Victoria smiled acidly. “Oh, no, I'm quite comfortable here on the floor, Mr. MacDougal. I prefer to feel every rut and bump in the road intimately.”
“What she prefers is to be a martyr,” Robert muttered under his breath.
“I heard that!”
Robert ignored her and gave some instructions to MacDougal, who disappeared from view. He then climbed back into the carriage, shut the door, and ignored Victoria, who was still fuming on the floor. Finally she said, “What is in Ramsgate?”
“I own a cottage on the shore. I thought we might enjoy a bit of privacy there.”
She snorted. “Privacy? Now there is a frightening thought.”
“Victoria, you are beginning to try my patience.”
“You are not the one who has been abducted, my lord.”
He cocked a brow. “Do you know, Victoria, but I am beginning to think that you are enjoying yourself.”
“You suffer from too much imagination,” she shot back.
“I do not jest,” he said, thoughtfully stroking his chin. “I think there must be something appealing in being able to vent one's offended sensibilities.”
“I have every right to be outraged,” she growled.
“I'm sure you think you do.”
She leaned forward in what she hoped was a menacing manner. “I truly believe if I had a gun right now I would shoot you.”
“I thought you were partial to pitchforks.”
“I am partial to anything that would do you bodily harm.”
“I do not doubt it,” Robert said, chuckling.
“Don't you care that I hate you?”
He let out a long breath. “Let me make one thing clear. Your safety and well-being are my highest priorities. If removing you from that slum you insisted on calling home means that I must live with your hatred for a few days, then so be it.”
“It won't be only a few days.”
Robert didn't say anything.
Victoria sat there on the floor of the carriage, trying to collect her thoughts. Tears of frustration pricked at her eyes, and she started to take frequent and shallow breaths—anything to prevent her tears' mortifying spill down her cheeks. “You did the one thing…” she said, her words tinged with the nervous laughter of one who knows she has been beaten. “The one thing…”
He turned his head to face her. “Would you like to get up?”
She shook her head. “All I wanted was a bit of control over my own life. Was that so much to ask?”
“Victoria—”
“And then you did the one thing that would take that away from me,” she interrupted, her voice growing louder. “The one thing!”
“I acted in your best int—”
“Do you have any idea what it feels like to have someone take your decisions away from you?”
“I know what it feels like to be manipulated,” he said in a very low voice.
“It's not the same thing,” she said, turning her head so he wouldn't see her cry.
There was a moment of silence as Robert tried to compose his words. “Seven years ago I had my life planned out to the very last detail. I was young, and I was in love. Madly, desperately in love. All I wanted was to marry you and spend the rest of my life making you happy. We'd have children,” he said wistfully. “I always imagined them looking like you.”
“Why are you saying this?”
He stared at her, drilling her with his eyes, even though she refused to return his gaze. “Because I know what it feels like to have one's dreams ripped away. We were young and stupid, and if we'd had any sense we would have realized what our fathers did to keep us apart. But it wasn't our fault.”
“Don't you understand? I don't care about what happened seven years ago anymore. It doesn't matter to me.”
“I think it does.”
She crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “I don't want to talk about it any longer.”
“Very well.” Robert picked up a newspaper and began to read.
Victoria sat on the floor and tried not to cry.
Twenty minutes later the carriage rolled to a halt in front of a small inn just off the Canterbury Road in Faversham. Victoria waited in the carriage while Robert went in to procure rooms.
A few minutes later he emerged. “Everything is arranged,” he said.
“I hope you got me my own room,” she said stiffly.
“Of course.”
Victoria declined—somewhat forcefully—his offer of assistance, and she jumped down from the carriage on her own. Excruciatingly aware of his hand on the small of her back, she was led into the building. As they passed through the front room, the innkeeper called out, “I do hope you and your wife enjoy your stay, my lord.”
Victoria waited just until they had turned the corner on the way to the staircase. “I thought you said we have separate rooms,” she hissed.
“We do. I had no other option than to tell him you are my wife. It is clear that you are not my sister.” He touched a lock of her sable hair with exquisite tenderness. “And I did not want anyone to think that you are my paramour.”
“But—”
“I imagine the innkeeper simply thinks that we are a married couple who do not enjoy each other's company.”
“At least part of that statement is true,” she muttered.
He turned to her with a surprisingly radiant smile. “I always enjoy your company.”
Victoria stopped in her tracks and just stared at him, utterly dumbfounded by his apparent good humor. Finally she said, “I cannot decide if you are insane, stubborn, or merely stupid.”