Chapter 5
Chapter Five
F or three days, I wander the halls like an automaton. I remind myself of a wind-up doll—I put one foot in front of the other, but there’s no purpose behind it. No meaning. And sometimes, I simply wind down and stop. The world around me smears to a drab, quiet gray.
Meanwhile, the duke’s dowry pours into my family’s coffers. Trunks filled with gowns and jewels arrive, crowding the foyer.
Weston remains absent.
Which I should be grateful for, I know. Without him here, my luck can breathe. The cogs of fate can turn and align the balance in my favor. But he never goes this long without bringing me a book, and as the days slip past, I wonder if I’ll ever see him again. Probably not.
I should be grateful for that, too. Because I know I have to forget him. Let him go. I’ve spent ten years pining for someone who doesn’t want me back, and it’s killing me.
So I push thoughts of Weston from my mind. I do my best to seal my hopeless longing into some hidden fold deep inside myself. I even consider going to Theodore again, like I did last year, when I gave up my virginity as much out of curiosity as desperation. I went knowing I couldn’t touch Weston, but that I had to touch someone . That I deserved, just once, to know what it felt like to be wanted.
But I only ended up thinking of Weston the whole time, and I don’t expect a second try to prove any different than the first. At least…not with Theodore.
So I stay home, and the days drag by. At times, I wonder if I imagined Weston’s duty-bound proposal.
Maybe, because Brendan never mentions it. Nor does he waver in his decision to marry me to the duke. He insists that Fortuna wouldn’t permit a match that wouldn’t result in my happiness, and therefore I’ll be utterly fulfilled as the new duchess of Alverton.
Every time he says it, I will myself not to gag.
I don’t argue, though. I hunker down. I bide my time and wait for my luck to save me. It always has before.
Yet Fortuna fails to intervene, and a week after my forced engagement, I find myself being laced into my wedding dress by Minnie’s capable hands. The gown has so many ruffles that a family of small animals could probably make a home in its skirts.
“Just your luck that this fits so perfectly,” she says, tugging at the laces. “Considering the duke sent it without having your measurements taken.”
I meet my own eyes in the floor-length mirror. There’s no expression on my face. Not a single flicker of emotion. I can’t seem to locate any within myself, either. “Yes. Lucky.”
“Almost like this was meant to be,” she continues. “Which, since it’s you, I suppose it was. ”
She runs a brush through my hair and smiles at me in the glass. I try to smile back, but it ends up looking as though someone has knocked my mouth out of alignment.
“You had a hundred proposals, too,” she says brightly. “Imagine that.”
“A hundred and one, actually,” I murmur.
Minnie pauses her brushing. “What?”
An eon passes.
I swallow hard. “Nothing.”
Before I know it, she’s leading me down the stairs. Brendan waits below, all smiles. He escorts me out front, to where the duke’s garish carriage awaits. Twelve miles separate me from my fiance’s country estate, but I wish it were twelve thousand.
Even that wouldn’t be enough.
My brother wraps me in a hug. I stand there, feeling strangely boneless, and pray for Fortuna to show her hand. Any moment now, a crack of lightning will detonate inside my brother’s mind. He’ll tell me this is all an elaborate jest, that I don’t have to marry at all. That we don’t need any more money or riches, not at the cost of my happiness.
But when Brendan pulls back, he only says, “Are you sure you don’t want me to come?”
I force a mute nod. A private ceremony is the one thing I managed to ask for. I can’t tolerate the thought of anyone watching while I swear my life away. Or of Brendan being there to interfere when Fortuna finally executes whatever plan she has in mind.
Goddess, please let her have a plan in mind. Please.
Brendan urges me into the carriage. Minnie bursts into tears and waves with both hands. I stare leadenly through the window as the door of my cage clicks shut.
The carriage lurches. At the first jostle of the wheels, sweat breaks out on my palms. This is…happening. Actually happening. I’m being delivered into my own worst nightmare, because once I reach my destination, I’ll be married. Immediately. Tonight.
Come tomorrow, I’ll be smothered in jewels. Entombed in silks. I’ll spend my days as an ornament. As a conduit for the duke to leverage his fortune to even greater heights.
I stare at the fields zipping past, unable to fathom that future. Maybe an axle will snap. A stampede of wild animals will spook the horses and send us back the way we’ve come.
Something. Anything .
Then a few miles later, I see him—a blond rider, outlined against the ridge ahead. He tracks the carriage’s progress with unsettling focus.
There’s something about the way he sits atop his black horse. A...stillness, almost. An anticipation.
I squint. We draw close enough that I can make him out.
I don’t recognize him. Broad features make up a face that’s pleasant enough, but would prove easily forgettable if not for the way he measures our approach.
I press my face to the glass. The stranger meets my eyes and winks.
The carriage whips past.
I frown, craning my head as we hurtle onward, but I’ve lost sight of him. What was that about?
