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One thing was for certain. Angelo was right. Molly was incomparable. No one like her had come before, and none would come after. She was a priceless jewel who had cut his pride off at the knees like a ruthless enemy in the heat of battle. It smarted. It smarted as if he stood within Dante’s gates of hell. If he could not balance their character traits and place them on equal footing, despite his desires, she would remain out of bounds.

Marco recalled how he, his brother, and his friends had secured the manor with Duncan, including ensuring that the old caretaker, quite shaken by the evening’s events, was well. Sipping on a brandy that Sebastian had poured for him, the servant told them how he had been convinced that the mad butler was going to make an end of them with the pistol he had been brandishing with a wild look in his eyes. From the caretaker’s account, Marco was able to confirm that Molly had been relentless in the face of repeated threats of violence from MacNaby, wearing down his resolve until, to the caretaker’s astonishment, the reprobate had abruptly decided to leave without further word.

“I were afeared for ’er, I were. But Miss Carter, she just went on and on ’bout babies ’til Mr. MacNaby give up! I ain’t never ’eard the like!”

Marco had listened to the account with a knot of fear in his stomach. What a risk that Molly had taken. It was still difficult to credit that it had worked.

Molly had dozed off, her head coming to rest on Marco’s shoulder. When she awakened, she pretended to sleep a little longer so she might draw in the scent of his shaving soap and steady herself in the reassurance of his nearness. After such an awful day, his arrival and the warmth of his embrace had improved her general outlook.

She still considered herself a complete ninny for bursting into tears, but she supposed the stresses had finally caught up with her in that moment when she had finally seen him and realized they were both safe from harm.

Eventually, she straightened up and opened her eyes to find they had reached the outskirts of London.

Pressing her lips together, she asked into the dark carriage, “What will happen now?”

Marco glanced at her before returning his gaze to the window. “What do you mean?”

“Are you returning to Florence?”

He hesitated, and her heart sank. Somehow, during her escapade, Molly had convinced herself that when they were reunited, they would remain reunited. She had been so desperate to see him, and his embrace at Elmstead and the fervent words he had spoken had increased her hopes that there was reason to believe that being taken hostage should tip the scales. It might have been wishful thinking on her part.

Her eyes prickled as tears threatened a second time. Molly fought them back, unwilling to release them with such a large audience. Lord Sebastian was making a point of inspecting his gloves and Angelo had taken a sudden interest in the hedgerows, as if they were attempting to grant them privacy within the cramped interior.

Marco released a sigh. “Are all English girls so forward?”

She winced at the forthright question, but she supposed she had brought it on herself. Waiting to speak in private would have been more discreet than questioning him about his future in front of others.

“No, just me.”

Marco reached up to thump the roof of the carriage, which slowly rumbled to a stop. Creaking announced Duncan’s descent, and he appeared shortly in the window.

“We are taking a brief break to stretch our legs,” called Marco. Duncan nodded, opening the door and setting the steps in place. Angelo and Sebastian quickly exited, apparently understanding that Marco sought to speak with Molly.

When they were out of earshot, Marco turned back. “I am considering … everything. Finding you unharmed … it was sheer, sweet heaven to find you unharmed. But my thoughts are … how do you say … scrambled, and I need time to sort them out.”

“I understand.” She did, though patience did not come easily to her. What she wished for was certainty, some assurance that what had passed between them mattered. After facing the possibility of death, she yearned to savor life. But it was understandable that he felt drained while she felt newly awakened, keenly aware that time was never promised.

Waiting for his arrival, she had had time to consider the frailty of humanity. How one could not take it for granted that there would be another morning and that regret was a bitter mistress. To be fair, she had had time to digest what had happened, while Marco had arrived at Elmstead unaware that she had secured her safety, believing she might be hurt or dead.

But he had come to the door as MacNaby had demanded. Surely, it meant something that he had believed he was risking his life by knocking on the door?

Marco leaned over to press a gentle kiss to her cheek and briefly clasp her fingers, as if to reassure her. It raised a lump in her throat that made it almost impossible to swallow.

“Perhaps we can discuss this in the morning? It has been a long and difficult day, no?”

“In the morning,” she agreed, mollified by his gentle words as she hovered between disappointment and hope. What were they to discuss? It was impossible to read his mood and assess whether he considered that their conversation would be good or bad news.

Marco turned back to the open door and called out. His brother and Lord Sebastian returned, entering, and she saw Angelo glance at his brother with a questioning look, but Marco refused to react. He was keeping his thoughts to himself, it would seem.