The innkeeper eyed Minerva. “My missus can find her something, I warrant.”
“The finest quality this will buy.” To the amount he’d paid for the post-chaise, Colin added several sovereigns.
Minerva gasped. “Colin, don’t. We can’t afford it.”
“It’s not negotiable. You must have it.”
“But . . .”
The innkeeper laughed. “Come now, miss. Surely he don’t have to draw you a picture. Elopement or no, a man wants his bride dressed proper.”
“But . . .” Minerva called after him as he shuffled off, disappearing through a doorway. “Sir, we’re not eloping.”
“Of course you aren’t,” he called back. “None of you young lovers are.”
She turned to Colin.
He shrugged. “There’s no use arguing. Do you think he’ll believe we’re headed for a geology symposium?”
“It’s strange,” she said, as they sat down at a table to order their dinner. “We have had uncommonly good luck today. Reasonably fine weather, except for that short rain. No loss of money or belongings. No fisticuffs. No highwaymen. I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see those kidnappers chasing after Prince Ampersand.”
“Oh, don’t worry about them. We will have left those highwaymen far behind. Believe me, that group wasn’t sufficiently organized or industrious to follow us beyond their own county.” He rubbed his jaw. “But I have to admit, I wouldn’t be at all shocked to see someone else catch up to us.”
“Who?”
“Bram. Or Thorne, or both. When my cousin heard of this, I can’t imagine his reaction was favorable. He knew I had no plan of marrying, as of two days before we left. And if Susanna expressed any doubts as to your willingness . . . I wouldn’t put it past him to decide you needed rescuing.”
The serving girl brought them two glasses of claret. Colin ordered them a hearty meal of beefsteak, fish stew, sauced vegetables, and apple tart. His stomach growled with hunger.
“But I left a note,” Minerva said, once the serving girl had gone. “I told my sister we’d eloped.”
“Slim evidence, on its own. You forgot to leave behind that false journal.”
“That’s true. And the real diary was less than complimentary to your character.” She cast him a cautious glance over her wineglass. “But that wasn’t all I left behind. There was something else.”
“Oh, really?” Intrigued, he leaned forward. “What?”
“You, um . . .” Blushing, she took a large gulp of wine. “You might have written me a letter.”
Chapter Twenty-five
“Corporal Thorne!”
Samuel Thorne paused in the act of lifting his shovel. He’d know that voice anywhere.
Damn it. Not her. Not now.
“Corporal Thorne, I—” Miss Taylor turned a corner and stopped short when she caught a glimpse of him. “Oh. There you are.”
Blast. Weren’t gently bred ladies supposed to have some rules of decorum that prevented them from surprising half-dressed men at their labor? How the hell was he supposed to greet her with mud streaking his shirt and sweat matting his hair to his scalp?
Throwing aside the shovel, he hastily wiped his face with a bit of sleeve. He jerked his collar closed.
She didn’t even have the good sense to avert her eyes. She just stared at him, wide-eyed and curious. He had half a mind to pull the shirt over his head, cast it aside, and say, Here. Look your fill. This is what years of thieving, prison labor, and battle do to a man.
He almost chuckled at the thought. Oh, she’d run screaming then.
She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry to interrupt your . . . digging.”
“Why are you here, Miss Taylor? What can I do for you?”
She waved a paper clutched in her hand. “I’ve come to prove it to you. The truth of the elopement. I have here a love letter, addressed to Minerva Highwood from Lord Payne himself. Miss Charlotte found it in Minerva’s stocking drawer.”
“Impossible.” Thorne would swallow nails before he’d believe Payne to be in love with Miss Minerva Highwood. It still ate at him, that he hadn’t chased after the couple that very first night. But what was he to do, when the girl’s own mother forbade it?
Now if only Miss Taylor would let the topic rest. He suffered enough torment in her presence already, without this added deviling.
She approached and offered him the letter. “Read it for yourself.”
Good God. Now she meant to test his alphabet. Thorne eyed the envelope. A queasy feeling curdled in his gut. He knew his letters reasonably well—better than most men of his station—but he needed time and concentration to sift through a missive of that length. And he’d have an even harder time of it, trying to read with a raging beauty hovering over his shoulder. How was he supposed to put two sounds together in her presence?
He held up his grimy hands in excuse. “You’ll have to read it to me.”