I chuckled. “Since I’m currently thirty-fifth in line it would have to be another visit of the Black Death to wipe out those between me and the throne,” I said. “And who would ever want to be queen? Of course I want to marry you, but I think it has to be done officially. I have to petition the king and I believe it has to go through Parliament. So we’d better turn around and go back before we go too far.”

Darcy shook his head. “I’m not turning around. We’re going to Scotland and we’re going to get married. We won’t tell anybody, and in due course you can approach your royal kin and ask permission to marry me. Then we can have a proper wedding at a suitable church with veil and bridesmaids and nobody but us need ever know that we were married already.”

“Can one do that?” I asked.

“Who is to know?”

“What if the king and queen refuse my request?”

“Why would they? And if they did, then I’d renounce my religion if it was the only way to marry you.”

A lump came into my throat. “Darcy, I’d never ask you to do that. Your religion means a lot to you.”

“I agree that my family did fight for it for many hundreds of years, but as I say, if it’s the only way to marry you, then so be it. Becoming an Anglican wouldn’t be so bad . . . just a watered-down form of being a Catholic.”

I laughed now, with relief. Darcy loved me so much that he was willing to give up anything for me. I can’t tell you how wonderful that felt.

We drove on. It was becoming really cold. I found a rug on the backseat and tucked it around my knees. Then it started to rain, a hard-driving sleety sort of rain that peppered the windscreen. Darcy swore under his breath as he peered closer, trying to see where we were going.

“We could find somewhere to spend the night if this is going to continue,” I said. “It’s no fun for you driving in these conditions.”

“No, we’ll keep going,” he said. “It will pass.”

But it didn’t. One by one, signposts to the Midland cities came and went. We stopped for a meat pie and beer at a pub in the middle of nowhere. A big fire roared in the grate and I looked at it longingly as we rushed through the rain back to our motorcar.

By the time we reached Yorkshire the rain had turned to snow—a heavy wet snow that stuck to the windscreen wipers and started to pile up as it was pushed from side to side. No other traffic seemed to be crazy enough to be on the road.

“We should stop,” I said. “This is becoming dangerous.”