And then a second truth hit him in that moment. That was why she wished for him to join her. Given all the peril she’d faced this same morning, he should have thought of it sooner.

He’d been determined not to set foot in a carriage ever again.

He detested the things.

They were conveyances that conjured death and tragedy and recalled in his mind the memory of his wife’s broken form, sprawled in the snow, a bright splash of crimson satin upon the stark white.

It had been years since he’d done so.

And after this journey, it would be a lifetime more before he ever put someone inside a carriage and climbed inside one himself.

But this time, he would, and for one simple reason only . . .

“You’re afraid,” he said gruffly.

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

He’d asked if she was afraid.

And she was.

She had been since he’d informed her of his plans to escort her to her family’s Scottish estates.

But it wasn’t the fear he likely thought it was.

This dread that had gripped her and continued to grow with every inch of the countryside that the fast-moving carriage had put between her and London had nothing to do with the thieves who’d attempted to rob her family and harm her.

Nay, it had everything to do with being parted from this man before her.

Because when he left her with her family and rode off, they’d part ways . . . for good. And she’d never recover from the loss of him.

Gloved fingers came up to stroke her cheek in a light, tender caress; that quixotic touch brought her lashes fluttering, weighting them down until her eyes closed and her body became all the more attuned to the feel of his light caress.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, his voice a deep rumble, and as close as he was, his chest nearly pressed against hers, the vibration of that apology thrummed within her. “I should have thought you would be afraid and joined you.”

Let him think that. Let him think that because then he will.

She knew as much.

And she was so very desperate for any scrap he might hand over to her that the devil inside coaxed Myrtle, urged her to let him believe she was afraid so that he remained.

Alas, she could not.

She did not want him this way.

And with that, the hold he had over her lifted, and she managed to take his hand and lower it. “I am not afraid, V-Val,” she said, her teeth chattering from the cold. Not in the way he thought, anyway. “I just”—unable to meet the searing intensity of his gaze, Myrtle dropped her eyes briefly to Horace, who happily bounded back and forth upon the old Roman road, before forcing them up to meet his—“don’t want to be alone.”