t did not take me long to understand what would happen to me if I did not escape. To be ruined by reputation was just as damning as to be ruined in actuality. No one would want me if I passed the night with Mr. Beaufort, no matter what he did or did not do to me. Fear ballooned in my chest at the thought. I tried to break the window, beating at it with my fists, but the glass held. After a while I dropped to the bench, exhausted. I could no longer hope for rescue from anyone, nor escape. I tried not to cry while my hopes raced away from me.

I kept watch out the window in an attempt to make sense of where we were going, but since I was not familiar with the area, the road we traveled on meant nothing to me. It felt as if we rode for hours. I was sick twice and left all of my breakfast on the floor of the carriage. And then, utterly wretched, I lay on the bench and tried not to breathe through my nose.

The sky was gray and colorless when the carriage finally stopped. It felt like we had been traveling all day long. When Mr. Beaufort opened the carriage door, he reared back, holding his hand over his mouth and nose. It gave me a tiny bit of satisfaction.

I sat up and stepped over my breakfast, holding my gown out of the way. He grabbed my elbow and helped me down. I was too weak and ill to try to run from him, and besides that, I didn’t know where I would run. The fresh, salty air I breathed in was a welcome relief, though.

“What happened in there?” he asked.

“I get sick in carriages.”

He looked disgusted, then a frown creased his brow. “What about boats?”

“I’ve never ridden in one. But I assume I would get sick on a boat as well.” I almost smiled at his expression.

He muttered something under his breath, then pulled me toward an inn. “We’re going to eat supper here. I don’t want to have anyone else involved, and I am sure you do not either. If you will recall, I have no compunction about shooting someone who gets in my way.”

I understood him perfectly. Anyone who might be in a position to help me in the inn would be risking his life to do so. Just like James. I looked up at the inn and the wood sign bearing the words “The Rose and Crown.” I felt a strange sense of having been in this moment before. The last inn I had stopped at—the night James was shot—had also been called the Rose and Crown. To be sure, it was a common name for inns, but it still seemed strangely significant.

Inside the inn, Mr. Beaufort asked for a private parlor and supper. A few people sat in the taproom, but Mr. Beaufort’s tight grip on my arm reminded me of his threat, and I held my tongue. Besides that, I felt too weak and nauseated to fight him.

The small parlor we were led to offered a startling contrast to how I felt. A bright fire crackled, a table was well-lit, and the furniture was clean and nice.

Mr. Beaufort gestured toward a chair. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

I wished he wouldn’t pretend to be a gentleman. It made his course of action all the more appalling. I considered refusing to do what he wanted, but I quickly dismissed that idea. It would be best for me to placate him as much as possible. So I sat at the table and watched him carefully. He took the chair closest to the door, leaning back with his legs crossed.

“You can’t possibly imagine you’ll get away with this,” I said. “My father will never agree to this marriage.”

He opened his snuffbox and took a pinch. When he was done, he looked at me languidly and said in a bored voice, “Your father cares so little about what happens to you that he abandoned you to the care of a feeble, old woman who can’t even take care of herself. You have no other male family members. No one to protect you; no one to fight for you.” His lip curled. “You, my dear, are the ideal victim. And since we are going to France, I think it will be a long time before your father finds you.”

“France?” I said in surprise.

“Yes. France. We sail as soon as the tide turns.” He smiled coldly. “You understand, of course, that I couldn’t let anyone find us until you were safely mine.”

Did he know my father was in France? I doubted it, considering the fact that he thought going there would put us out of my father’s reach.

I laughed, hard and short. “I will never be yours.”

His gaze swept over me. “You will, and probably sooner than you think.”

A shiver of revulsion rolled down my spine, and fear quickened my pulse, but I lifted my chin. “I am a lady, sir. I may agree to marry you, if forced, but you will not be permitted to touch me.” My voice only shook a little.

He smiled. “And what will you do if I try? Fight me?”

“Yes.” I met his gaze boldly.

He laughed softly, and even I could see how humorous my claim was. I was half his size and surely had less than half his strength. Besides that, he had a weapon in his possession. Well, then my superiority would simply have to come from my wits.

The innkeeper brought in a tray of food and a decanter of wine, which he set on the table. Mr. Beaufort piled food on his plate and poured himself a large glass of wine.

“Please eat if you’d like.”

