A Wedding By Dawn. Alison DeLaine

least we may content ourselves that the marriage will be short, as I have one foot in the grave already.”

      “There will be no—”

      “Marriage. Yes, I understand your position thoroughly. Unfortunately, you’ve got no say in the matter.”

      “You cannot force me to say the vows,” she informed him.

      With the right priest and enough money, she could recite bawdy tavern songs for all he cared. “I have a signed contract and assurances from your father that I may do whatever is necessary to carry it out.” He pulled Cantwell’s contract from inside his waistcoat and unfolded it. “You may read the contract if you like, but you will understand if I hold it for you while you do. I would hate for anything to happen to it.”

      She wrinkled that shapely little nose that would have been perfect were it not dusted with a handful of freckles. “That contract means nothing to me.”

      “Perhaps that will change when you read it.”

      “I don’t need to read it, because I shan’t be agreeing to its terms.”

      “Then it’s a good thing its terms don’t require your agreement,” he said, and tucked the contract away. Once again he checked his watch. For God’s sake, Jaxbury— Perhaps the man had gone to the church instead of coming back here.

      He looked at Lady India.

      She narrowed her eyes at him. “I will make you regret the hour you decided I was the answer to your problems, Mr. Warre.”

      “Believe me when I say you already have.” Did he dare drag her through the streets again in the hope Jaxbury would be waiting at the church? He glanced irritably at the door. There wasn’t much choice. “I’ve waited long enough. Let us be off.”

      “Off.” A spark of fear lit her eyes. “Where?”

      “To see this business finished.” He walked toward her, and she backed away.

      “We scarcely know each other, Mr. Warre. Certainly it would benefit us both if we had the opportunity to become better acquainted. For instance, how deeply in debt you are to a certain Mr. Holliswell.”

      “I have all the information I require. And you may ask me anything you like on the way to the church.”

      “You’re free to change your mind, you know.” He watched her struggle valiantly for composure. “Nobody would think less of you if you allowed me to escape. You could salvage your pride by saying how grateful you are that I did escape, as you realized your ill fortune the moment you set eyes upon me.”

      For a moment she looked so young and frightened he almost felt sorry for her.

      But she wasn’t an object to be pitied. She was a hoyden and a pirate and much too comfortable with a pistol.

      “I realized my ill fortune long before that. But I have no intention of allowing you to escape.” He smiled tightly. “You, Lady India, are as good as a bank draft to me. And you can imagine how well I would safeguard one of those.”

      * * *

      IF IT WEREN’T for Nicholas Warre safeguarding her by the arm as he dragged her once again down the street, India wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand. Her knees trembled violently as she frantically tried to think of a way to stop him.

      “This is not at all how I envisioned my wedding day,” she told him as they closed in on the shadowed hulk of a church at the end of the street. “Surely we have time to find some flowers. Or a gown—you can’t possibly imagine I could marry without a new gown. It’s a disgrace to both of us, and only imagine what the guests will think.”

      He didn’t even bother to tell her to be quiet. She didn’t dare glance at his face and risk meeting those eyes, not after the way he’d—

      She exhaled. After the way he’d looked at her. At the inn.

      She’d come very close to pushing things too far. But now every step over the uneven cobblestones brought him closer to victory, while bringing her closer to—

      “Devil!” She stopped short.

      “Keep walking.”

      “A moment—”

      “Understand me well, Lady India,” he practically growled into her ear. “I’ll not fall for your tricks. You may either walk the rest of the way, or I shall carry you.”

      “It seems only appropriate that you do carry me,” she managed, “being as this is our wedding day. One does expect one’s wedding to be romantic, and one does so bemoan the lack of chivalry displayed by the modern male in general. Although the older generations do seem to have a better grasp of the concept, so I suppose I may expect more from you than I might otherwise. Indeed, if I weren’t afraid you might come to harm I would insist that you carry me.”

      He ignored her and kept walking, while she tried to slow their progress by taking the tiniest steps she could. If only he and William had arrived tomorrow, at this moment she would have been becoming intimately acquainted with that Egyptian sailor, and her tale of lost virtue would be fact and not fiction and Nicholas Warre would not want her as his wife.

      They passed a narrow alley, a street that led to the harbor, another that led into shadows. Where had William taken Millie? There had to be an escape. It could not end this way—him forcing her into marriage, dragging her back to England, locking her away—

      Oh, God. Her legs buckled, and cobblestones bit into her knees.

      “Stand. Up.”

      “I will. I certainly will. Only give me a moment—”

      He didn’t. Instead, he hauled her to her feet and hooked her around the shoulders— “Wait!” But it was too late, and she struggled uselessly in arms that disproved her assertions of his frailty.

      “Your antics will get you nothing but imprisonment under lock and key,” he told her sharply. “Where you will remain until you—”

      Stop behaving like a spoiled child.

      “—stop behaving like a spoiled child.”

      Panic made a grab for her lungs. He was exactly like Father. Exactly. And why shouldn’t he be? Hadn’t Father been the one to choose him? Breathe. Breathe. But when she did, there were only lungfuls of him—that expensive cologne emanating off warm, male skin that badly needed a shave.

      “Oh, Mr. Warre,” she managed, resting her cheek against his shoulder, “what a romantic you are.” She pressed a palm against that same stony chest she’d been unable to budge in the alleyway. Beneath her hand, his muscles flinched.

      Pain?

      “I do hope you’re not so battered from your tavern brawl that it hurts you to carry me.” She shifted a little, curled one arm around his back, slid the other higher on his chest and squeezed. She felt his fingers splay across the side of her thigh. “Not at all, Lady India.”

      Her breath caught, and she snatched her hand away from his chest.

      Now the church loomed just ahead, and she could make out William and—thank heavens—Millie, standing by the door.

      If she were going to escape, she would have to think—think! Could they really be married if she refused to say the words? She could appeal to William’s conscience. Behave calmly inside the church, waiting for any kind of opportunity.

      There was still hope.

      That hope died when she saw William’s battered face. His turban was gone, and even in the shadow of night she could see his left eye was dark red. He had one hand locked around Millie’s arm. “God’s blood, you’re a thrice-over fool,” he said to India. “We could have been killed.”

      “Open the door,” Nicholas Warre bit out at William, and transported India across the threshold. Inside the cavernous sanctuary, he deposited