Catherine looked up from her embroidery to peer across the seat at her traveling companion, whom she’d managed quite successfully under the guise of needlework to ignore for the past hour-or at least as much as one can ignore a man seated barely an arm’s length away. A man who seemed to take up so much space. She’d never realized how imposing Mr. Stanton’s presence was. It was one thing to share a drawing room or dining room with him, but, as she’d discovered, quite another to share the confines of a carriage.

Her gaze met his concern-filled dark eyes. “I’m a bit achy, but all right.”

“Would you like to stop for a short rest?”

In truth she would have liked nothing more than for the carriage to stop its lurching ride. Each thump and bump radiated discomfort through her aching shoulder and reminded her of the dull ache behind her eyes. But each bump brought her closer to Little Longstone and Spencer, and farther away from the nightmare of last night. Closer to the safety of her home, and farther away from whoever had fired that shot… that shot she was far from convinced was an accident. Closer to Genevieve, whom she needed to speak with as soon as possible. She needed to tell her dear friend about the shooting and the investigator who’d been hired to find Charles Brightmore. Warn her about the danger. Warn her she might be next.

“It is not necessary to stop,” she said.

“You look pale.”

“Why, thank you. Such flattery will surely swell my head-which is, thanks to last evening’s fall, quite swollen enough already.”

Her attempt at humor clearly sailed over his own head, for his brows bunched tighter. “You’re in pain-”

“I’m fine. Perfectly fit. Dr. Gibbens gave his permission for me to travel-”

“After you browbeat the poor man. I believe his exact words when he departed your father’s town house this morning were, ‘Never in my life have I met a more obstinate woman. ’ ”