The Accidental Abduction by Darcie Wilde

dangerous delight that robbed a man of thought and restraint. It could be like a drug, and the touch of it could turn excitement to darkness in a single heartbeat.
    Harry cursed again, making sure to keep it all under his breath. It seemed that heaven heard him anyway, and decided to teach him a lesson for lust, and blasphemy. Because the clouds chose that moment to unleash their torrent of icy spring rain. Harry cursed in earnest now and the impatient off horse—Rumor?—pranced uneasily and shook the harness.
    Rain pounded in cold, hard drops on his skull and shoulders. Harry welcomed it. The cold and discomfort did a great deal to dim his undisciplined body’s more painful urging. But he’d no coat and his hat was long gone. His hair was soon plastered to his scalp and the drops hissed against the carriage lantern. The candles guttered. If they lost the light in this storm, they would be in genuine trouble. Harry turned, meaning to tell Mrs. Wakefield they should raise the barouche’s cover, so she could have some shelter. He could handle the horses without her on the box.
    â€œThere’s a light.” She pointed up the road.
    Now Harry saw it, too, the glimmer of torchlight on the right-hand side of the road.
    â€œThat’ll be the inn at the tollgate. The Three Swans, I think it’s called.” he said. “We’re there.”
    We’re done,
said another part of him.
Good.
Because this night had turned him into someone he didn’t want to recognize, someone far different from the dependable Harry everyone believed him to be and who he wanted to be.
    And he’d liked it far more than was good for anybody.

Six

    L eannah nearly cried aloud in relief as she saw the inn’s light.
    The rain soaked her to the skin and trickled down under the collar of Mr. Rayburn’s too large coat. The cold mixed with the pain in her hands, so that she could barely keep her fingers curled even loosely about the reins. Once, when Mr. Rayburn was watching the road, Leannah had looked down at her palms, and saw the cuts bleeding afresh.
    This was bad. Even if she got her hands bandaged, she might not be able to drive. She couldn’t control Gossip and Rumor with weakened hands. If she couldn’t drive herself, she was never going to be able to catch Genny. She also wasn’t going to be able to get away from Harry Rayburn. It was rapidly becoming clear that getting away from Mr. Rayburn was nearly as important as catching her sister.
    But it might all be over now,
she told herself.
Genevieve and Mr. Dickenson might be at the inn, waiting to change of horses or just taking shelter from this rain.
Guilt at sitting on the box in a good wool coat while Mr. Rayburn walked ahead without even a hat was as cold as the rain. She’d have to find a way to repay him for his kindness.
    No. You mustn’t think about that.
    But it was too late. She knew what he wanted. She knew it from his ragged breathing and the flush in his cheeks. And yes, she knew it from that long, warm moment in his arms when she was close enough to feel the contours of his taut body against her. She knew that if there came a moment when no one could see, if she went to him, and she offered herself, Mr. Rayburn would say yes.
    At an inn, for instance, where they would be forced to wait while her horse was reshod.
    I’m a widow,
murmured her needy self.
The rules are different for widows.
Widows’ affairs were daily winked at, provided there was some little discretion. She could lay down with Harry Rayburn and there’d barely be a murmur from society.
    Don’t. Don’t.
Leannah closed her eyes against this new pain.
It’s impossible. Even if Genevieve manages to get as far as Gretna and does in her reputation all on her own, I must keep some kind of respectability. There’s still Father, there’s still Jeremy, and heaven knows what will happen next. I have to keep us all