Could she? For the sake of the revenge he held so dearly?

She would stab him.

She smiled sweetly. “Will we arrive in time for dinner? Otherwise I’ll have Mrs. Humber make us up a basket.”

“We don’t eat formal meals. Don’t worry your head about such things—Mrs. Humber will take care of it. All you need to do is smile and be pretty.” After a moment he lifted a well-shaped eyebrow. “What was that, my love? Did I hear you growl?”

Miranda’s fingers had curled into claws, and she quickly relaxed them. “Not at all, my darling. I’m looking forward to this.” Bloody hell, he was good at this. What was the line? “That one may smile and smile and be a villain.” He wasn’t Richard the Third, he was Hamlet, out for revenge.

Except it had been Hamlet speaking, had it not? She looked at him, wondering just how villainous he truly could be. Stab him, she thought, marshalling her courage.

“What are you thinking, my pet? Your lovely brow is now furrowed.”

“I was thinking about Hamlet,” she answered with absolute truth.

“My lovely classical bride! Of course you were. ‘O smiling, damned villain,’” he said, and she jerked at how close he was to her thoughts. But then, that had been the way during the short, sweet time they had been friends. They had been curiously in tune with each other. He went on, “But even Claudius repents. I’ve already told you, the closest I can come is Richard the Third.”

On impulse she reached up and touched the scarred side of his face. “Caliban,” she said softly. “Are you going to tell me how this happened?”

He didn’t move for one breathless moment. And then he flinched, pulling away from her. “I don’t think it would entertain you, my lady,” he said, suddenly formal. “There are far more interesting ways to spend our time.”

She looked at him for a long moment. “You try so hard to convince me how evil you are,” she said softly, dropping her overbright smile. “Don’t you tire of it?”

“Trust me, my love, it’s effortless.” He was cold, withdrawn, his pale eyes wintry. “We’ll be leaving within the hour. I’ve left instructions with your so-called maid. Be ready.”

If Jane had thought the pace of her first trip north had been ventre à terre it was nothing compared to this one. Jacob Donnelly’s driver was far more skilled, though in fact no one could make such high speeds on the rough roads easy, and she held on to the strap as they traveled into the darkness, trying to keep from being bounced around.

They rode in grim silence. Jacob had changed his clothes, and apart from asking her if someone had brought her some food he said nothing, leaning back on the opposite seat, his long legs propped on the floor beside her, and he slept.

She wished she could do the same. She felt as if she’d spent her life in a carriage, and while she still loved the idea of travel, she wouldn’t have minded a more leisurely pace or time off between trips in the best of all situations.

This was far from the best. She glanced over at her companion, frustrated. She was frightened for Miranda, who seemed surrounded by enemies. Her closest friend had accepted her dismissal and in fact had been so busy becoming enamored of a thief she’d forgotten all about her. After all, Jane had seen the way Rochdale had looked at her. She knew what love looked like—she’d seen it often enough between her parents, and she was sure she’d recognized it without question.

But it seemed as if she was wrong. Not if he was going to offer her up to the Heavenly Host as some sort of gift, or sacrifice, or plaything. She shuddered.

Jacob Donnelly slept on, impervious to worry and the racketing of the carriage, impervious to everything. She might just as well be alone in the coach, she thought, much aggrieved. If he didn’t wake up and set her mind at ease she would be tempted to go into strong hysterics.

They hit a bump, and she almost flew off the seat. Her companion barely moved, and enough was enough. They’d been in the carriage almost twelve hours, stopping only to change horses, and the morning sun was coming up. If her companion was really that sound a sleeper then she pitied the poor woman who married him.

Of course she did, she mocked herself. Poor, shy, pitiful Jane. She reached out and kicked him.

He didn’t move, continuing to sleep soundly as the coach tore onward. She wondered what would happen if she pinched him. She reached out to kick him again when his quiet voice reached out through the dawn-lit carriage.

“Don’t kick me, lass,” he said quietly.

“Mr. Donnelly,” she said, hating the sound of her high and nervous voice. “Do you think we’re going to get there in time to dissuade Lord Rochdale from taking Miranda to his evil friends?”

