Page 50 of The Rogue’s Embrace

July, 1813

Josalyn tucked under her right arm and Mary tucked under her left arm, Adalia tightened her holds on her nieces with the latest bump of the carriage. She had heard horror stories of travel by stagecoach, and the tales she had heard did not do the reality justice.

At least they were inside the stagecoach and not sitting atop, one small jostle away from slipping off the carriage. Stuffed onto a hard-backed bench between one plump fishmonger with the smell to match, and a tall, skinny man with sharp elbows, the two days inside the stagecoach had been grueling. Protecting the twins from every hard jolt of the carriage. Keeping them calm. Holding her reticule tight from the boy—not even thirteen—who had been eying it since she and the girls had wedged themselves inside the tight quarters.

Adalia had not let herself sleep a wink in the past two days, and she was currently losing the battle against her heavy eyelids.

Her thumb and forefinger slipped past the drawstring of her reticule, fingering the letter folded inside—the entire reason she was stuck in this atrocity of travel with the twins. She would take it out and read it again if she could move her arms, but she would not give up the precious space she had captured by wedging her arms around the girls. They were finally asleep, dead weight against her torso, and she meant to keep it so.

The coach turned onto a new road, smoother, the bumps more rhythmic, and it lulled Adalia even further into drowsiness. The weight of her determined eyelids overcoming her will, her eyes slid closed against the last remnants of her struggle to stay awake.

Into blackness, and the frantic barks of Hazard at the back gate instantly filled her head. Sitting on the iron bench between the foxgloves and daffodils, Adalia looked up from scanning the Times to find their wolfhound jumping, clawing with desperation at the rear gate to the mews.

At the exact moment Adalia realized Hazard would only be that frantic for one reason—the girls were in trouble—the dog backed up and ran at the fence, clearing it with a lumbering leap.

She looked around, realizing the girls were no longer in the back garden. No longer digging around, placing shells under the wall of evergreens along the alley. Jumping to her feet, Adalia ran to the back gate after Hazard.

"Auntie Ada, Auntie Ada, Auntie Ada."

The cries echoed down the alley in front of the mews before Adalia could get the gate latch open. She craned her neck out past the long line of tall evergreens to find Josalyn running, terrified, toward her. "He has her—he has Mary, Auntie Ada."

Adalia ripped the gate open, breaking into a full sprint down the alley, following the vicious growls she could still hear from Hazard. In the next instant, she was at the edge of an alley a block away, just in time to see Hazard jump on the man that was dragging Mary between the buildings. The bastard and Mary went flying, landing on the ground hard. By the time Adalia got to Mary, Hazard was fully on top of the bastard, attacking, the man screaming, trying to ward him off.

Her heart pounding, terror seizing her, Adalia picked up Mary and ran out of the alley before she whistled back to Hazard. Carrying Mary, Hazard on her heels, she sped back to the townhouse, snatching Josalyn's hand along the way and dragging her with them.

Running. And running. And she couldn't run fast enough.

Clunk.

Her head slammed into the wood behind her and Adalia jerked awake, her heart hammering, fear choking her just as it had two days ago.

Coach. She was in the stagecoach. The girls were right next to her. Safe.

Her eyes landed on the boy crouched in front of her, his creeping fingers only a hair away from her reticule.

Her foot quick, Adalia kicked him in the gut just as he realized she had awoken and he was about to get caught attempting to steal.

With a grunt, the boy fell back, landing in the lap of the man that had taken his spot on the middle bench. The man shoved him off, and with a grumble, the boy sat on the floor of the coach, smashing himself in between legs, feet, bags, and two other children sitting on the floor.

Awake. She needed to stay awake.

Her fingers tightened around the top of her reticule, crunching the paper within. If the near abduction of her niece hadn't struck the fear of Hades into her, the letter inside her reticule had.

She had found the letter on the silver salver in the foyer after she had gotten the girls settled in their room—Mary valiantly attempting to be brave after what had happened, Josalyn openly crying about nearly losing her sister.

Had Adalia seen the letter earlier, maybe, just maybe, Josalyn and Mary wouldn't have been terrorized so.

Passing it three times before she glanced at her name scrawled across the front of the letter, it wasn't until the fourth passing that she paused to look at it close enough to recognize the handwriting.

Theodore.

Theo had finally sent a letter. Finally, after all that time.

Her hands had trembled as she broke the seal and unfolded it, so violently she could barely complete the task to get to the contents. Had she known what was inside, she might never have opened it.

