Mad for the Plaid (43 page)

Which explained why they were not traveling at this moment.

She'd first suggested and had then demanded he slow down, or better yet, allow her to drive, but Marcus had refused, saying that while he acknowledged her greater skill with both horse and carriage, he was
determined to do his duty by “sweeping” her away under his own power “or naught.”

Predictably, ever-fickle fate chose the “naught” and one of the coach's wheels gave way and sent them both tumbling in a most undignified manner. Marcus and the curricle had ended up sprawled on their sides in the middle of the muddy road, while Theodora and her portmanteau had landed in a dirty water-filled ditch.

She had kicked at her wet gown where it clung to her legs, wincing at the twinge in her ankle. How, oh how, had she convinced herself that eloping would be a romantic, exciting endeavor? She was twenty-and-seven and well past the age of foolishness, and yet when presented with the opportunity for “romance,” she'd leapt at it like a callow girl of sixteen.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” she muttered to herself and reached for the glass of whisky she'd demanded when she and Marcus had first arrived at the inn, muddied and bruised and riding, in the most ignominious way possible, in a hay-filled farmer's cart. Marcus had done what he could to smooth the situation over—bespeaking the parlor, pulling a chair to the fire for her, and procuring the requested glass of whisky. He'd then hired two of the innkeeper's strongest postboys to return to the curricle to see if it could be righted and repaired.

“This is not how elopements occur in novels,” she said under her breath. She shoved a wet curl from her cheek, wincing when her fingers brushed the scrape on her jaw.

That's a reason to drink.
She took a sip of her whisky,
the smooth tones soothing the ire bubbling through her veins. Taking a deep breath, she put her feet upon the footstool in front of her chair, struggling to free her uninjured foot from the torn flounce and flinching when her bruised knee protested.

There's another reason to drink.
She took another sip and leaned her head against the high back of the chair. She'd first doubted the wisdom of her decision to elope when her erst-while husband had met her at their prearranged location in an antiquated curricle that had once belonged to his grandmother. For some reason, Marcus had thought the lumbering, faded orange, silk-lined contraption would add a certain luxurious touch to their pragmatic flight to the border.

Sadly, he hadn't taken into account that the main springs were completely ruined, so that each bump in the road had been more of a thud, while the faded leather seats reeked of hen droppings and moldy hay. Marcus had unwittingly explained these unfortunate circumstances when he mentioned that the creaky contraption had been abandoned in the barn “for some time” until he'd “revived it.”

Judging from the odor wafting from the seats, Theodora could only imagine that “for some time” was well over a hundred years, and his “reviving” had not included a thorough airing out.

Which is yet another reason to drink.
She took a bigger sip than usual, glad her stomach was no longer protesting.

She realized she was already woefully low on whisky. If she kept this up, she'd have to get up and
fetch more, as the decanter was on the other side of the room, a move her ankle would protest mightily.

But it wasn't her fault that the whisky was so welcome. As kind and well-meaning as Marcus was, there were times when he seemed oblivious to simple comforts.
Conner would never have been seen in such a curricle. He would have brought his new cabriolet, or perhaps that sleek blue coach he bought in Bristol just a year ago, or—

She caught her thoughts and grimaced to herself. As if Conner Douglas would ever plan an elopement. Oh, he'd abscond with someone's wife without a thought, yes. But marry? Never.

Which was why she was here now. Conner Douglas was not the sort of man a gently bred woman would usually meet, and with good reason. Though he came from one of Scotland's leading families, by the time he was twenty he'd firmly established himself as a society outcast. Theodora wasn't entirely certain what he'd done to keep his name off the eligible bachelor list for most of England's acceptable families, but she'd heard whispers of sordid affairs, bare-knuckled brawls, outlandish wagers, and misty-dawn duels. One story held that he'd had a duel over a popular, sought-after actress in the middle of the Duke of Devonshire's ballroom, which had left a mirror shattered and an unsightly ding in a precious suit of armor.

