She studied Frederick’s face; although some of the pain-induced tension had eased, to her, his features still appeared tight. “How’s your head?”
He glanced at her, considered, then replied, “Better.” He set down his water glass and stretched his back and arms. “I daresay I’ll feel better yet after I change.”
She readily rose and walked with him slowly up the main stairs and to the large bedroom they now shared. Frederick continued on into his dressing room; Stacie trailed after him and leaned a shoulder against the door frame. He seemed recovered enough—steady enough—yet her concerns remained.
While Frederick shrugged out of his dusty coat and tossed it on a rack for Elliot to resurrect, she seized the moment to revisit the revelation that had struck her in the inn parlor; she wasn’t sure she was yet ready to deal with it—to assess what her falling in love with Frederick might mean, whether it would necessitate any change in how she dealt with him or in how they conducted their marriage—but for now, she was rattled enough to discover that the feeling was still there and all too real.
It hadn’t been any ephemeral emotion evoked by the danger he’d been in. No—it was solid and visceral and powerful…
She hauled her mind away and refocused on Frederick. He’d peeled off his waistcoat and dropped it on his discarded coat. He reached for his cravat and started tugging the simple knot loose, then he frowned and, holding out one section of the linen band, peered down at it. “What’s this?” The tips of his fingers speared through a slit in the material. “How on earth did that happen? It couldn’t have been there this morning—Elliot would never have missed it.”
Stacie’s mind flashed back to the moments in the road—to the glint she’d seen and batted away. “Oh, God.” She slumped against the door frame.
Then Frederick was there, standing before her. “What is it?” His eyes searched hers. “You’ve gone deathly pale.”
Her eyes locking with his, she moistened suddenly dry lips. “In the road, when you were still unconscious, lots of men gathered around, and at the edge of my vision, I saw a hand and a flash of something silvery dart toward your throat, and without really looking, I batted it away. By the time I turned my head and looked properly, there was nothing there, and I wasn’t sure it hadn’t been the light reflecting off a shoe buckle or something similar…” She shoved away from the door frame, raised her hands to the remaining folds of the cravat, and pushed them aside.
His fingers followed hers as they found unmarked skin.
“Not a scratch,” he said, his eyes darkening. “Thanks to you.”
She stared into his eyes; she had no idea what he might see in hers. “The axle shouldn’t have broken, should it?”
“No. It was almost sawn through.”
“But…” She felt confounded. “How? Where?”
His lips tightened. “I think it must have been while the curricle was in Brougham’s stable. My carriage house is secure—the stablemen sleep there, and there’s always someone around.”
“You think Brougham…?”
She was relieved when he shook his head decisively.
“No. But while Brougham and I were on the terrace, I saw his groom, coachman, and stable boys hanging on a paddock fence admiring my bays. They were there for quite a while—long enough for someone who had been following us to slip into the stable and saw through the axle.”
He paused, then went on, “Whoever it is, they’re opportunistic, seizing on any chance that offers.” After a moment, he added, “Thus far, we’ve been lucky. If the axle had held for longer and broken when we were in town, on cobbled streets rather than macadam, and with many more carriages, horses, and people about…”
“I just remembered.” She felt suddenly giddy and tightened her fists in his shirt to anchor her. “The first men who reached us asked if you were dead, and I said no. It was after that that everyone gathered around and the knife appeared.”
He nodded. “He—whoever the blackguard is—was following close enough to be there when the carriage disintegrated, to see if I was killed outright and, if not, to finish the job.” He caught her eyes. “Thanks to you, he didn’t succeed
.”
She released her hold on his shirt, raised her hands, and framed his jaw. “You! It’s you they’re after.” Uncaring of what he might read in her face, she clung to him, with her gaze desperately willing him to accept that truth.
Frederick couldn’t name the emotion that rose inside him as the meaning of all he could see in her features, in her blue eyes, registered. His hands settled on her waist. “Stop panicking. They’re not going to kill me—especially not when I have you by my side.”
She wasn’t soothed. Her panic seemed to be escalating.
He bent his head and set his lips to hers, demonstrating in the most unequivocal way that he was still there, still hers.
Hers.
That thought—that truth—resonated inside him, and when she returned his kiss with fervent kisses of her own, he saw no reason not to follow their prompting and show her, prove to her, the full gamut of all that undeniable truth meant.
He set aside all reservation, embraced the passion that so readily flared between them, and shaped it—orchestrated it into a display of all he felt.
Emotion was made real, manifesting in increasingly heated kisses, in the possessive need that infused his touch—and hers. He didn’t miss that—mistake that. And the realization sent his own heart—his passion and desire for her—soaring.