* * *

My Little Sprite,

I am journeying to you at this moment, but I am writing this letter as assurance in the event my actions do not unfold as I have planned.

If I do not return to you, alive, in a week's time, I can surely be counted amongst the dead, and I apologize that you will learn of my death in this letter. Mourn for me, but do not do so until you and the twins are safe.

The three of you are in imminent danger, and you must trust no one. No one. Not a friend. Not a business associate. Not a servant. Not your coachman. No one.

I do not exaggerate. Do not think to defy me on this, Sprite, for I will surely come back from the grave to haunt you.

I need you to trust no one. No one, except for the Duke of Dellon. Get to the duke, as he is the only one that can assure safety for you and the girls.

I stress this because I know how you think, dear sister. I beg you, do not question, do not wonder, do not make excuses for why or how I am misguided or could be wrong. Do not. I am dead, and the duke is the only one that can keep you and the girls safe. He is currently in residence at his country estate. He will know what to do.

Think of me with kindness. You were and always will be my beloved sprite, Adalia.

Forever yours,

Theodore

* * *

She had just finished reading the letter a third time over in the foyer, trying to comprehend it—trying to reason against the words just as Theo had known she would—when a knock had come on the door. Her head had been down, concentrating on the letter when her butler had opened the door. A man in uniform. Grave face. He had talked to her butler in hushed tones. Hushed tones she had heard perfectly.

Theodore's body, found in the rookeries, his throat slashed.

Her head clunked back against the hard wood of the stagecoach as it hit a rut, and Adalia swallowed back a sob that had lodged in her throat. Her look fixated on the top of the would-be thief's head now sitting by her boots as she tried to stop the welling tears.

Theo had been right. Now was not the time to mourn. Now was the time to get the twins to safety. To the duke.

Taken alone, she would have ignored the letter, or at least taken Theo's message with a healthy dose of caution, but she would not have acted upon it—as Theo knew she wouldn't, even as he begged her to do so.

But the letter and the man reporting Theodore's death had arrived in the exact hour that Mary had been abducted. If not for Hazard and his fierce protectiveness of the girls, she would have surely lost Mary.

A ripple of horror shook through her body.

She was awake again, as awake and as frantic as she had been in those minutes two days ago after reading the note and hearing of Theo's death—when she had torn through the house, gathered the girls, and left without a word to any of the staff.

Terrified, she had paid the fare and boarded the stagecoach with the girls, bringing nothing but the clothes on their backs and a sack of coins for the journey.

And the letter.

Now they were almost there—she just had to stay awake until Dellington, where his grace was in residence at his ducal estate.

Awake. She had to stay awake.

Only a few more hours.

Mary grumbled in her sleep, stretching her little body against the clamp Adalia had around her. Adalia tried to loosen her hold, but could tell by the way Mary still wiggled against her arm that she didn't succeed in the effort.

She could not let go of them. Not until they were safe.

In another hour, the stagecoach slowed at the edge of the small village of Dellington. They disembarked, and the coach rolled onward before Adalia and the twins had even taken two steps away from the wheels.

Looking around through the dust kicked up by the horses of the stagecoach, Adalia found only one lone woman carrying a basket of rushes, walking along the tiny lane that weaved through the village.

Holding the girls' hands, she held them slightly behind her skirts as she approached the woman. "Excuse me, miss, can you please tell me in which direction the Duke of Dellon's estate is?"

The woman balanced the wide basket into one arm, setting the other arm straight to point down the lane past Adalia. "Tis two miles that way, then it be the only lane to yer left. A mile more from there."

Adalia glanced back over her shoulder, peeved at herself. If she had known that fact, she would have had the driver of the stagecoach drop her and the girls off two miles back.

She considered for a moment on asking the woman if there was someone with a wagon that could deliver them to the estate.

But no, Theo said trust no one. And she would not chance harm coming to the girls—no matter how innocent the woman looked. She looked back to the woman, nodding. "Thank you."

The woman shifted the basket in her arms and continued her slow amble along the lane.

Adalia sighed, turning in the road, exhaustion smothering her body, her limbs, and nearly sending her to her knees. The ground looked inviting. Only a few rocks to brush aside. She could just curl up, sleep for a few short moments.

No. Just a bit farther.

She tore her eyes from the dirt, looking up along the road.

Three miles with two seven-year-olds.

This was not going to be enjoyable.