Page 84 of Gone with the Rake

Even if it spelled his ruin.

* * *

They reached the inn about an hour later. Lydia had watched the road the entire time, and though it didn’t seem like anyone was following them, that didn’t mean no one was. Nor did it mean their ploy had worked. It only meant she hadn’t seen anyone—and she understood the difference all too well.

They stopped in front of the inn, and Lydia held the horses while Thorn disembarked, keeping up appearances.

“We need to leave right away,” she told him. “Go into the inn, have a tankard of ale, and weave tales of where you’re going. Let them believe you’re alone. That way, if anyone is following and asking around, they’ll think I’m not with you.”

“And what are you going to do?” Thorn asked, adjusting his clothing as if merely stretching his limbs, not sharing confidences with his tiger.

“I’ll bring around the carriage, and we’ll leave from there.”

“Good.” Thorn adjusted his lapels and walked into the inn without looking back.

Lydia led the curricle toward the back of the inn, second-guessing every choice that had led her to her current predicament—traveling to Scotland with a marquess’s heir.

It would be far more rational to head for Dover instead. In two days, she could be on a ship to France, far from scandal, from danger, from the threat of gaol.

But Thorn was adamant about going to Scotland. And perhaps… she could find a temporary home there. She’d heard that her blacksmith friend, Eugene, had returned to Scotland. Maybe he would help her settle there now that she had the means.

She was not going to marry Thorn. She would simply have to make him understand.

A viscount could not marry a thief.

If she were caught, she would be hanged. And even if she were acquitted, she would be a pariah in society.

Miss Monroe might try to remedy the situation, but Lydia wasn’t convinced she could—even if she wanted to.

The logical choice was to part ways.

But the heart didn’t understand logic, and hers cried inside her chest at the mere thought of leaving him.

Lydia quickly found her carriage and asked the coachman to move Thorn’s valise from the curricle. In the meantime, she slipped inside and waited. A few minutes later, safely tucked away, the carriage rolled toward the main doors of the inn.

She pressed herself into the corner, making herself as small as possible so no one would see her if the door opened. Luckily, she didn’t have to stay in that position long. Soon, Thorn climbed inside and slid onto the seat beside her, bringing with him the scent of warm meat pies.

As soon as the carriage started moving, Lydia pulled off the hat and powdered wig, loosening her hair. She sat up more comfortably, stretching out her legs.

Thorn handed her a pie wrapped in a clean white cloth and a flask. “Here, this is for you,” he said.

For me? Lydia hesitated for a moment. It had been years since anyone had snuck food to her. “Where’s your food?”

He shrugged. “I’m not hungry right now, and we have sandwiches in the basket for later. I just couldn’t resist bringing you a freshly baked pie.”

Lydia studied him—this nonchalant man—warmth spreading through her entire body and settling in her cheeks. She took a bite of the juicy steak pie and moaned in delight.

She hadn’t eaten since the night before, and only now did she realize how starved she was.

“And this?” she asked around a bite, lifting the flask to her face.

“It’s ale. I wasn’t sure if you drank anything stronger than wine, and I don’t usually carry wine in a flask.”

She hid a smile.

He had thought of her. Back at the house while preparing for the road and then at the inn.

It shouldn’t have been surprising—he had said he loved her. And all those years ago, in the short time they had spent together, he had always cared for her.