By the time Byrne caught up with her, he nearly had to tackle her to bring her to a halt. She felt his hands come down and clamp both of her shoulders. He dragged her to a stop and pulled her in to his chest.
Gasping and spent, she sagged against him.
“What are you doing?” he said, sounding far less winded than she, though his knee must have slowed him down.
“I-I h-hate her,” she choked out. She refused to cry although her eyes burned. Damn, damn, damn her horrid family!
He laughed. “Does that mean you hate me as well?”
She turned in his arms. “How can you act as if this were a joke? As if I could have been with you the way we were, but feel nothing for you less than twenty-four hours later?”
“I know. I’m an insensitive cad.”
She smacked him in the chest with her fist, taking care to avoid injured ribs. “There you go again, making light of . . . of what we have.” Had.
“I’m not doing any such thing.” He rocked her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Do you think that woman has the power to make me stop loving you?”
She savored this new word. Love. “You love me?”
“How could you not know that?”
“I-I suppose because . . .” Because she had given up hope until he’d said the word with that honest openness of his. “Oh, Stephen, what are we to do? I am trapped, as I’ve always been, by my destiny.”
“You won your freedom to be an artist, to venture into the world of commoners on your own.”
“But this marriage—”
“It is an impediment, agreed.”
“The scandal would destroy my family. If just one of those horrid journalists catches us, or even suspects, they’ll all begin following me around and digging into my past. Amanda’s family will suffer. Little Eddie will be labeled a bastard. And I have no doubt poor Lorne will land in prison. I can’t do that to him, though he is foolish to take the risks he does.”
“Hush,” he said and stepped to one side, drawing her into an alcove and behind an immense sculpture just as footsteps approached.
They waited for two servants to pass. Then he kissed her long and deeply until her head spun and little ripples of happiness rose up through her like Champagne bubbles, and she felt consumed by him. For a moment she actually forgot about all of the obstacles that stood in their way.
Louise tenderly touched his cheek with her fingertips. “You are leaving England as she commanded?”
“Yes.”
“You have no more choice than I do then.”
He shook his head at her, smiling. “Because I’m temporarily returning to America doesn’t mean I need to stay there.”
“I don’t understand. You can’t turn around and come back here.”
“I enjoy traveling and working on-assignment in different countries. I took this job on little more than a whim. The queen’s Secret Service contacted their American counterparts at headquarters in New York; they said they needed a man with my skills. I thought—England, why not?” He paused and let his eyes roam her face, an almost smile on his lips. “I might, on a similar whim, accept a post with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”
Her eyes widened as she began to understand. “It appears you’ve heard Lorne and I will be living in Ontario for a time.”
His eyes actually twinkled, in a dark sort of way. “Small world.”
“You would follow me?”
“Sounds sickeningly romantic, doesn’t it?” He laughed when she pouted. “Seriously. For as long as you’ll have me, Princess, I’ll come to you.”
Her heart soared. “You will?”
“I promise. Wherever you might be, I’ll find you.”
“Oh, Stephen.” Tears of happiness filled her eyes despite every effort on her part to stop them. Louise clung to him. “There’s Lorne to deal with. He won’t be happy if we are less than discreet. And, in his illogical way, I think he’s rather jealous of you.”
Byrne’s expression tightened. “The man has made his choices and will have to live by them.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “I have made mine.”
She closed her eyes and savored his words for a moment before asking the question that hung over them like a storm cloud. “When will you leave for America?”
All traces of pleasure left his face. “The sooner the better to satisfy your mother. Your life will be easier if she sees I’ve gone.”
“And tomorrow? You won’t be with us for the anniversary celebration?”
He thought for a moment. “I’ll talk to the Scot. If I can’t be there, he’ll need as much information as possible.”
Although she’d have done anything to keep him with her, Louise knew the limits of her mother’s patience. If they ignored her command that Stephen leave England, Victoria might imagine a conspiracy of some sort, and accuse him of treason. If found guilty he’d face prison, or worse. Men had died for lesser indiscretions.
More precious to her than Stephen Byrne’s presence in her world was to know he was safe. For now, that meant being anywhere but in England.
Fifty
“Ditch the bloody duster,” John Brown shouted. The Scot tramped to the rear of the line of carriages in his Highland tartans. He scowled up at Byrne on the big roan Arabian he’d ordered up on the sly for the American from the queen’s stable. “HRM peeks out her carriage window and sees that thing, she’ll be havin’ both our hides.”
Byrne laughed but suspected Brown was right. He’d stand out like a cabbage in a rose garden in the leather coat that had become his trademark all about London. Around him, on horseback or foot, ranged the queen’s guard in their brilliant crimson jackets and high-topped fur helmets. As the June sun was unusually strong that day, promising even more heat by the time the procession circled through London to Westminster Abbey, he was already sweating. Relieving himself of a layer would be a pleasure. Aside from that, it would make the Colt more easily accessible.
Byrne dismounted, removed his coat, rolled it into a neat cylinder, and strapped it down at the back of his saddle like a bedroll. His white cotton shirt, damp and blowsy now, would dry out in the warm air soon enough. He’d still be conspicuous among the panoply of vivid uniforms and glinting military decorations, but at least he wasn’t a marked man as far as the queen was concerned. With reluctance, he removed the Stetson and tucked it in with the coat. Another tip-off out of the way.
Brown stood beside the roan, its bridle in one hand, his other splayed across the horse’s strong neck. He waited while Byrne mounted up again, studying the line of carriages, all the way to the very front of the procession and the modest ebony brougham that would carry the queen in as much comfort as possible. Everyone was in place, in carriage or on horseback, except for Victoria, who hadn’t yet emerged from the palace.
Byrne looked down from his saddle at the bearded, weather-worn face of the big Scot with something strangely close to fondness. “You’ve done all you can, John. Scotland Yard, the army, Victoria’s own Hussars, the constables brought in from the countryside—it should be enough. The parade route has been searched, the church is secured.”
“And we’ve found nothing,” Brown grumbled.
“True.”
“That’s what worries me, laddie. You say they stored a cart load of powder. Where the bloody hell did it all go?”
Byrne shrugged. “It’s possible the Fenians have determined to wait, seeing the level of protection for the anniversary. They wouldn’t want to chance wasting their cache on the one day when the government is best prepared for them to strike.”