“What is this?” He looked over the mangled sheet with little interest. “Rubbish you were throwing out?”
Arthur swore his heart stopped beating. What did she mean, that of course it would change things? She was his betrothed. She was his. He had come halfway around the world to find her.
But she paid him no mind at all, reaching instead for the paper again. Gated stepped away and unfolded it, grunting at the bizarre shape upon it. “Where did you get this, Gwyneth dear?”
’Twas as if someone doused her in ice water. She went utterly still and stood up straighter. “I found it amid my things. I haven’t any idea what it is.”
“Your father must have slipped it in by mistake. Something we use on occasion, nothing for you to worry yourself over.” He proceeded to rip it once, twice, thrice and again until he had only a pile of pieces that he then tossed into the brisk wind.
Arthur felt himself dangerously close to fracturing as surely, especially when she lurched after those shreds with the excitement she had sorely lacked when he had lurched for her.
Gates caught her round the waist with a laugh. “Darling child, do not fuss so. I realize you would cherish anything from your father, but that was worthless, I assure you. And surely he sent other mementos with you?”
She shook now as she wrenched away from him. “A letter assuring me he loved me and a few drawings I had done for him over the years. That is all, and you just destroyed some of it.”
Gates snapped straight, back to the cool man Arthur had come to know. “Enough, Gwyneth. You will have no shortage of things from your father once we are safely home. Now go pack your things. Quickly, we have no time to lose.”
“No.”
“Pardon?”
“You heard me, Uncle. I am not going anywhere.”
Arthur stepped forward, trying to tell himself that whether she still wanted him or not, her safety was the most important thing, and so they must get her away posthaste. Thinking, really, that if he could just have a few moments with her, now or later, he could tell her how he loved her and convince her that she wanted to honor the bond they had made. That whatever these Americans had filled her mind with, it was wrong. “Gwyneth, please. You are not safe here. We must get you home to England.”
She clutched her middle again, looking as though she might be ill. “Please go. I am sorry you came all this way searching for me because I am not leaving. I am—”
“Playing the fool is what you are.” Gates grabbed one of her wrists and gave her a brisk tug toward the street. “Now come. If you will not go in and get your things like a reasonable child, then you will come away with nothing, but come you will.”
“I will not!” She struggled against him, pulling, slapping at his arm, even trying to kick him in the shin. Which, when he sidestepped her, nearly sent her tumbling. Arthur jumped in without having any plan but to help, whatever that might mean. First to keep her from hitting the ground, but she certainly didn’t thank him for catching her. Nay, she elbowed him in the stomach and stomped upon his toes.
Scrubs, blast the boy, just stood there with his hands shoved in his pockets and that stoic look upon his face. “I don’t think she wants to go, gents. Not that such a thing ever seems to stop you British.”
Gwyneth kicked at her uncle again, her eyes wild as she tossed her head around. Arthur knew, when she sucked in a breath, that she would scream and likely bring half of Baltimore down upon them.
“Thad!”
The name struck some chord, but Arthur hadn’t time to consider why before someone shoved him aside. He caught a blur of blue and white that focused into a man of incredible height bounding past. Somewhere in his mind it crystallized that this must be Thaddeus Lane, whose house they were in front of, even as said man slammed a fist into Gates’s face.
For a second, as Arthur righted himself, he had to fight back a smile. Until, that is, Gwyneth wrapped her arms around the man. Not to restrain him, but to bury her face against the crossed straps of his uniform.
Gates staggered back, a curse spilling from his lips. He wobbled a bit, a hand to his face, and then he shook his head and pulled out his sidearm.
The American had his pistol out and leveled at Gates’s heart before the elder man had his halfway raised. Arthur could see only his profile, but that was enough to reveal the man’s pulsing jaw.
Gates cursed again. “Put your weapon down, man. I am her uncle.”
Mr. Lane didn’t relax so much as a degree. “And I am her husband.”
“Her what?” Arthur had been reaching for the pistol Ross had lent him, figuring to show the Yank they outnumbered him, but at that he froze. He turned to a block of ice until a long-dormant fire ignited in the pit of his stomach and melted away his control, leaving him pulsing with raw fury. Surely the gaze he turned on Gwyneth shot sparks. “Your husband?”