The Mainwarings’ rout. It seemed an age ago. Was it only last night? Or the night before? She didn’t know. The drug had stolen time.
Released from the tight constriction of her prison, she could raise her bound hands enough to scrape her gag off. Thankfully, she gulped in fresh, damp air. Her wrists were still bound tightly, but she could breathe and she could run.
Bending low Lily half crept, half crawled along the ditch, praying she wouldn’t be noticed.
A loud shout almost stopped her heart. She froze, expecting any moment to be roughly seized and dragged back to the coach, but nothing happened. Eventually, unable to bear not knowing, she peeped over the side of the ditch.
Through the veil of rain, she saw Nixon climb back into the carriage and the driver take his seat and gather up the reins. The carriage moved slowly away. She watched breathlessly until it breasted a slight hill and disappeared.
She forced herself to wait—what if Nixon decided to lift the lid and check on her?—but after a few agonizing moments Lily decided she could delay no longer. She clambered out of the muddy ditch and began to run.
Chapter Four
Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was terrible.
—JANE AUSTEN, MANSFIELD PARK
“Woman on the road up ahead, sir,” Ned Galbraith’s coachman said through the communication hatch. “Looks like she’s in some distress.”
Ned glanced out the window. There was nothing for miles, no sign of habitation. “Alone?” It was not unheard of for women to feign distress as a trap for unwary travelers. They’d stop to help and the female’s colleagues would emerge from hiding and rob them.
“No place to hide that I can see,” Walton agreed. “A poor spot for an ambush, I reckon.”
Ned sighed. “Very well, let’s see what—”
“Another coach just came over the rise.” Walton’s voice rose with excitement. “Looks like they’re trying to run her down—and bloody hell, sir, I think her hands are tied!”
Ned poked his head out the window. Sure enough a bedraggled-looking female was running unsteadily toward his coach, waving her arms frantically—and yes, they were bound at the wrist. Another carriage was bearing down on her, the driver whipping at his tired-looking horses.
She looked terrified.
Ned didn’t wait; he swung down from his slowing carriage and ran toward the woman. At the same time a dark-haired man jumped from the other carriage and seized her in a rough grasp.
“Help!” she shrieked, struggling to pull herself free, but she was no match against his brutal strength.
The man growled something Ned didn’t catch and dragged her back toward his carriage.
“What the devil is going on?” Ned picked up his pace.
“None of your damned business,” the man shouted over his shoulder. “Go on your way.”
“He’s abduct—” Her captor jerked her hard and she nearly fell.
“My wife is not herself,” the man began. “She’s a drunken bedlamite.”
“Not his wife.” She fought him, clumsily, using her tied hands like a club. “Drugged. He drugged me!”
“Shut up!” The man hit her hard across the face, and she reeled, almost collapsing, just as Ned reached them.
He grabbed the man by the collar and jerked him back hard, twisting it so that the fellow almost choked. Releasing the woman, who fell to the ground, he turned on Ned with a savage snarl. “I told you—”
Ned punched him hard in the face. He didn’t know whether these two were married or not, but whatever the circumstances, no woman deserved that kind of violence. He said so.
The fellow staggered back, blood spurting from his nose. “Listen, you bastard, I can treat her how I want. She’s my wi—”
“I’m not his wife, sir, I prom—Mr. Galbraith? Oh, it is you! Oh, thank God!”
Ned started. She knew his name? Distracted, he glanced down at her but before he could make out her features under the smears of mud, a heavy blow knocked him sideways.
He staggered and turned. The fellow’s coachman raised a cudgel to hit him again. Ned kicked out and caught him in the leg. He fell to one knee, just as his master attacked.
Ned punched him again, a blow to the gut, then another to the jaw that knocked him cold. The driver staggered to his feet and came at him. A pistol shot stopped the driver in his tracks.
Ned’s coachman stepped forward. “I got two of these beauties.” He gestured with the pistols. “Make another move and you die.”
“Thank you, Walton.” Ned probably should have used a pistol in the first place, but truth to tell, he didn’t mind a brawl on occasion. It reminded him who he was. He helped the girl to her feet. She was a mess, drenched and filthy, her face dirt-streaked—or was that a rising bruise?—and her clothes bedraggled and caked with mud.
He gave her face a searching glance. Nope. No idea who she was.
She gave him a shaky smile and clung to his arm, determined but wavering, as if unsteady on her feet or ready to swoon. She was soaked, shivering. The thought had crossed his mind initially that she was some country wench, taken up for a nasty kind of sport, but her sodden cloak was velvet, and the few words he’d heard her speak were unaccented, educated.
And she knew his name. “Who are you and how do you know my—” He broke off, thrusting her behind him as the man he’d felled lurched to his feet and came up swinging.
Ned hit him again, and he crumpled. Ned shoved him with his boot. “Take your master and go.”
“The girl—”
“Stays with me.”
The driver hesitated. The girl clutched Ned’s coat. “Pass me the pistol, Walton,” Ned said calmly. “These two were undoubtedly born to be hanged, but—”
“No need for that, sir.” The driver backed away, his hands raised in placation. “I don’t want no trouble. Just a hired driver, sir, nothing to do with me what he was plannin’.” He hooked
