Backwards Honeymoon. Leigh Michaels
pull Douglas aside in a casual way so as not to raise the concerns of the surrounding guests, and escort him upstairs. She had no more than twenty minutes, Kathryn estimated, before the two of them would be at her door.
She could already hear Douglas’s smooth, patrician voice denying any misdeeds, claiming shock and surprise that anyone could make such an accusation. And what was she going to tell her father? That she chose to believe what she’d overheard from an usher rather than accept the reassurances of the man she was supposed to be trusting with her life?
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t face down the two of them together. Which left only one alternative.
Kathryn tore open her closet, grabbed jeans, a pair of sneakers, and the first blouse her hand touched, and plunged into the bathroom. Putting both hands to the back of her neck, she clutched at the wedding gown, braced herself, and pulled hard. Buttons flew everywhere; for a moment the ceramic-tiled bathroom sounded like it was full of exploding popcorn.
She stepped out of the gown and wadded it up in the bathtub in order to leave herself enough room to step into her jeans. Tearing off her veil, she flung it over the door of the shower, then kicked off her white satin shoes and thrust her feet into the sneakers. Only then did she remember that she didn’t have a cent on her, so—listening carefully for noises from the hall—she tiptoed back across the bedroom to where her honeymoon outfit was spread across the bed, dropped her engagement ring atop it, and grabbed the tiny evening purse that lay beside the dress. It was all she had time to take.
Still buttoning her blouse, she ducked back into the bathroom, pausing only to lock the door behind her, and went on through into the sitting room beyond. It opened into a secondary hall, around the corner from the main one which led to the grand staircase. There was no one in sight; she took the back staircase and peered around the corner at the bottom into the kitchen, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw it empty. All the employees must have already gone to stand at the back of the ballroom in order to watch the ceremony.
A ceremony which was not going to happen.
Kathryn paused for a moment outside the back door, then headed for cover behind the nearest large tree and started to work her way across the garden trunk by trunk. Her plan was so simple it could be summed up in two words: Get away. She didn’t care where, and she didn’t care how.
Her heartbeat slowed a bit as she increased her distance from the house, and with the first hurdle behind her, she turned her attention to figuring out how to get off the estate. Jock Campbell’s big Georgian-style house didn’t look a bit like a moated castle, but with its high brick walls and iron gates it was nearly as impregnable.
And getting out wasn’t much easier than getting in—especially today, when the guards would be extra alert in order to secure all the wedding gifts on the premises, to say nothing of protecting five hundred guests who were all wearing their best jewelry. And in a very few minutes, as soon as Jock discovered her abandoned wedding gown, it would become even more difficult to circumvent the security arrangements.
She was chewing on that, trying to figure out the weak spot in her father’s defenses, when she popped out from behind a hedge into the narrow driveway beside the gardener’s cottage and tripped over a pair of legs sticking out from under an old car.
A growl came from underneath, and a body, lying on a rolling board, slid into sight.
“What the hell—”
Kathryn’s gaze slid slowly from the man’s dirt-splotched sneakers past a pair of jeans so worn that they were barely blue and across a grease-smeared T-shirt. She focused on a pair of broad shoulders, a tanned, rugged-looking face, a thatch of unruly dark hair, and a pair of deep brown eyes that snapped with aggravation.
“Can’t you watch where you’re walking?” he grumbled.
“Sorry. I was thinking.”
“Oh, you’re one of those people who can’t walk and think at the same time.” He sat up, and suddenly his gaze sharpened. “You’re supposed to be getting married just about now.”
Kathryn looked through him. “You must have mistaken me for someone else.”
“Really? Then what’s that bit of orange blossom doing stuck in your hair?”
Her fingers found the stray petals and plucked them loose, then began to seek out hairpins, destroying the formal hairstyle Antoine had worked so hard to produce.
“Katie Mae Campbell in the flesh,” the man mused.
Kathryn bristled. “Nobody has called me that since I was six years old, and I do not plan to make an exception anytime soon. Miss Campbell will do. Or, if you insist, you can call me Miss Kathryn.”
“And as I’m saying it, I should pull my forelock respectfully like a good peasant, I suppose.” He rose slowly, with a panther’s grace, and reached for a rag lying on the car’s fender to wipe his hands.
He was taller than she’d thought; Kathryn found herself looking a long way up. “Who are you, anyway?”
“Jonah Clarke. My father is your gardener, in case you don’t know.”
“Of course I know his name. That explains why you recognized orange blossom from seeing a single petal.”
“He’d be proud of me. Also he’d be charmed that you came to visit, only he’s not here. He’s over at the big house to attend your wedding. Which sort of brings us back to where we started.”
It was none of his business, of course. “Why aren’t you with him?” The question wasn’t entirely a delaying tactic; Kathryn was honestly curious.
“I wasn’t invited. I’m only here to visit him for the day.” He tossed the rag aside. “So tell me, Miss Kathryn—what gives?”
“I’m not getting married.”
“I gathered that much,” he said dryly. “So what are you going to do instead?”
“I’m…leaving.”
“I see. Well, if you’re looking for your Porsche, I think the garage is still on the other side of the property.”
She bit her lip and looked at him, debating. She was down to minutes, if even that long, before the alarm went up, and standing here talking was getting her nowhere at all.
“Jonah,” she began. “You know perfectly well that I—”
“Mr. Clarke will do.” He mimicked her tone. “Or, if you insist, you can call me…well, let’s stick to Mr. Clarke. It’s much tidier.”
“Mr. Clarke,” she said firmly. “You grew up here on the estate, am I right?”
He nodded. He looked wary, she thought.
“Then you must know if there’s any way out of this place other than through the front gates.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t even know me, but you’re assuming that I was the sort who would go sneaking out over the walls at night.”
“Well, didn’t you?”
He grinned. “Of course I did.”
“How?”
“Oh, no. I’m not telling you.”
She caught at his sleeve. “Please,” she said. “I’m desperate, here. I have to get outside these walls, right now. Will you help me?”
His eyes narrowed. “Tell me exactly what’s in it for me—besides a whole lot of grief when your dad catches up with me—and I’ll consider it.”
She looked up at him and let her voice go sultry. “What do you want?”
“What are you offer—” He broke off and shrugged. “Oh, forget it. Katie Mae, you are too dangerous to be let loose on the world.”
“I told you not to call