I couldn’t eat. It was impossible. The sight of the food was enough to make me gag. And yet I wanted to allay suspicion and make him believe I would be submissive. I chose the least revolting dish and methodically spooned it into my mouth and swallowed while watching Mr. Beaufort carefully. He paid no attention to me, just ate and drank his wine as if he were dining alone. That was good. It gave me an opportunity to look around the room.

I didn’t see much in the way of weapons. Along with the table and chairs and fireplace there was a low bench by the window and a writing desk in one corner. I couldn’t see anything heavy enough to hit him with except the chairs, and those were too large for me to wield. The prospects were discouraging. Even the knife I was given to eat with would not be of any use, dull and blunted as it was.

I had to be more creative. I looked again at the furniture in the room, and my eyes rested on the writing desk. I saw a quill, an ink stand, and a small stack of paper. I hoped somewhere on that desk would be a penknife for sharpening the quill. A plan formed in my mind. I considered my other choices, quickly realizing I had no other choices, really, other than trying to run out the door or letting Mr. Beaufort do what he wanted to with me.

The thought made me so nervous that my hand shook and I had to set my fork down. I suddenly recalled my first evening at Edenbrooke, when I had walked to the dining room on Philip’s arm. What had he said to me? “Try taking a deep breath. It might help you relax.”

The memory lightened my heart a little. I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves, and watched Mr. Beaufort. He was drinking, but not eating much. He poured himself three glasses, and at the end of the third glass, he set it down clumsily on the table. This was probably the best time for me to make my attempt. I smiled shyly at him.

“I didn’t realize how hungry I was. It’s hard to think clearly when you’re hungry, don’t you agree?”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’ve never considered it.”

“Well, that’s how it always is with me.” I lowered my eyes meekly. “I couldn’t think earlier about what a... pleasure it might be to be married to such a man as you.” I glanced up through my eyelashes and saw a look of gratification pass over his features.

“You’re coming to your senses, are you?” He laughed. “It never takes them long.”

“Oh, I can believe it. Why, just watching you here, in the candlelight...” I let my voice trail off.

His eyes lit up with interest. “Go on.”

“I was just admiring the way the light brings out your handsome features, your strong jaw, the way your eyes...” I looked down and willed myself to blush. I felt my face grow warm. At least I could always count on that skill.

“Don’t stop now.”

“I’m too shy,” I said quietly.

“You don’t need to be shy,” he coaxed. “Soon there will be nothing to be shy about. We will know everything about each other.”

I inwardly cringed but kept my face lowered so he couldn’t see my expression. “Perhaps I could write it down instead. Like a love letter.”

He sat back in his chair. “Well, this is certainly a novel experience.” He contemplated me for a moment, and I waited tensely. “Why not? The night is still young.” He gestured toward the writing desk.

Mr. Beaufort poured himself another glass of wine while I walked to the desk; my legs felt unsteady with nervousness. I carefully sat down and angled my body to hide what I was doing from him. I searched the writing desk, and I was not disappointed. The penknife rested next to the quill. It had a small blade, no longer than my fingernail, but it was wickedly sharp. It would have to do.

I took a piece of paper from the stack and dipped the quill in ink. I wrote quickly.

A tear or two dropped onto the paper, blurring some of my words. Mr. Beaufort cleared his throat. I hurriedly folded the paper into a small square, writing Sir Philip Wyndham, Edenbrooke, Kent on the outside. I wondered where I could hide the letter. My bodice? No, that might be the first place Mr. Beaufort would find it.

My stomach lurched at the thought, and I was afraid I would be sick again. I took another deep breath. I had to think. I leaned down and shoved the paper into my boot. It was such a small comfort—hardly anything in the face of what awaited me if I was unsuccessful—but I had to do it.

I took another piece of paper and thought quickly about the lesson Philip had given me. I had to make this look authentic.

“Aren’t you done yet?” Mr. Beaufort asked.

“Almost. It’s my first time, you see.” My voice shook a little, but I finished the letter.

That would have to do. It would appeal to his ego, at least. I stood and smiled shyly at him.

He looked up. “Well?”

I hid the penknife in the folds of my skirt with one hand and held out the letter to him with the other. He stood and grabbed it from me.

“Oh, I can’t watch you while you read it. It would be too embarrassing,” I said. “You’ll have to turn around.”

