha
suspected God would forgive the fib. “Then you might have a nap before we come to the next stop.”

“Oh, miss, I couldn’t—”

“Of course you could. I will keep her quite safe while you rest.” She tucked her arms around the infant and drew it close. Her traveling bag propped upon her lap made an excellent cushion, and she had more bosom than the babe’s mother against which it could cuddle. The mother tucked the blanket around it.

“Thank you, miss. You’re an angel.”

“Not at all.”
That was the plain truth, of course.

She rocked the infant, liking its warm, heavy weight, and shifted her gaze across to the passenger whose knees nearly knocked with hers.

Not
a man. Not more than thirteen and, by the look of his blackened fingertips and sallow complexion, a mine worker.

His cheeks flushed with two perfectly round red spots. He tugged on his cap. “Mum.”

She smiled, and the flush spread down his rather dirty neck.

He would not do, of course. Boys could not be trusted with noble missions, even boys who went into holes in the earth every day to dig up metals for everyone else and so should be accounted heroes of a sort, if the world were quite fair about it.

That left only the man sleeping in the corner, the passenger who at the last stop had taken Annie’s spot inside the coach.

The hem of his black topcoat dripped rain onto the floor around his shining black boots. His arms were crossed over his chest and a fine black silk hat dipped low over his brow. He was not a small man, rather tall and broad-shouldered, but seemed to fill the space he inhabited without undue discommodity to his fellow passengers. She could see only his hands, ungloved, and the lower half of his face.

Large, long-fingered, elegant hands, and a firm, clean-shaven jaw and nicely shaped mouth.

She blinked.

She slouched, dipped her head a bit, and peered beneath his hat brim.

Her breath caught.

She sat straight up. Beneath the soft weight of the crying swaddle, her heart pattered. She drew a steadying breath.
Then another.
She stole a second glance at him, longer this time.

Then she knew. In her deepest heart her final niggling doubts scattered and she knew she was meant to find her mother.

Her plan would not only work in theory. She had wished for a gentleman to assist her on her mission, and God or Providence or whoever it was that granted wishes to hopeful damsels was providing her with such a man. For if anyone could fill the role of a hero, she was certain it was Mr. Yale.

He was, after all, already hers.

For more information about Katharine’s books, including links to purchase
How
To Be a Proper Lady
and
How a Lady Weds a Rogue
, please
visit
www.KatharineAshe.com
.