He opened his eyes, looking at her with a lazy appreciation that startled her. What was there about her skinny, plain figure that was worth appreciating? “Now, Miss Jane,” he said, “you’ll find that most things aren’t quite as bad as they seem. The Heavenly Host are no more than a bunch of spoiled, gormless aristocrats with more money than sense, and they try to keep themselves entertained by playing at being wicked. It’s mostly harmless, if not particularly sanctioned by the church, and some of the things that go on there might be against the law, but I always hold with the fact that if the two or three or more people involved want to do it then it’s no one else’s business.”

“Two or three or more …?” That was something she didn’t care to think about. “So there’s no blood sacrifice or anything?”

“The only thing that gets sacrificed is some fools’ dignity.”

Jane concentrated on making pleats in her poor abused traveling dress. “And have you ever been to one of these gatherings?”

“Oh, they’re not for the likes of me. For one thing, I’ve never been particularly interested. For another, only a favored few are allowed to join, and those are of the upper crust. Your fiancé was rejected.”

“What?” she stared at him in shock. “My boring, stiff-necked, straitlaced fiancé wanted to be part of their disgusting group?”

“Maybe he wasn’t so boring as you thought.”

“Trust me, he was,” she said. “One can be perverse and still be boring.”

He laughed. “Very true. And being a member doesn’t mean you’ve lost your soul. Your own …” He stopped abruptly, as if realizing he’d said too much.

But Jane, for all her shyness, had never been particularly slow. “‘My own …’ what? Never mind, I know the answer to that. My father told me he spent many years as a total wastrel. It shouldn’t surprise me in the least that he was part of them.” She looked at his impassive face. “You did mean my father, didn’t you?”

“Ask him if you dare,” he suggested affably. “I’ve said too much.”

“You don’t know my father, do you? I can ask him anything.” She sat back on her seat, fidgeting. “Do you think we’ll get there in time to keep them from going?”

“Don’t worry, lass, we’ll get to Ripton Waters in plenty of time, but it wouldn’t do to underestimate Scorpion. He’ll more than likely realize he’s a flaming idiot and stop before he goes through with it.”

“A flaming idiot?”

“You and I both know he’s mad for her, something I never thought I’d see. I’m more than happy to take you up there, just to set your mind at ease, but he’s in love with her, and I suspect she feels the same way.”

“And yet he’s serving her up to the Heavenly Host,” Jane said with some asperity.

“You’ve seen Scorpion, Miss Jane. You’ve spent time with him. Do you really think he’s the kind of man who’d share the woman he’s fallen in love with? His problem is he doesn’t seem to realize it just yet, and he won’t listen when I tried to point it out to him. But he’ll come to it soon enough when he sees another man put a hand on her.”

“If she’s really safe then why are you willing to race up north to rescue her?” she said, unconvinced.

His smile was slow and charming. “Maybe I just wanted the chance to spend time with you.”

She allowed herself an inelegant snort. “I own a mirror, Mr. Donnelly.”

His smile vanished. “Perhaps you do, lass,” he said finally. “But you must be half blind. And the name’s Jacob.”

And before she realized what he’d intended, he’d moved across the carriage and sat beside her, his warm, big body pressed up against her, and he’d taken her nervous hand in his.

Miranda curled up in the corner of the coach, her cloak wrapped tight around her. They would be gone for three or four nights, Lucien had said, and yet he refused to let her bring Bridget. The trunk that had been packed for her was both ominously small and mysterious. She had no idea what was inside it, but clearly there wasn’t much.

She’d done her best, played her cards well, but she had to face facts. She had lost. Lucien always held the stronger hand, and there was only so much skill could do against a master player. He was taking her to his degenerate friends, the final proof of how little she truly mattered. Any hopes she’d had of a real connection had finally died.

He rode outside, a good thing. She would have had a hard time keeping up her bubbly conversation during the ride, which he’d told her would take most of the day. Instead she could try to think if there was any way of escape.

He’d told her it would never be rape. Perhaps he only meant with him. He would offer her up to his friends, and she had no idea what would happen if she struggled. Perhaps it would only sweeten the game for them. She’d refused to struggle with St. John—she would hardly give a bunch of jaded aristocrats that pleasure.

She could escape, perhaps. She’d given Lucien every sign that she was cowed—if he glanced away for even a minute she could run.

Her chances of success would be slim. She had no money, and he would find her easily enough, and then all he had to do was lie if someone tried to help her. Tell them she was a runaway bride. Or a madwoman. Or he could simply kill anyone who offered to assist her—she had no real knowledge of the depths his infamy could go. So the only people who could truly help her would be her family, and they had no idea where she was.