She was frightened to realize how right it felt to be with Marcus. Arabella shut her eyes. She wanted him far too much, wanted to be with him far too much. It was deplorable, how glad she had been to see him. It was even more deplorable that she almost regretted their wager was nearly over.
She pulled a sharp breath and shivered.
“Are you cold?” Marcus’s husky voice broke the silence between them.
“No…not any longer.”
He was stroking her bare arm, his touch soothing and comforting now rather than arousing. His protective tenderness was even more dangerous than his passion, she realized, for it made her acknowledge the tenderness that tugged at her own heart.
She urgently needed to find Sybil, Arabella knew. There was no way she could hold out against Marcus if she had to travel alone with him all the way to Scotland, for continuing this tender intimacy would leave her utterly defenseless and more vulnerable than ever.
As Arabella had hoped, they set out in the Freemantle coach at first light the next morning, in pursuit of the elopers. Speed was of the essence, since Marcus believed Sybil and Onslow had likely been far enough ahead yesterday to have missed the worst of the storm.
Much to Arabella’s frustration, though, her coachman could only achieve a snail’s pace. After the downpour, the roads were a morass of mud, and even Winifred’s well-sprung coach had difficulty keeping purchase as it rattled and splashed and bucked over innumerable ruts and potholes. The day was chill and gray, adding to Arabella’s anxious mood.
She also felt a little stab of alarm when shortly after leaving the inn, Marcus drew a brace of pistols from his saddlebags to check the priming.
“Marcus,” she said uneasily, “you don’t mean to challenge Onslow to a duel, do you?” Her father had been killed in a duel, and she shuddered to think of resorting to such violence.
“No, I won’t call him out,” Marcus returned wryly. “A duel would draw too much attention to the situation. We need to prevent a scandal, not cause one.”
A grimace claimed Arabella’s features. “Yes, exactly.”
“I don’t intend to use these, but I want to be prepared for any eventuality.”
She clung to the strap as the coach bounced over another rut. “Good. I don’t want to even consider shooting him. However, if we are forced to make Onslow see reason, I admit I would be more than happy for you to use your fists.”
Marcus sent her an amused glance. “Out for blood, are we?”
“Quite,” she muttered.
“I expected you to be more enraged by that troublesome Newstead chit. She’s likely the instigator of the elopement, wouldn’t you say?”
Arabella sighed. “That is highly possible. Sybil is outrageously spoiled and thoughtless. But I don’t consider her irredeemable. I will have to bring her back safe and sound, and with no one the wiser as to her elopement. Particularly her papa.”
“We will find them eventually,” Marcus reassured her.
“I only hope it is in time,” Arabella said fervently, trying to stem her anxiety.
Miraculously, her hope was answered an hour later when they came across a closed carriage on the side of the road, canted at an unnatural angle from having lost a wheel. Praying the vehicle belonged to Onslow, Arabella held her breath while Marcus investigated. There were no signs of horses or coachman or passengers, although the boot held a valise containing three lace handkerchief’s bearing Sybil’s initials.
Arabella didn’t know whether to be relieved or alarmed.
“They might have walked to the next posting inn,” Marcus suggested, “in search of a wainwright to repair the wheel.”
She shook her head. “I cannot see Sybil traipsing along the road any distance. She likely would have waited here in the carriage for the servants to handle the problem.”
“If so, she would have been caught in the storm…” Marcus glanced around, searching the countryside. “There.” Beyond a grassy field stood the ruins of an old hay barn with the roof half missing. “They might have taken shelter in that abandoned barn.”
Arabella sent him an admiring glance as he retrieved his pistols from the coach, knowing she never would have thought to look in a wayside barn for the elopers. Nor had she thought to come armed. She was indeed very grateful to have Marcus along.
He handed one pistol to her coachman and carried the other himself as he took Arabella’s arm to help her negotiate the uneven, slippery ground. With the grooms following, he led the way across the field toward the crumbling barn.
They were still some dozen yards away when Arabella heard voices raised in argument. A surge of relief washed through her as she recognized Sybil’s plaintive utterances. Gesturing for her coachman and grooms to wait, Arabella glanced up at Marcus. “Let me speak to her first, please?”
“Very well,” he agreed, although he remained close behind her and kept his pistol at the ready.
She quickened her pace but came to a halt when she reached the large barn door that hung drunkenly on its hinges.
In the gloomy interior, she could see Onslow pacing the floor impatiently. Sybil was nowhere in sight, but her shrill voice floated over the edge of the loft above, declaring both her presence and her unhappiness as she carried on about what a cruel man Mr. Onslow was.
Onslow gave a visible start when he spied Arabella, but to her surprise, an unmistakable look of relief swept over his face. He came up short, however, when he saw Marcus standing directly behind her, holding a pistol.
His face paled, but then he squared his shoulders and strode determinedly forward. “Miss Loring,” he said fervently, “you cannot know how grateful I am to see you.”
At his greeting, Sybil’s tirade stopped abruptly; a heartbeat later, she peered over the loft’s edge, searching the gray gloom below. “Oh, Miss Loring! Thank heavens you have come to rescue me. That villain abducted me!”
Onslow shot a scathing glance upward at the girl. “Abducted you! I did no such thing.”
“You refused to take me home when I asked you to! What is that if not abduction?”
“I refused because we were in the middle of a thunderstorm, you demmed little twit!”
Her face contorting with fury, Sybil rose to her knees and planted her hands on her hips. “There is no need to curse me, you…fiend! If you were not such a nip-cheese, you would have hired a coach with better wheels. And decent springs! I vow I am black and blue from being tossed about all day yesterday.”
“The coach I hired was perfectly adequate. It was only ill-luck that the wheel broke. And you cannot blame me for your stubbornness. You could have been warm and dry at an inn, but no, you refused to dirty your slippers to walk to the next village.”
“Of course I refused!” Sybil screeched. “I didn’t wish to be seen in public in such a bedraggled state.”
She did indeed look bedraggled, Arabella thought. Her raven hair was disheveled and littered with hay, as was her pelisse. And no doubt she was cold and hungry.
Before Arabella could speak, though, Sybil went on ranting at Onslow. “Nor did I wish to spend the night alone with you without even my maid to act as chaperone! But no, you insisted upon leaving Martha at that posting inn twenty miles back because you were too closefisted to spend a few more shillings to put her up for the night.”
“It was your idea to dismiss your maid and send her home! And the storm was hardly my fault.”
Onslow glanced apologetically at Arabella. “We did not intend to spend the night here, Miss Loring. My coachman was supposed to return last night with a new wheel, but then the gale struck, so we were forced to take shelter here.”
“It was still inexcusable of you to treat me so abominably!” the girl sputtered. “You made me sleep in a barn!”