Claire Thornton - Runaway Lady

He considered what he knew about Swiftbourne’s informant. According to Tancock’s story, he’d been secretary to the late Earl of Abergrave before continuing to serve the widowed Lady Abergrave. Lady Abergrave was Saskia’s aunt. Tancock claimed Saskia had returned to England after the death of her husband fighting the English, and that her bitterness against her former countrymen had soon become evident. Swiftbourne said Tancock had spoken most eloquently of Lady Abergrave’s torment as she struggled to choose between love for her niece and loyalty to England.

Even though he’d never met either of them, Harry had taken an immediate, possibly irrational, dislike to both Tancock and Lady Abergrave. He found it hard to warm to a woman who had her servant inform one of the King’s Ministers that her grieving niece was a traitor. Had Lady Abergrave made any attempt to comfort or talk sense into Saskia before giving Tancock the order to approach Swiftbourne? Harry knew better than most that grief, anger and the driving need for revenge could propel almost anyone to take terrible actions. But from all he’d seen, Saskia wasn’t driven by rage, but by an anxious need for haste.

He wondered when she was going to tell him they were going to Plymouth, not Portsmouth. She couldn’t delay much longer. Once they reached Guildford the routes diverged.

It was after one o’clock, and Harry was thinking he’d insist they stop for dinner at the next inn when his instincts suddenly prickled with danger. It was the hottest part of the day and the heath around them dozed in the bright sunshine, the air heavy with the scents of summer. The low-lying heather was studded with birch and hazel trees, patches of yellow gorse and bramble bushes. A butterfly danced past on the warm air. A woodlark singing in a nearby birch was startled into undulating flight by the approaching coach, but there was nothing to alarm him. Yet with every heartbeat Harry’s sense of imminent threat intensified.

A casual movement brought his hand close to one of his pistols as he surveyed the landscape with eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun.

There!

The betraying toss of a horse’s head as it stood in the shadow of a hazel copse fifty yards away. Two waiting men on horses. One man taking aim with a musket—

Chapter Three

Saskia stared out of the coach window at the heat-hazed heath, considering how much to reveal to Harry. At the very least she had to tell him they were going to Cornwall, not Hampshire. And once she’d admitted she’d been lying about their destination, it might be difficult to retain Harry’s trust unless she told him the whole story—

The crack of musket fire shattered the peaceful afternoon.

Saskia jerked upright, so startled she barely identified the sound before shouts filled the air. The coach juddered to a halt, and then lurched forward a few yards before finally stopping. Saskia was flung on to her knees on the coach floor. She scrabbled for purchase on the opposite seat.

Tancock! Her whole body clenched with fear that he’d found her. Then she heard shouts of ‘ Money! ’ and ‘ Purse! ’ Highwaymen. She let out a gasping breath. Not good, but better than Tancock. He wanted her dead. Highwaymen wanted only her money.

She wore two pockets beneath her skirts. One contained the bills of exchange, the other her coins. She needed the bills to save Benjamin. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she struggled to unfasten her coin pocket. She would hand it over the moment the highwayman appeared at the coach window and hope he didn’t find the bills of exchange. She only wished she had some jewels to catch his eyes and satisfy his lust for booty.

The thunder of galloping hooves grew terrifyingly louder. Her skirts were still bunched around her waist, her knees exposed to full sight as she fumbled with her coin pocket. She couldn’t be found like this. Her second pocket with the bills of exchange would be discovered. She gave a desperate pull and the coin pocket was safe in her hand. She shoved down her skirts with shaking hands and scrambled forward to look out of the window.

Two horsemen were bearing down on the coach, pistols in hand, their faces hidden by scarves. She threw herself back from the window. Instinct propelled her to the door on the other side of the coach. If she could get far enough from the coach before they reached it, perhaps she could hide on the heath amid the gorse and bramble bushes?

She wrenched open the door. The first thing she saw was Harry’s riderless horse galloping away across the heather. The second thing was Harry’s body, lying motionless on the ground. Until that moment she’d almost forgotten Harry. She was too used to dealing with crises on her own. A sob of shock and denial caught in her throat. He’d been hit. Dear God, he’d been hit by that first lone shot. Maybe he was dead. He couldn’t be dead.

The money and her bills would have to be their salvation. She prayed the highwaymen were too sophisticated to place value only on gold. She would give them all she had so they left quickly and she could tend to Harry’s wound.

There was a second gunshot, much closer and louder than the original shot, followed almost immediately by a third. She heard shouts of rage and pain through ringing ears. The relentless rhythm of hoofbeats faltered. It was only then she saw Harry’s head was up and smoke was rising from the pistols he held in each outstretched hand.

He speared one glance at her as he sprang to his feet. ‘Stay out of sight,’ he barked, and disappeared from her view as he ran towards their attackers.

He wasn’t hurt. She didn’t believe any man who’d been shot could move so easily. She sagged with momentary relief—but the danger wasn’t over yet. Harry had told her to stay out of sight, but she had to know what was happening. She crawled to the other side of the coach and opened the door closest to the highwaymen a tiny crack so she could look through it without showing herself at the window.

One of their attackers was on the ground. She was just in time to see the other disappearing into a stand of trees some distance from the road. He was swaying in the saddle, but he didn’t fall while she was watching. Sword in hand, Harry approached the prone man, wary and alert as he satisfied himself the highwayman was no longer a threat.

Saskia pushed open the door. Only her hand, clinging to the bottom of the window, prevented her from pitching headfirst onto the stony, dusty road.

Harry looked up at her. In that first searing glance she saw the dangerous predator within him fully exposed. He was still in a state of complete battle readiness, poised to strike at any threat. His eyes burned with feral intensity, his lips were drawn back in a silent snarl of warning. She jolted in shock, but as she stared at him the ferocity faded from his face. He still held his unsheathed sword. His body was taut with readiness, but his expression was now almost disconcertingly emotionless.

‘I thought they’d killed you!’ she gasped.

‘I shot him ,’ Harry said grittily, indicating the man on the ground. ‘I winged the other one.’ He looked up at the coachman. ‘You did well. When you’ve calmed your team, catch my horse—and this poltroon’s as well, if you can.’ He nudged the fallen highwayman with the toe of his boot.

‘Yes, sir,’ the coachman said in a shaking voice. ‘I thought they were going to kill us all.’

Saskia remained where she was, suspended between the floor of the coach and the door, too overwhelmed by the sudden violence to be fully aware of her awkward position or try to extricate herself from it. She watched Harry approach her. He strode across the ground with fluid, powerful grace, sheathing his sword with an ease that spoke of years of practice.