Flight to Marlowe Inn
The travel from Ashwick House, the Duke’s private study to The Marlowe Coaching Inn, private chamber consumed the next hour. Headlights cut cold through the gathering dusk.
The pen scratched across the parchment, a sound louder than it had any right to be in the cavernous quiet of Gideon’s study. Cassidy’s hand was steady, though the ink trembled on the page—a betrayal of her nerves. She signed her name. *Cassidy Montclair.* Not a seal, not a crest. Just her name, a woman’s promise laid bare beneath a Duke’s demand.
Gideon’s arms remained caged around her, a wall of heat and unwavering force. His eyes tracked the ink, not a single muscle in his face betraying triumph. He simply took the pen from her fingers, signed his own name with a flourish that was as much a claim as it was a signature, and folded the paper into his coat.
“You’ll want a witness,” she said, her voice flat.
“Victor is outside the door. He’ll do more than witness.” Gideon straightened, the proximity stealing the breath from her lungs as he moved to the window, parting the heavy drape. “We leave within the hour. The carriage is being prepared.”
Cassidy stood, her legs unsteady. She could feel the phantom ache of the quill in her fingers, the weight of her signature a physical chain. “And if I refuse to pack? If I simply refuse to move?”
He turned, its own kind of answer in his eyes. “Then I will carry you to the carriage myself,” he said, matter-of-factly. “And I will tell Liam his mother is feeling faint and in need of rest.” He paused, something in his gaze softening for a fraction of a second. “Don’t make a scene, Cassidy. Not here. Not in front of him.”
The reminder of Liam was a knife to the ribs. She could picture her son in the garden, Captain Pennywhistle in hand, his world blissfully unaware of the storm converging upon it. She had no legal standing, no title, no name to wield against a Duke’s word. This was her life now, a gilded cage, and her son was the key to the lock.
She did not pack. She gathered Liam, her hand tight around his small, warm one, and led him to the carriage without a word. Gideon followed, a silent sentinel. The streets of London were a blur of grey stone and passing faces, but she saw none of it. She only felt the hard, unforgiving pressure of Gideon’s knee against her own, a silent promise of his proximity.
The coach was a fortress of black lacquer and sprung steel, its interior smelling of leather and cedar. Liam pressed his nose to the glass, watching the city give way to the rolling green of the countryside. “Are we going to the big house, Mother?” he asked, his voice high with a child’s innocent curiosity.
“Yes, little one,” Cassidy managed, stroking his hair. “We are going to Ashwick House.”
“Is the Duke coming with us?”
She felt Gideon’s gaze on her, a heavy weight. “Yes,” she said, her throat tight. “The Duke is coming with us.”
Gideon remained silent, his long legs stretched out, his attention fixed on the landscape beyond the window. He was wary, she realized. She had seen that look in him before—the calculating scan of an ex-soldier who saw a battlefield in every meadow. The tension in his broad shoulders was a constant, coiled thing. He was expecting trouble.
It came two hours later.
The carriage slowed to navigate a narrow, tree-lined cut in the road, the canopy above dappling the sunlight into shifting patterns. A sound cut through the clip-clop of horses—a sharp whistle. A second later, a crack like a dry branch splitting.
Victor’s voice rang out, muffled by the thick glass. “Hold on!”
The coach lurched violently as the driver whipped the horses. Cassidy was thrown against the seat, her arms instinctively wrapping around Liam, who cried out in surprise. Gideon moved like a shadow, one arm bracing against the roof, the other reaching for her, his body moving with a soldier’s economy of motion. “Get down!” he barked, pushing both her and Liam to the floor of the carriage.
A heavy thud landed on the roof, making the wood groan. The sound of hooves surrounded them, a cacophony of chaos. Another crack, this one sharper, and the window beside her exploded inward, showering them with glittering shards of glass. Cassidy ignored the sting of a cut on her cheek, pressing Liam’s face into her chest, her own body curved over him like a shield.
“Gideon!” she gasped, not a plea for rescue but a warning.
He was already moving, a pistol in his hand that she hadn’t seen him draw. He kicked the carriage door open, and the sudden light flooded the interior. He raised the pistol and fired without a flinch. A strangled cry from outside was the only answer. He dropped the spent weapon and pulled another from his boot, his movements fluid and terrifyingly calm.
Victor’s silhouette flashed past the doorway, leaping from the driver’s box onto the shoulders of a man trying to climb aboard. Victor was a weapon himself, his heavy fists and boots finding their mark with brutal efficiency. Cassidy could hear the sickening thud of meat against bone, the grunt of pain. This wasn’t a duel; it was a slaughter.
One of the attackers, his face a mask of raw fury, lunged for the open door, a blade glinting in his hand. Gideon was there, catching the man’s wrist mid-air. There was a sickening crack, and the knife clattered to the ground. In the same motion, Gideon drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, hurling him backward into the ditch.
“Go!” Gideon roared at the driver.
The horses, wild with fear and the bloody scent of the fight, surged forward. The carriage raced down the lane, leaving the ambush behind, the sounds of struggle fading into the wind. Gideon slammed the door shut, his chest heaving. He looked at her, his eyes dark, and then down at Liam, who was trembling in her arms.
“Are you hurt?” He asked, his voice raw. He reached for her face, his thumb brushing the cut on her cheek, coming away red. He said nothing, but his jaw was set in a hard, unforgiving line.
Cassidy shook her head, tucking a shaking hand over Liam’s head. “He’s just scared.”
“Good,” Gideon said, his voice grim as he leaned back against the seat. “Fear kept them alive.”
