a euphemism for ‘whore’ before, but I can well imagine you might spread your legs in exchange for a carriage ride all the way to—”
“I . . . I did no such thing,” hissed Olivia, enraged that her cousin thought she would stoop so low as to prostitute herself.
“Now, now. There’s no need to get so upset, Livvie. I don’t see a ring on your finger, so I’ll still marry you even if you’re no longer as pure as the driven snow. Hell, I’ll still marry you even if you’re carrying the marquess’s bastard. It would save me the chore of having to fuck you myself.”
Olivia gaped in horror at Felix’s foul words. She’d rather die than marry this detestable, cruel man. “Fe-Felix. If you don’t take your hand off me this instant, I’ll—”
“Scream? Cry? Throw your beer at me?” His lips curved with a sneer. “Please, spare me the theatrics. I already paid the publican a few extra sovereigns to turn a blind eye while you were choosing your seat. He thinks I’m rescuing my runaway sister from the clutches of an unscrupulous lover. And that old man over there”—Felix gestured with his chin—“he won’t lift a goddamned arthritic finger to help you either.”
Despair crashed over Olivia in a great smothering wave. Felix was right. The elderly gentleman wasn’t likely to challenge someone as young and strong as her cousin. And she’d already sensed the publican was a mercenary type of man.
But if she went with Felix now, perhaps there would be other opportunities to escape along the way. She also didn’t want to risk raising his ire, because then his cruel streak was sure to show itself. No, it was best that she comply. And try to keep her wits about her.
Actually, she might just have a plan.
“I’ll go with you, F-Felix,” she murmured. “Only, might I use the privy before we leave?”
Felix laughed and pinched her leg again. “Do you really think I’m that stupid, Livvie? While we’re waiting for my carriage to be readied, you can lift your skirts in the alley out the back.”
Damn and blast. This might be harder than she thought. Fighting to quell another surge of despair, Olivia donned her bonnet and gloves at Felix’s urging, and then he dragged her out of the front door into the street.
The heavy shower hadn’t abated in the least, and within moments, Olivia was blinking stinging rain out of her eyes. Felix’s hand was clamped around her upper arm like a vise, but if she twisted away . . . His leather gloves were wet, so she might be able to slip from his grasp. Dare she make a break for it and seek shelter at one of the nearby cottages?
But Felix would probably just throw money at the occupants and tell them the same story he’d told the publican.
In the distance, she could hear the clop of horses’ hooves on the road. Perhaps when they reached the main street of Gretna Green she could take a chance and jump out of Felix’s carriage if it wasn’t traveling too fast. Once they reached the toll road, she’d have less chance of escaping when it sped up.
They reached the corner of the inn, and Felix roughly tugged her around the side, heading for the back of the building, where Olivia assumed the stable yard lay. Could one of the stable hands or the head ostler be persuaded to offer assistance? If she summoned a scream . . .
When she splashed through a particularly deep puddle, she tripped and bumped into Felix. He immediately swore and clipped the side of her bonnet with his hand. “Watch where you’re going, Livvie,” he sniped. “You clumsy cow—”
All at once, his cruel hold on her arm fell away as he was hurled backward. Indeed, the suddenness of the attack set Olivia stumbling again, and she nearly fell a second time. But when she regained her footing and discovered who her rescuer was, she almost cried with relief.
For it was none other than Lord Sleat.
The marquess was a picture of towering, blistering anger as he threw Felix up against the wall of the pub, anchoring him there with his iron-hard forearm. As Lord Sleat leaned forward, pressing into her cousin’s throat, Felix frantically clawed at the marquess’s sleeve, but his efforts to free himself proved futile. Lord Sleat was far too strong.
“What the hell are you doing?” The marquess’s voice shook with murderous, pulsating, thunderous rage. “How dare you lay a