As if in answer, the pounding of hoofbeats joins the clattering of our wheels. When the sound grows louder— closer —my pulse quickens .
Someone shouts outside. Suddenly, the whole vehicle swerves. I’m thrown across the bench seat as something thunders past the window—that same rider, only now he’s pulled a cloth mask down over his face. Wind plasters his golden hair to his forehead as he extends a gloved hand.
My blood roars in my ears. From this angle, I can’t tell what he’s reaching for, but he’s clearly a criminal. A highwayman.
We’re being robbed.
Somewhere overhead, the driver lets out a strangled cry. The carriage jounces as a weight tears free. Something heavy hits the ground with a nauseating crunch.
I scramble toward the window again, shoving the lace aside. The driver tumbles through the roadside grass behind us. When he comes to a stop, the man jumps to his feet and shakes a fist, but he’s already shrinking to a speck. The black horse comes into view, now riderless.
My stomach clenches. The carriage bounces over one bump after another, and I cast a glance toward the ceiling. The highwayman must be driving, now.
I bang the roof with a fist but receive no reply. I try again, then sink onto the seat, my mind spinning. I can’t leap out at this speed. Not without breaking something. With my luck, it’d likely be a non-essential something, but I have no desire to test the limits.
Half an hour spins by. The sun dips below the horizon. A few times, we change direction, careening around one corner or another. Finally, we veer off the main road and down a dirt track, into a jumble of grasping brambles. Each jolt threatens to expel the contents of my stomach .
We finally grind to a halt in a secluded hollow. The carriage creaks and settles.
Quiet descends. Nothing moves, save for the lace curtains. They swing in the waning light, then go still.
My heart convulses. Should I...get out? Stay here? Shout to the plain-faced highwayman to return me home?
Before I can decide, the carriage jostles. Footsteps crunch through the brush, and my lungs shrink. But this man won’t hurt me, I tell myself. He’ll take one look inside, realize I’m an innocent bride, and let me go.
With any luck, at least.
Heavy boots mount the footplate. I cower, having nowhere to hide, as the door wrenches open.
The highwayman fills the entryway, silhouetted by the crimson glow of dusk. He’s swathed entirely in black—black boots, billowing black shirt, black cloth mask. Black leather gloves encase his hands.
I squint. I can’t make out much else. Just a fall of blond hair and a muscular frame.
“Hello.” His voice is low and gravelly. “Don’t worry. You’re not in any danger.”
I search for words. I can barely locate any over the frenzy of my pulse. “That’s a relief,” I finally say.
He steps inside. I scramble to my feet, not wanting him towering over me, but he does, anyway. Fortuna, he’s tall. And broad.
“I’m Jack,” he says.
“Jack.” I file the name away. “Okay. I’m Bri?—”
“I know who you are.”
I fall silent. His voice is scarcely more than a rumble, and it seems to saturate the air before settling into the lavish seats and priceless curtains. But I suppose it makes sense that he knows who I am. This carriage, and the triquetra staring him in the face, kind of give it away.
“What do you want with me?” I manage.
He doesn’t answer right away. His expression might change, but the light from the doorway glares too brightly to tell.
“Are you ransoming me?” I prompt. If he knows I’m a Charm and came after me on purpose... “To the duke? Is this about money?”
“No,” he says. “No, I...need you.”
I blink.
“Your help.” He clears his throat. It sounds like rocks grinding together. “I need your help. Your luck.”
Surprise ripples through me. “My luck? For what?”
“It’d be easiest to just show you. It’s close by. And this...purpose I need you for, it might take a while. So you won’t be making it to the altar. Not today, at least.”
“You’re kidnapping me, then?” The words spill out, my voice trembling with disbelief. Disbelief and...something else.
Jack studies me through the dim light. “I guess you could call it that, yes. But you’ll be safe. You’ll be taken care of. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Oh.” I press a hand to my chest. An undercurrent of conviction runs beneath his words, so palpable that I actually believe him. “Well, then.”
“No harm will come to you,” he insists.
My hand falls to my side. All the emotions of the last few days—the dread, the doubt, the agonizing helplessness—come undone at once. They unspool together, into a tangled heap at my feet .
In their wake, gratitude blossoms, so intense that tears prick at my eyes. Stolen. I’m being stolen. From my own wedding. I’m being freed .
Jack watches me, perhaps waiting for hysterics that never come.
In the next moment, my fear drops away. I sweep my gaze over him and see not a criminal, but my salvation.
Someone is finally stepping in where Weston and Brendan wouldn’t. Someone is saving me. Someone hand-delivered by Fortuna herself.
My guardian angel.
“Kidnapped,” I say. “Oh, thank the goddess. Or, more accurately, thank you .”
The relief coursing through me intensifies, demanding some kind of outlet, and before I can think, I step in and press my lips to his.