The Marlowe Coaching Inn was a half-timbered sanctuary glowing warm against the twilight. Victor, limping slightly, secured the horses and rooms in hushed, hurried tones, while Gideon carried a silent, wide-eyed Liam up the creaking stairs. He didn’t wait for Cassidy, but she followed, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs.
The room Gideon unlocked was modest but clean, a single large bed dominating the space. He set Liam down gently, then moved to the window, pulling the heavy curtain aside a sliver to peer into the darkened street below. His body was a taut wire, listening.
Liam’s small voice broke the silence. “Why were those men trying to hurt us, Mother?”
Cassidy knelt beside him, her hand on his cheek. She was still trembling. “They weren’t trying to hurt you, darling. They were… mistaken.”
“They had knives,” Liam said, his lip wobbling. “And they were yelling.”
Gideon turned. The hard edge of his face had softened a degree. He walked over and, to Cassidy’s surprise, lowered himself to his haunches so he was eye-level with the boy. “They were making a very bad choice,” he said, his voice low, a low, steady rumble that filled the quiet room. “And they won’t be making any more for a long time.” He didn’t smile, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—an understanding.
Liam stared at him, his small brow furrowed. “Are you a soldier?”
“I was,” Gideon said.
“Did you win?”
Gideon’s gaze flickered to Cassidy, a shadow of something unreadable crossing his face. “I survived,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “That’s a kind of winning.” He reached out and, for a moment, his huge hand rested on Liam’s shoulder. It was a gesture of such unguarded tenderness that it struck Cassidy like a physical blow. This was the man she’d lost, the one she’d seen in his quiet moments, before the weight of the dukedom had pressed down upon him.
The tension in her shoulders began to unwind. She watched as Gideon helped Liam into the bed, his voice low as he spoke of calm things—the stables at Ashwick, the old oak tree he used to climb. He spoke of his own childhood, a boy’s world of scraped knees and daring escapes, until Liam’s eyes grew heavy and his breathing evened into the soft rhythm of sleep.
A soft knock at the door made Cassidy start. A moment later, a whispered voice that was achingly familiar. “Cassie? It’s Helena.”
Cassidy flew to the door, unbolting it to find Helena bundled in a heavy wool cloak, a bulging carpet bag over her arm and a paper-wrapped parcel of food in the other. Her eyes, bright and sharp, swept over Cassidy in an instant.
“Thank heavens,” Helena breathed, stepping inside and setting down her burdens. She took in the room, the sleeping child, the Duke who stood like a dark guardian at the window. “The innkeeper’s wife is a distant cousin of my governess. When Victor’s message came, I packed everything I could.” She pressed the bag into Cassidy’s hands. “There’s a spare dress, some salve for that cut on your face, and fresh bread and cheese.”
Cassidy took her friend’s hand, squeezing it hard. “You’re a lifesaver, Helena.”
Helena dismissed it with a wave, but her eyes were serious. “Victor is downstairs having a private conversation with the innkeeper. He’s asking about the Pembertons. He thinks this was them.” She looked at Gideon, her voice steady. “Ferry Pemberton’s men have been seen along this road all week.”
It was all the confirmation Cassidy needed. The signed treaty in the Duke’s pocket was a death sentence for Beckett Pemberton’s claim on the Montclair lands. But it was also a threat to Flynn’s future power. They’d struck fast, hoping to kill the line of succession before it could take root.
Helena stayed for a few more minutes, helping Cassidy change into a clean dress and dabbing a cool cloth against the thin cut on her cheek. She didn’t ask questions about the bruise or the blood on Gideon’s knuckles. She simply did what she could, a loyal friend in the eye of a gathering storm. When she left, promising to return with more supplies at dawn, the room felt smaller, quieter, and far more intimate.
Gideon removed his coat, hanging it over a chair. He looked at the single bed, then at Cassidy, a question in his eyes. She didn’t answer. She simply walked to the other side of the bed and slid beneath the coverlet, her body stiff with the shocking proximity of him as he lay down on the edge of the mattress, still fully clothed. The space between them was a vast, cold chasm.
The candle on the table guttered low, casting long shadows. In the silence, she could hear Liam’s soft breathing, the groan of the old timbers of the inn, and her own heartbeat, a frantic echo in the dark. She stared at the ceiling, her body alive with a tension that was more than just the memory of the ambush. It was Gideon’s presence beside her, a mistake she’d made eight years ago, her peace fleeing her to the shelter of a Duke’s name.
Then she heard it. The soft but deliberate creak of a floorboard in the corridor outside. A pause. Then another, closer. Footsteps, muffled but precise, not a haphazard stagger but a hunter’s tread.
Her eyes flew to Gideon. He was already awake, his head lifted off the pillow, his eyes fixed on the door. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, but the air in the room changed, becoming sharp and electric.
The footsteps stopped.
In the silence, the soft scrape of metal against leather was deafening. From the corner of her eye, she saw Gideon’s hand move slowly beneath his pillow. Her own breath caught, shallow and silent, her fingers digging into the mattress. She prayed Liam wouldn’t stir, wouldn’t whimper in his sleep.
The candle flame flickered, throwing monstrous shadows across the wall. The handle of the door began to turn, an inch at a time, with a sickening, silent slowness.
At midnight, three heavy knocks fell like a hammer. Victor’s blade whispered from its cane in the corridor below. Gideon doused the candle, pulled Liam behind his own body, and breathed into the dark: “They found us — stay behind me, and do not make a sound.”