No, he didn't believe in signs and omens. Patrick pushed back from the table, deciding that if he truly cared about Amelia's welfare, the best thing he could do would be to get her back safely to London.
He could reason with her. Patrick massaged the bridge of his nose; hadn't he already tried that? He could threaten her, but that just felt cruel. Could he force her? She had already escaped one attorney, one unwitting fiancé, and hauled a small fortune several hundred miles while showing a fair measure of brass. So what would convince a girl like Amelia to listen? Probably nothing, he admitted, short of bloody Baron Craigh McTavish appearing in her room and ordering her to obey. Patrick snorted. Then he snapped up and stared into the semi-darkness. He didn't know any Scottish barons, but he might be able to dig up a highwayman to persuade her.
Patrick got up, took the poker, and gathered some ash from beneath the grate. While it cooled, he unwrapped his neck cloth and secured it around his head like a cap. When he'd smeared his whole face with soot, he tugged out his gray pocket handkerchief and tied it tight across his nose and behind his head. He abandoned his coat and waistcoat to a nearby chair, sufficiently parting his shirt front to do his role justice. Of course, brigands in novels must be a very different beast than those of the real world, but Patrick thought he'd covered sufficient ground.
He left the breakfast room and rushed the stairs, not risking questions from a leathery, middle-aged man who'd taken Mrs. Gaveston's place behind the guest register. Patrick didn't slow until he'd reached the landing, and then he progressed by inches, opening their door and shuffling inside. Amelia didn't stir, illuminated by a single lamp, her angelic white figure dividing the wide bed.
He slipped his pistol case from his valise and took it back out into the hall, scraping the door shut. Removing the pistol, he filled his lungs with courage, and leveled two sound blows at the door, and threw it wide.
Amelia flailed up from the quilts, panting and raking curls from her face.
He had to say something, but what would a highwayman say? "Yahh!" Inside, he groaned.
Amelia grabbed the coverlet up to her chin, and blinked her wide, owl eyes.
"Up now, and come with me at once!" He waved his pistol without any real purpose, as if he could fan away his terrible attempt at a brogue.
He came around the bed at an off-kilter angle, hiding his face until he'd blown out the lamp. Then he snatched Amelia's arm and pulled.