Free Stolen Away: A Regency Novella by Shannon Donnelly

making his words sound smooth as the finest silk.
    Bundling up the chicken bones in the cloth, she wiped her fingers as best she could on it and pushed it back at him. “You sound quite mad, you know!”
    His grin flashed again, and moonlight threw dim light on his profile. Her heart tightened as his words flowed over her. “Ah, but it’s a fine madness that stirs the blood—like that of a long, hot kiss that sears you through to your soul.”
    Face burning and mind empty, she turned away and wished she had some clever, sharp answer for him. Audrey would have had something to say. She had nothing. And the thought of her cousin made her think of her aunt. Tears stung her eyes again. Why had she not listened to them? Why had she not been a dutiful girl?
    She lay herself down on her cloak again, but she doubted she would find any rest.
    * * *
     
    Audrey decided she would have to tell him the truth. That’s all there was to it. She ought not to have lied, really. She winced at the stories she had told him. Well, perhaps, somehow, she could gloss over the fact that Chloe had gone willingly with Fitzjoy to something as vulgar as a masquerade. Perhaps Arncliffe would be angry with her, not with Chloe for seeking out Fitzjoy’s attentions.
    Taking a breath, Audrey twisted in her seat to face Arncliffe.
    He had had a team of six horses set to his traveling chaise, and the closed coach—after a day already spend in his open phaeton—seemed luxury. Soft velvet cushions covered the seat and seat backs. Matching burgundy velvet drapes could be pulled over the glass windows. Roses had been set into the crystal holders beside the door, giving a faint perfume to the coach, and the lanterns outside the doors offered a pleasant warm glow.
    They had stopped every ten miles to change horses. “We will make the best time with frequent changes,” Arncliffe had explained. At two of the stops, he had confirmed sightings of a dark-haired Irishman who matched Fitzjoy’s description. However, for the past three stops, they had not had word of such a person.
    Now Audrey studied Arncliffe and wondered how best to disclose the truth.
    He sat with his legs stretched out before him in the spacious coach. He had tossed his hat onto the seat that faced backwards, and had sat, arms crossed, in companionable silence. Oddly, she had felt no urge to babble in the intimacy of the coach. He also seemed to feel no need as well to make conversation. But they must talk now—for they would need to start asking after not just Fitzjoy but an Irishman who might be traveling with a young lady.
    Taking a breath, Audrey let it out slowly. She hurried into the truth before she could think better. “I...my lord, I have a confession to make. I...I have not been completely honest. I am not following Mr. Fitzjoy because I care for him, but because he has abducted Chloe and I was afraid to confess this to you.”
    Staring at him, she waited for his answer.

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    For a moment Audrey only heard the beat of galloping hooves on the hard, dry summer road and the creak of the carriage springs. The softest of snores reached her. The carriage rounded a bend and the lantern light from outside the coach fell briefly across Arncliffe’s face.
    Eyes closed, face relaxed, he stirred as the light drifted across his features, casting the rugged masculine contours into rough peaks and valleys, making him more startlingly handsome than ever. He did not waken. The road straightened, and the dim gloom of the carriage hid his features from her again. Still, she continued to stare at him. Did she not know already every line of him—the straight nose, that sharp edge of his jaw, the curve of his cheek? Her mouth twisted. Here she was disclosing her sins to a sleeping gentleman. She turned away to stare outside the window on her side of the coach, at countryside made into ink etches by the silver moonlight.
    She looked back at Arncliffe—at Connor.
    He must be exhausted to