A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,98
to part on bad terms with such dear friends.
She bowed her head and murmured, “Tell your mother I am terribly, terribly sorry for the damage to her shop. Tell your brother . . .” She paused. “Tell him I said good-bye.” The word made her throat thicken, so she shook her head and said quickly, “No, don’t. Don’t tell him anything. I must go.”
“Ilsa, please wait—talk to him—” whispered Bella.
Mr. MacLeod held the carriage door open and she climbed in, feeling both protected and imprisoned in the box of the carriage. The St. James girls drew back, whispering furiously among themselves. A small throng of people had collected across the street, avidly watching. Ilsa settled herself in the carriage, determined to ignore them even if their scrutiny made her skin crawl. The thief’s daughter, she imagined them whispering. Fleeing with the stolen funds, no doubt. Perhaps they ought to lock her in the Tolbooth to bring her vile father out of hiding. This town which had been her home all her life had changed into something different in the course of a few days.
A thump on the back of the carriage made her jump. She knocked on the side panel. “Go!” The carriage started forward, then stopped, and the door opened again, giving her a jolt of alarm that she would be dragged from the vehicle by an angry crowd.
To her amazement Andrew St. James swung inside, closing the door behind him with a snap.
For a moment a wave of relief, longing, hope, even joy rose up inside her. It seemed an eternity since she’d laid eyes on him and now here he was—somehow he’d made it back to town and raced to her side.
When it was too late.
“What are you doing here?” was all she could gasp. She knocked on the side of the carriage again. “Go!”
“Don’t do this.” He reached for her hands. “Don’t go. Tell the driver to stop the carriage.”
Ilsa recoiled. “What?”
“Ilsa,” he said urgently. “Listen to me. You can’t help by running after your father.”
She stared at him. How she had wished Drew was here, and now what he was saying . . . “That’s not your decision to make.”
He exhaled impatiently and dragged one hand through his hair. It was getting long, and there was stubble on his face and dark circles under his eyes. “I’m trying to persuade you, not command you.”
“With what argument? You leap into my carriage and tell me to stop without so much as asking why I might have made this choice—”
“Why did you?” His head came up, his eyes intent on hers.
Ilsa flushed, thinking of the cruel stares and the horrid little book and Liam’s mortifying display. She had no wish to describe that humiliation. “I have good reason.”
“And I have good reason for asking you not to go. Will you listen to me?”
Jaw tight, she turned her head to stare blindly out the window. She couldn’t refuse him and yet this was not what she had so desperately wanted from him.
“Leaving, particularly this way, at this time, looks very bad,” he began carefully. “It suggests you know where he went.” A pause. “Do you?”
She glared at him in outrage.
Drew sighed. “It also makes people think you’re part of his plot.”
“He didn’t do it,” she said through her teeth.
“Right.” Drew nodded. “Supposing that’s true—”
“Get out!” She lunged for the door. “If that’s what you have to say, get out of my carriage!”
He stopped her, his hand covering hers. “Not until you hear me out. Ilsa, I want to help you—I am here as a friend.”
“By persuading me to sit back and let my father go to the gallows? That is not a friend,” she said before she could stop herself.
He went still, something flickering in his eyes. “I never said that.”
“Supposing that’s true,” she said mockingly, throwing his words back at him.
His eyes closed in defeat. Ilsa gave another rattle at the door, and his hand convulsed on hers. “Let me go with you, then.”
She swallowed the word yes. It came so readily to her lips with him. “Why?”
“Please.” His free hand opened in appeal, then closed into a fist. “Please don’t charge off alone, into God knows what, because you’re frightened and hurt. I won’t stop you but, please . . . let me come with you.”
Frightened and hurt. How small those words felt to describe the days of anguish she’d suffered. She knew it wasn’t his fault and she didn’t want to argue with him—she still