The stories were endless, and while she was certain many of them were embellished, there was enough truth in them to label Conner the rakehell he was.

But to her, he was her brother's best friend, and the
man she'd been in love with since she'd been a young, starry-eyed girl of fourteen.

She still remembered the day they'd met. He'd come to visit her brother, a classmate of his at Oxford. She'd been a leggy, flat-chested, deucedly awkward girl, and he'd been a twenty-year-old, handsome, athletic, slumberous-eyed rogue. She'd been lost the second he'd strode into her mother's sitting room—with his dark hair that fell to his shoulders, ice-blue eyes, and a lithe grace as intriguing as his smile was charming. He'd bowed over her hand and smiled, murmuring some polite greeting.

She looked at her hand now and curled it into a fist.
That's how young girls fall in love—instantly, and with no more reason than a handsome face and a set of broad shoulders.
Of course, Conner never saw her as anything more than his best friend's little sister, and so paid her little heed. At least, he had at first. Eventually, over the years, by dint of always being available to listen whenever he had something to say, never offering a critical comment without adding some sort of helpful addendum, and hiding her always present desire to fling herself into his arms, they'd become friends. As they did so, she was more honest with him, too, which he seemed to appreciate.

But though their friendship had kept Conner returning to her side throughout the years, it had also ended any hopes she'd had for romance.

It had taken her time, but she'd learned to deal with her unruly feelings, and now she could say with believable firmness that she saw him as a friend and no more.

Sadly, no one else had caught her attention with the same fervor, and she'd never married. Lately, she'd realized that perhaps she had been foolish to hope for passion at her age. Perhaps compatibility and the hope for years of pleasant and reasonable discourse were reasons enough to marry?

Thus, last week when Squire Watson had begged her to elope and join him in his beautiful manor house, she'd found herself tempted. The squire was a worthy man, his affections genuine, his character flawless. She could do worse.

And so she'd accepted. And now, here she was, wet, bedraggled, and bruised.

The best reason of all for another sip.
She finished the glass and then eyed the decanter from across the room.

She needed more whisky. A lot more. Conner Douglas wasn't an easy man to forget, and right now, after such an uninspiring start to her elopement, he seemed even more attractive than ever. He possessed—something. She wasn't sure what it was, but he could just walk into a room and every woman would turn his way and
wonder.
It wasn't just his looks, which were prodigious. No, it was something else; something dark and dangerous, a make-your-heart-pound-until-you-beg-for-me sort of thing. He was the kind of man most women dreamed about, but never admitted to.

Why, even now, if Theodora stared out the window long enough, she could almost imagine that the man who'd just ridden into the innyard was Conner. The figure swung down from his horse, a bold black gelding with a long, flowing mane, and tossed the reins to
a waiting postboy. The man was as tall as Conner, his shoulders as broad, his hair just as dark, and slightly long—just the way Conner wore his. Why, the man was even dressed in a kilt—not odd, as they were riding the North Road to the border.

As she watched, the man raked a hand through his hair, the afternoon sun touching his handsome face—

Theodora bolted upright. “
Conner?
”

Heart thundering in her chest, she set down her glass without noticing that she missed the small table and it went tumbling to the rug as she stood.
Bloody hell, what is
he
doing here?

It had to be a sad coincidence; her own parents didn't realize she was eloping, and wouldn't until they returned from town next week and found the letter she'd left them. She looked around the small parlor and wished she could hide, but the sound of his deep, lilting voice in the hallway put that thought to rest.

Cursing feverishly, she limped to the mirror and tried to do something with her wet hair, which had long since fallen from its pins, wincing at the sight of the bloodied scrape on her jaw.
Good God, I look a fright!

The door flew open and Conner strode into the parlor, escorted by the maid, a young lass with red hair who couldn't seem to stop staring at the Scotsman, her eyes full of longing.

Theodora couldn't blame the poor girl. The striking Douglas looks were hard to resist. And today with his face half-shaven, he looked as wild as the pirate he was often accused of being.

