Page 49 of The Forbidden Lord (Lord Trilogy #2)

Chapter Eighteen

And, after all, what is a lie? ‘Tis but

The truth in masquerade.

Later, Emily sat in her chemise, drawing on her stockings.

Jordan, dressed in only his drawers, leaned forward to rummage inside the amply filled basket from the inn.

A surge of affection filled her when she noticed the freckles on his back, a dark smattering of them across his well-defined shoulders.

He was hers. For a brief time, only a few hours perhaps, he was hers.

Her mind clamored to be heard. You shouldn’t have told him you loved him. You shouldn’t have let him make love to you. You should have stayed strong.

She ignored all of it. Someone should have warned her that lovemaking had varied delights. Perhaps then his seduction wouldn’t have taken her so by surprise. Perhaps she wouldn’t have cried out so feverishly that she loved him or exposed herself so wantonly.

Oh, but the look on his face when she’d teased him at the beginning … She stifled a giggle. She would have to do that again sometime, once they were married.

She sobered at once. What was she thinking?

They were not going to marry. She must return to London, even if it meant attempting an escape everywhere they stopped.

With each passing hour they moved further north, and there was no telling what Lord Nesfield would do once he discovered her gone.

Lady Dundee might hold him off for a while, perhaps even a day or two, but eventually when she didn’t appear …

A hollow fear settled in her chest. When that happened, it would all be over anyway. So she must be strong. She must find a way to escape Jordan.

“The sausage is cold, I’m afraid,” Jordan said as he drew out a greasy, paper-wrapped parcel. “But I think there’s toast and jam. Oh, and here’s a fruit tart. Do you want it?”

He held it up to her, his gaze meeting hers. “What’s wrong? You look as if you’d seen a ghost.”

A ghoul was a better term for the looming image of Lord Nesfield in her thoughts. She forced a smile. “I … I’m merely tired, that’s all. And hungry.”

He handed her the tart, then sat back and unwrapped the package of sausages. “There’s plenty of food here. And you can have a nice long nap after you eat.”

She munched on the tart, but it tasted like wood in her mouth. “Aren’t we going to stop at all?”

He seemed suddenly very interested in the sausages. “Yes, of course. We’ll stop for dinner.”

“I assume we’ll spend the night in Leicester.”

This time his answer was longer in coming. “Probably.”

Then he changed the subject. Feeling temporarily reprieved—after all, she couldn’t just leap from the carriage—Emily seized on the chance to find out more about him.

They talked as new lovers do, each wanting to know the other’s secrets.

It didn’t surprise her to hear that he’d been dreadfully lonely as a child, or that he missed his mother despite her callous treatment of him.

And his zeal in talking about reform made him seem less different from her than she’d thought. At least he made the attempt to understand the concerns of ordinary people. Many of his peers--like Lord Nesfield—had no use for such things.

What was painful to hear about was his close friendship to Ian.

Clearly he’d do anything for the friend who’d helped him through the dark hours of his childhood.

It saddened her to think how much he would hate her, truly hate her, once he learned the truth, once Lord St. Clair had been exposed and Lord Nesfield took action. If only …

No, she couldn’t risk it. For Lord St. Clair, exposure would mean embarrassment and the end of his hopes for marriage to Sophie. For her, however, exposure could mean her life.

Jordan tried to turn the conversation to her parents, but she skirted that discussion with only a few terse words about her mother’s death. She couldn’t risk his guessing the truth.

Later in the day, she learned what Jordan meant by “stopping for dinner.” Although they halted twice in the morning so she could relieve herself by the side of the road, the first time they stopped for more than a few minutes, she wasn’t allowed to leave the carriage.

Apparently, Jordan was taking no more chances.

He stayed inside with her while Watkins entered the inn and paid for their dinner, which he carried back to them.

That alarmed her, but she clung to the fact that they couldn’t go on this way for the entire trip. Scotland was a good two weeks’ journey—Watkins had to sleep sometime.

For herself, she slept in the afternoon, lulled by the rocking of the coach. She woke up to Jordan’s tender kisses, and they made love again, slowly, leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world.

Afterward, he fell asleep with his head propped against the side of the carriage.

She watched him, thinking how perfectly adorable he looked asleep, with his hair so unruly and his usually hard features soft.

He claimed to be incapable of love, but she no longer believed it.

