“Don’t be absurd, my love.” He tossed her up onto the back of the larger bay, and then, taking the reins from Enzo, vaulted up behind her. His arm came around her waist, holding her fast. “This way is far more efficient.”

She settled back against his chest, his flintlock still clutched in her hand.

“Don’t you dare go with him,” Fred bellowed. “Do you hear me, Margaret? You’ll be ruined!”

Enzo retrieved the shotgun from inside the box of the abandoned carriage before mounting the second horse. He pointed the weapon at Fred and Lionel.

“Where’s my pistol?” Fred asked Lionel.

“Miss Honeywell shot it out of my valet’s hand,” Lionel said. “A fascinating display.”

“She kicked it under the carriage, sir,” the coachman added helpfully. “Shall I fetch it?”

“Of course you should bloody well fetch it,” Fred snarled. And then: “Margaret! There’ll be consequences for this! If you leave with him tonight, you’ll lose everything you love!”

“Not everything,” Maggie said.

St. Clare felt the sudden urge to grin. He spun his horse around, and catching the barman’s eye, flipped the man his promised second sovereign.

The barman caught it easily. “Godspeed, milord.”

“Farewell, young Mullens. You may tell your esteemed father that the son of Gentleman Jim sends his regards.” With that, St. Clare gave his mount a hard kick, and with Maggie clasped tight in front of him, galloped away into the night.

Chapter Thirty-One

They’d gone little more than two miles before Maggie made St. Clare stop. “I can’t continue sidesaddle,” she said. “Not bareback.”

St. Clare reined his horse off of the darkened road and into a thicket of trees nearby. Insects chirped, and somewhere in the distance an owl hooted. There was no sign yet of Fred’s carriage coming after them. No sign of anyone. Nothing but a wide expanse of endless night, the moon hanging above them, lighting their way in a luminous shimmer of silver.

Enzo stood guard, his back to them as Maggie hoisted her skirts to her thighs and swung her right leg over the horse’s neck.

“I’m not certain you’ll be any more comfortable astride,” St. Clare said, his gaze riveted to her stocking-clad legs. They were slim and shapely, culminating in a well-turned pair of ankles.

“As comfortable as you are without a saddle.” She straightened her skirts and her cloak, concealing as much of her legs as she was able. “That’s better. Now you won’t have to hold me so tightly.”

His arm came back around her waist. “I like holding you tightly.”

“For six more miles?”

“Forever.” He rubbed his cheek against the silken softness of her hair. “That was the plan, anyway.”