Chapter Eight #2
‘I wish to speak with you, Miss Mortimer.’ He immediately retreated from the door and tried to behave more decently by standing beside the steps rather than shoving his head into a crowd of startled travellers.
His servants stood awkwardly behind him, as equally shocked by his behaviour as he was.
He should have sent someone for her, not marched to the stagecoach himself!
The driver was in a furious conversation with Olav, but his voice quietened when he spotted Magnus glaring at him.
The door opened, and he handed her down to the ground. He avoided looking at her for a moment as he tried to gather his thoughts.
Am I really going to do this?
Miss Mortimer was nothing like the woman he’d set out to find. She wasn’t a lady or from a large family of good breeding, nor was she refined or elegant. She was brash and excitable. Clumsy and silly… No, none of this was as it should be.
But most of all, it wasn’t fair on Miss Mortimer.
He’d had his requirements for a wife, of course, but what had hers been for a husband?
Someone like the silly fop, Mr Chadwick.
A man with no title but who was wealthy and lively enough to keep his beautiful wife comfortable and happy.
Not some broken dullard such as himself.
It was clear Miss Mortimer wanted to be loved by all those around her. He knew as much from her loyal pleading for Lady Anne, the hurt disappointment she’d revealed regarding Mr Chadwick’s indecent proposal, and the horror and pain on her face when they’d been caught in each other’s arms.
If she were now ruined because of his lack of care and properly fitted clothing, how could he forgive himself?
His honour was the only thing he took pride in. How could he behave like the blackguard who had almost ruined his sister? How could he swear to uphold the values of Thrudheim, while destroying a young woman’s life?
He surveyed the surrounding fields and long, winding road. They were in the middle of nowhere, the path to London stretching ahead of them. When he turned back to her, Miss Mortimer was staring up at him with a bewildered expression.
What should I say? He’d made his decision in the library after confronting Beckton and Kesgrave, but now he was at a loss for words. The next sentence would seal his fate and that of his beloved Thrudheim forever.
He supposed he should just get it over with. ‘Miss Mortimer, in light of our recent…accident, I think it only best that I ask for your hand in marriage.’
‘What?’ Miss Mortimer screamed the word so loudly that his ears rang and he winced.
She glanced up at the stagecoach, and he noticed that several people had gathered at the windows and doorway, staring down at them expectantly like a nest of hungry chicks. Miss Mortimer scowled back at them, and they hurried back into the shadows.
‘Have you lost your wits?’ she hissed and then added, ‘Your Serene Highness,’ belatedly and with a perplexed expression, as if she weren’t sure how she could remain polite and question his sanity at the same time.
‘As we are going to be married, you may call me by my Christian name, Magnus, at least in informal settings such as this.’
She blinked with a slack expression as if she couldn’t quite comprehend his words.
After a moment of blankness, a strange iron will seemed to take over her.
She raised her chin and her spine stiffened, that odd conviction hardening within her eyes like granite.
It was spectacular to watch, a goddess emerging from a fiery pit. ‘I did not agree to your proposal!’
He shouldn’t have respected her obstinacy, but he did.
It took a great deal of courage to face authority and remain strong and composed.
He should know: it had taken him years to finally stand up to his father, to grab the riding crop from his fist and break it in two, forever ashamed that he hadn’t done it sooner or challenged him—especially when it had come to Helga.
However, this wasn’t the answer a prince expected, and it was Magnus’s turn to be perplexed. He tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘You wish to negotiate terms? Is that it? I would have thought becoming the Princess of Thrudheim would be incentive enough.’
‘I say, have you lost your wits?’ she demanded, and her tone was almost shrill.
‘Have you?’ he snapped back, and they glared at each other for a moment, before he decided to once again take charge of the situation—or regain control would be far more accurate.
‘Gather your belongings and maid—I believe you have one. You can join me in my carriage for the journey to London, and that way we can discuss this matter further in relative privacy.’ He turned away and marched back towards his own carriage.
To his surprise, Miss Mortimer remained by his side, lifting her skirts and hurrying to keep up with him.
‘Why on this good green earth would you want to marry me? I am a first baronet’s daughter, my father is a navy admiral, he hasn’t a drop of aristocracy in his blood—’
‘He has an honourable profession,’ Magnus interrupted pragmatically. ‘Thrudheim is an island, and we value our navy. I myself am the Lord High Admiral of Thrudheim.’
‘Well…yes. But my mother was a Portuguese peasant. You can’t possibly want to marry me!
’ She stumbled a little in her haste to keep up with him.
He stopped sharply, worried she might hurt herself, and turned to face her.
‘Gather your belongings and your maid, Miss Mortimer, or I will leave you to continue your journey in the stagecoach. Then, when you eventually reach London, I will find you out again to continue our conversation. Which mode of transport would you prefer for the journey ahead—my carriage or the stagecoach?’
Her eyes narrowed, and he hated how he couldn’t stop himself from admiring the way the waning daylight made her skin glow like caramel.
‘Selina,’ she snapped. ‘My name is Selina.’ Then with a flounce of her skirts she turned and strode back towards the stagecoach.
He wasn’t entirely sure if she had agreed to join him or not and was more than a little relieved when a short time later she was handed by the footman into his carriage, followed by a frightened young maid.