It would come harder, but that would make it all the more precious when it came.

If only she could stay with him to watch it happen … She sighed, a bitter disquiet spoiling her peace. Dear heavens, they must stop soon. She couldn’t bear this limbo much longer, this place where he was hers and not hers, too.

Shortly after sundown, she had her wish. They halted at an inn, and Jordan ordered another private dining room for them. To her dismay, however, there was no bed in this one, and Watkins joined them for the meal.

As they sat eating roast mutton and poached salmon in a room twice as spacious as the one at The Warthog and four times more luxurious, she glanced at the yawning coachman, then leaned toward Jordan. “Aren’t we going to spend the night here?”

“We’re not to Leicester yet,” he said calmly.

“But your man looks exhausted.”

“Yes, I know.”

That was all he would say. But when they were on the road again, Watkins had an assistant, some man Jordan had hired at the inn.

She thought it odd that Jordan would be so insistent on making it to Leicester that he would hire a man for only a few hours, but she supposed it was his prerogative. He could certainly afford it.

Once in the coach, she slept again, determined to be awake and alert once they stopped in Leicester. Thus she was shocked to discover when she opened her eyes again that the next day had already dawned.

She sat up and looked at Jordan, who was sitting across from her wide awake, peeling an orange with his pen knife. “Why didn’t we stop? Surely we’ve passed Leicester.”

“Yes.” He propped his feet up on the seat next to hers, crossing them at the ankles with utter nonchalance.

We must be well past it by now, she thought. We must be almost to Willow Crossing.

Alarm bells went off in her head. Willow Crossing lay off the main road to Scotland, yet as she glanced out the window, she thought she saw a familiar grove of trees. A sudden horrible fear made her legs grow weak.

“This isn’t the road to Scotland,” she stated.

“No.” He concentrated on peeling the orange. “We’re not going to Scotland.”

“What do you mean, ‘we’re not going to Scotland’! You said—”

“I said we were going to be married. You asked where we were headed, and I said ‘north.’ And we’re going north.”

The truth hit her all at once. “You’re taking me home.”

He met her gaze. “Yes. I intend to do this right, and that means asking your father’s permission for your hand.”

Dear heaven, she could only imagine what Papa would think when they arrived and Jordan announced that he wanted to marry her!

How could she explain? Even if she could spin some tale about her sudden appearance with Jordan, she doubted Jordan would keep quiet about her masquerade.

Oh, no. That was probably the very reason he’d brought her here.

And in the end she’d have to tell Papa that Mama killed herself. No. No!

“It won’t work,” she protested. “If you bring me to Papa’s, I’ll tell him that I won’t marry you. Then you’ll have to give up your plans.”

“If you refuse to marry me, Emily, I’ll tell him what you’ve been doing for the past month. I’m sure he’ll find it very interesting.”

“He knows already,” she lied. “It won’t accomplish anything.”

“He doesn’t know. My man learned that much from the servants at Lady Dundee’s, who were speculating wildly about why Miss Fairchild’s father kept sending letters to her there.”

Her throat tightened, and she dropped all pretense of nonchalance. “Jordan, you promised—”

“I promised not to speak to Nesfield.” His feet hit the floor as he leaned forward, fixing her with a dark gaze.

“I didn’t promise not to try to protect you some other way.

You’ve been drawn in by a man who’ll bring about your ruin if you continue to do his bidding.

I won’t stand by and watch it happen. And since you won’t tell me why Nesfield is forcing you to masquerade and you won’t let me speak to him, you give me no choice but to take you away from him, as far away and as permanently as I can manage. If that means speaking to your father—”

“You will kill Papa,” she hissed. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Then make me understand.”

She stared at his implacable face, at the eyes that promised her no quarter.

Glancing out the window, she was alarmed to see that they were now traveling down the main road that led through town.

In five minutes or less, they would be at the rectory.

She had to tell him something, anything that would make him stop!

Perhaps if she told him the reason for her masquerade … Yes, that might satisfy him. Perhaps if he knew the reason, he wouldn’t press her on why she’d agreed to it. Of course, he would hate her for her part in putting an end to his friend’s hopes, but she couldn’t help that.

“All right,” she whispered. “But stop the coach. Please.”

His eyes narrowed, as if he were trying to discern whether she were in earnest.

“Stop the coach!”