“Aren’t you a modest thing?” he said with a leering smile.

I crossed the room while he bent his head over the letter. I stood near the door—not so close as to make him suspicious, but close enough to be in range if my plan worked.

He turned to me with an eager light in his eyes. “You are more surprising with every moment,” he said, walking toward me. He grabbed me around the waist. I tried not to pull away. His breath reeked, and I realized it was brandy and not wine he had been drinking. He swayed slightly on his feet. I didn’t know how his drunken state would factor in to what I was going to do. I hoped it would help.

I put one hand on his cheek, gripping the knife with my other hand. “Close your eyes,” I whispered.

He smiled and closed them. “A new game. I never expected this from you.”

I braced myself, held the penknife to his throat, and called on my courage. I found it lacking. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stab him like this.

His hand moved from my waist to my hip and I flinched.

“If you move I will slit your throat,” I hissed.

His eyes flew open, and he looked at me in shock. I stared at him with all the hatred I had in me. He moved his hand. I pressed the knife against his skin until it drew blood. “I will do it,” I warned him through clenched teeth.

He withdrew his hand from my body, his countenance dark with fury.

I reached into his jacket and felt around until I found the pistol. I pulled it out and took a step away from him, pointing the pistol at him. My hand shook.

“Now let us understand each other,” I said. “I am going to leave, and you are going to disappear. If you’re smart, you will leave the country as you had planned and never come back. Are we clear?”

He sneered. “Perfectly.” In one swift movement, he knocked the pistol from my hand. It skidded under the table. The next instant, his hands gripped my shoulders and he pulled me toward him.

“You think I’m strong?” he whispered. “You think I’m powerful? I’ll show you what real strength is. I will show you what happens when you try to make a fool of me.”

Panic gripped me, obliterating all my thoughts and plans. I twisted and turned in his grip, but he only held me tighter and pressed his vile lips against mine. I turned my head to the side and spit out the taste of his kiss.

He laughed and lunged for me again.

The sound of his laugh cut through my panic, clearing my thoughts enough that I remembered the penknife I still held in my hand. I stabbed blindly at his hands. He swore and his grip loosened. I abruptly let my knees buckle, and my weight broke his hold on me. When I fell to the floor, I kicked against his knees with both feet, hard enough that he lost his balance and staggered backward against the door. I rolled to my knees and crawled quickly under the table.

My hand hit something solid. The pistol. I came out on the other side of the table, stood, and pointed the gun at him.

“Let’s stop this now,” I said.

He sauntered around the table toward me. I backed up, keeping the gun aimed at him. My hands started to shake, betraying the fear that raced through me. I tightened my grip.

“Stop or I will shoot.”

He smirked and said, “You don’t have it in you.”

I wavered for a minute, believing him. Did I have it in me? I noticed the blood on his hands from where I had stabbed him. It was very red. My vision blurred for an instant, and I had to blink quickly. Then I saw Mr. Beaufort reaching for me.

I suddenly thought I heard Philip shouting my name. It startled me so much that I squeezed the trigger. The sound was deafening in that small room. I jerked backward from the force of it.

Mr. Beaufort flinched, crouched down, then stood back up and smirked harder than ever. I had missed.

He reached out and grabbed the pistol from my hand. I ducked down and crawled under the table again, as fast as a crab. He grabbed at my foot, and I screamed as I kicked back and freed myself, emerging from beneath the table on the side by the door. I wrenched the door open but was immediately knocked to the floor by a tremendous force.

My head hit something hard on the way down. I gasped, rolled onto my side and curled into myself instinctively as the room grew dark. I was so stunned, all I could do was cover my head with my hands as violent sounds erupted around me.

When a hand grabbed my wrist, I fought blindly, too terrified to open my eyes and see my attacker. Through my panic, I heard a voice yell, “Marianne! Open your eyes!”

My terror immediately died, for it was a voice I knew as well as my own. My eyes flew open in surprise, and I saw the face of the man I loved so well. But it was raw with pain, so twisted in anguish and grief that my heart broke open at the sight. I sobbed as if I would never be able to stop.

He scooped me up in his arms as though I were a child again and held me securely against his broad chest. “You’re safe now, sweetheart. I have you.”

I cried into my father’s neck as he carried me from the room.