Jane cleared her throat. “Speaking of sunlight,” she said, pulling a folded handkerchief from her pocket, “I happened across this very recently. Isn’t it lovely?” She opened the kerchief to reveal a thistle flower, pressed flat and dried, but still a vibrant purple.
A thistle. Amelia-Rose stared at its reflection in her dressing mirror, before her gaze flashed up to meet Jane’s eyes. If she understood her cousin’s cryptic description, she’d seen Niall “very recently.” How recently? Last night? Had he tried to see her and found her window locked, only to be met by Jane? How could she ask without putting anyone at risk, and also taking into account that the footman guarding the door was very likely listening through the keyhole? “It is lovely,” she agreed aloud. “It has a meaning in the language of flowers, does it not? I can’t quite remember what it is.”
“I looked it up,” Jane returned promptly. “It means unity, endurance, and victory.” As she spoke, she emphasized each word in turn. “A rather warlike flower, really, don’t you think?”
“Definitely a flower to wear into battle,” Amelia-Rose replied. “Might I wear it today?”
Jane’s jaw jumped. “If you wish. The decision is yours.”
“The purple will show well with your yellow gown,” Mary agreed, fetching the flower from Jane and pinning it without ceremony to the front of the yellow-and-brown muslin, beneath the edge of the green pelisse she wore over the walking dress. “Even pressed it may prick you, though. Wouldn’t you rather wear a gem or a cameo?”
Whether by coincidence or the destiny of which Niall had last spoken, the flower settled just above her heart. “I’ll be careful. This should be fine.”
She wanted to hug Jane, and most definitely have a moment to speak with her in private, but firstly she wasn’t certain how private any conversation of hers would be for the next three weeks, and secondly she had no idea if Jane had reached the limit of her helpfulness or not. If delivering a thistle was as far as her cousin was willing to step away from Victoria Baxter’s good graces, then the less said, the better.
The very small chance existed that this thistle might have been Niall’s farewell, that he’d realized nothing he did could stop the inevitable. The announcement had appeared in the newspaper this morning, she knew, because her mother had shown it to her. Her future, writ in black and white, impossible to erase, and impossible to change.
Had Niall seen it this morning? Had it hurt him as much as it had hurt her? More? At least she’d known it would be coming. She doubted very much that anyone had warned him about it.
Her door opened again, and Amelia-Rose swiftly drew her pelisse over the flower, hiding it from view as her mother strolled into the room. “Lord Hurst’s coach is here,” Victoria said. “You will be polite at luncheon, you will profess your eagerness for the wedding, and you will not mention that … Highlander in any manner. Is that clear?”
As much as Amelia-Rose wanted to argue, that would only see her locked into this bedchamber for every day of the three weeks remaining before the wedding. Better to cooperate and wait for a moment to send a letter or find a chance for … something. Anything. “Yes, Mother.”
“Good.” Victoria turned to look at Jane. “And you will make certain of that. If my daughter strays from my wishes, you will inform me, Jane. Heaven knows I don’t ask much of you, but you will do this.”
Jane stood and curtsied. “Of course, Aunt.”
“Then let’s not keep your husband-to-be waiting.” Standing aside from the door, she motioned for Amelia-Rose to precede her.
She descended the stairs, just resisting the urge to break and run for the open front door. Hughes the butler had aided her previously, but not anywhere in his employer’s sight. Today he might just as easily slam the door in her face as allow her into the street.
Lionel wasn’t in the foyer. Generally he appeared with a bouquet for her and one for her mother, which made Amelia-Rose wonder just how badly he needed the money—by way of a dowry—that would be transferred along with her to Hurst’s possession. She could see the rear wheels of his coach outside, then noticed the light drizzle. Ah, that would be it. Lord Hurst did not like raindrops ruining the shine of his boots or flattening his golden curls.
As her mother continued her entreaties and threats from the Baxter House doorway, Amelia-Rose hurried to the coach’s open door. A gloved hand in an olive-green sleeve reached out to help her inside, and she took the seat beside him. He offered a hand to Jane, as well, which surprised her a little. Previously he’d barely deigned to notice her chaperone. If she’d cared enough about him to have an opinion, that might have lifted it slightly.
“My lord,” she said, scooting as far away from him on the seat as she could, noting only that he was dressed as primly as usual and that he hadn’t bothered to remove his beaver hat even inside the coach. Poor fellow, his hair must have been a wreck already.
“Miss Baxter, how very delightful to see you again,” a voice in exceedingly proper English accents and sounding half an octave lower than Hurst’s replied.
“W—”
“A moment, please.” He leaned out and waved toward the front of Baxter House, then shut the door. Sitting back, he hammered his fist against the ceiling of the coach. “Edward, let’s be off, my good man.”
Amelia-Rose stared at him. Even shadowed behind the coach’s closed curtains, the face looking back at her had more color to it than Lionel could manage in midsummer. The mouth was harder, the nose more elegant, and the brows had a slight, sardonic arch that even the hat low over his eyes couldn’t hide.
She lunged at him, dragging the hat off to reveal a tumble of disheveled brown hair and eyes of an impossibly light green. “Niall,” she sobbed, flinging her arms around him, kissing him over and over again. How he’d managed to appear in Hurst’s coach she had no idea, but at the mere sight of him all the ice in her chest melted into warm, hopeful heat.
He kissed her back, then held her away from himself. “I’ve come for ye, lass,” he said, his voice rough at the edges. “But ye need to decide if ye want to go with me. I’ve a faraway destination in mind, and ye may nae be able to come back here. Ever.”
Chapter Sixteen
Amelia-Rose sat back again, but kept her fingers twined with his. Niall didn’t want to release her at all; after what he meant to tell her, this could well be the last time he ever set eyes on her.
“Yer parents willnae consent for ye to marry me, ever. They’ve made that clear, and I cannae steal ye off to a London church firstly because ye’re nae yet twenty-one years of age, and secondly because we’d have to have the banns called for the next three weeks.”
“I considered that, too,” she replied, almost matter-of-factly. “My mother had the engagement announcement posted in the newspaper today. No pastor would read the banns for you and me, knowing that.”
“Aye. I saw the damned thing.” And had likely taught his mother a few choice words in Scots Gaelic in the process.
“I’m sorry,” she said, tears shining in her eyes.
“Lass, dunnae cry. Nae until I’ve said what I mean to say.” He knew what he wanted, what he needed. Whether she would want the same thing once she understood just what would be involved, he didn’t know. He hoped, but he didn’t know.
She nodded tightly.
“I want to take ye to Gretna Green, in Scotland. I want to marry ye there. There would be nae a thing yer parents could do about it, especially if we stay in Scotland. But that leaves a problem outside of Scotland. The engagement announcement’s been seen. I … liberated a coach that isnae mine. And an elopement with the brother of the man ye were nearly betrothed to…”