His gaze flickered over her now, taking in her wet, muddied gown, her bedraggled hair, and finally finding the scrape on her jaw. His gaze turned icy. “Bloody hell, what happened?” Conner's voice was deadly cold. “If that fool laid one finger on you—”

“Don't be ridiculous. The wheel broke on our curricle and I was thrown out.”

His mouth thinned, but he didn't look quite so furious. “I'm sorry to hear tha'. Have you nae dry clothes, lass?”

“Sadly, no. My portmanteau was thrown into the same ditch as I. My gowns are being cleaned and dried now, although it will be hours before one is ready.”

“Bloody hell. I expected to find you snug in a parlor, but having tea, nae bloody and shivering.” As he spoke, he stalked across the room toward her, his brogue rippling through his deep voice like a velvet stroke. He stopped before her, tugged off his overcoat, and swung it about her shoulders.

“I don't—”

“Pssht. Wear the damned thing; you're shaking fra' the cold.”

“Fine, fine. I'll wear it, but it's not in the least necessary.” She pulled it more snuggly about her. The long coat reached only to Conner's calves, but it pooled at her feet, the faint scent of his cologne unsettling.

The events of the morning hit her with fresh vigor and she swallowed the desire to both burst into tears and throw her arms about his neck, neither an acceptable reaction. It took several hard gulps, but she managed to say in a voice that trembled only a little, “Would
you like some tea?” She fixed her gaze on the gawking maid. “Tea for two, please.”

The maid struggled to rip her gaze from Conner, who was oblivious to the young girl. With a long sigh, the young lady bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, miss. Shall I bring some for the squire, too?” The maid's tone was stubborn, and she sent a secretive glance at Conner to see if he was surprised to hear that Theodora was not at the inn alone.

Conner didn't so much as blink, but continued to look at Theodora with intense concern.
He knows.
That was good, wasn't it? She would be spared the need to make explanations. She turned to the maid. “The squire is seeing to our overturned curricle, so I doubt he'll return within the next hour. Two cups will be enough, thank you.”

The maid looked disappointed at Theodora's aplomb, but bobbed a curtsy again and, with a last longing gaze at Conner, left.

You poor girl,
Theodora thought.
He looks like every hero you've ever imagined, doesn't he? And yet he's far, far from that.

Conner's gaze slid over her to the floor. He raised his brows. “You dropped something.”

She looked down. Her glass lay on the rug on its side. Irritated, she scooped it up. “It must have fallen when I stood. The coach ride made me ill, so I was trying to still my stomach.”

His blue eyes, as changeable as the weather, flickered over her, resting for a long moment on her face. Without a word, he reached out and took her chin between
his fingers and turned her cheek. He tsked and pulled a kerchief from his pocket and gently pressed it to her wound. “Och. Theodora, what ha' you done to yourself?”

He said the words more to himself than to her.

But the kind words made her long all the more to feel his arms around her.
Which is an understandable reaction. I'm so banged and bruised by this journey that I'd accept comfort from anyone.

She pulled back, ignoring the warm flush that had rippled through her at his touch.

His gaze flickered over her, taking in the grass stain on her knee, concern darkening his gaze. “Are you injured elsewhere?”

She started to shrug, but the ache on her left side forbade it. She thought of her bruised knee, the ache in her side, and the soreness of her ankle. “No.”

“Guid,” he said. “For had you been seriously injured by tha' fool's ham-fisted driving, I'd have been forced to kill him.”

“How did you know he was driving?”

Conner's expression softened into a faint smile. “I've seen you drive, lass. You'd never send your equipment into a ditch.”

She had to agree. “I was much more ill from the swaying of the curricle than I was bruised by the fall. Which is why I helped myself to the whisky.”

“Did it soothe your stomach?”

“Some. But that's neither here nor there.” She frowned at him. “Why are you here?”

“I'll tell you, but first return to your chair.” He tucked
a hand under her elbow and gently led her back to her seat.