Читать книгу Runaway Lady - Claire Thornton - Страница 8

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.

He bent to catch her around the waist and lift her out of the coach. She was trembling so badly her legs couldn’t support her. Harry’s arms closed around her, holding her up and holding her tight against him. She clutched his coat, pressing her face into his shoulder. She could smell the burnt powder from his pistols. He’d killed to protect them.

She’d been afraid when she’d overheard her aunt and Tancock plotting her murder in Cornwall. She’d been terrified when she’d fled from Tancock in London. But her panic on those occasions had been akin to the fear experienced in nightmares. Horrifying, but without the gut-wrenching intrusion of immediate, brutal violence. For several moments her teeth chattered so badly she couldn’t speak, even if she’d wanted to. She clung to Harry, taking comfort in the steadiness of his hard-muscled body. He was breathing a little faster than normal, but he wasn’t shaking. He’d responded to the highwaymen’s attack with speed and ruthless efficiency. For the first time in years she allowed herself to lean on someone else’s strength. Harry didn’t murmur any soothing words, nor did he give her any comforting caresses. But he continued to hold her close while she slowly regained her composure.

As her mind gradually cleared, she realised they weren’t standing still. Harry was supporting her weight in his arms as he kept moving slowly around so he could watch in all directions. The feel of his hard body against her was an illicit pleasure. As her shock receded she felt a different kind of excitement flow through her veins. It was so long since she’d been held in a man’s arms and been so directly aware of masculine strength. There was nothing lover-like about Harry’s behaviour, but his silent embrace was seducing her attention away from everything else that had just happened.

But it was a deceptive seduction. Even as she became aware of the intimacy of their position she felt a change in him. When he’d first lifted her from the coach he’d held her in an undemonstrative but comforting way. Now there was a rigid tension in the arms around her that felt humiliatingly like rejection. He was still holding her, but subtly easing her away from his body as if he’d had enough of her emotional outburst. It wasn’t the first time she’d felt that kind of silent rejection. No words spoken, but the unmistakable awareness that the man she was clinging to did not want her so close to him. Hurt and mortification burned through her, but experience had taught her how to hide her feelings and make light of such awkward moments.

She released her grip on Harry, but didn’t try to move away because his arms were still a steel band around her and she refused to embarrass herself by struggling. Instead she lifted her head and forced a jaunty note into her voice as she asked, ‘Will you drop me if a new danger appears?’

His jaw was locked rigid, his face so stiff she thought he must be fighting the urge to push her away, but to her surprise his expression seemed to soften slightly at her words.

‘It would depend on the nature of the threat,’ he said. He set her on her feet with precise carefulness and immediately stepped away from her. ‘If I see anyone else levelling a musket at us from the shelter of the trees—as I did earlier—I would take you down with me when I drop. But I doubt there will be another attack now.’

‘I hope not.’ Saskia rubbed her hand up and down her arm. Even though she knew he hadn’t welcomed their brief intimacy, she felt exposed and shaky without his steady strength to lean upon. She tried not to feel hurt that he didn’t want to be close to her. She’d hired him to get her safely to Cornwall, and so far he’d carried out that task very effectively. He had no obligation to like embracing her. ‘What are we going to do now?’

‘Take up the body and deliver it to the local constable,’ said Harry.

‘I don’t want him in the coach with me.’ Saskia gave an involuntary shudder at the prospect of travelling with the dead man.

‘If the coachman manages to catch both loose horses, you won’t have to.’

Saskia looked around and saw that so far he’d only caught Harry’s horse.

‘I’ll help him—’

‘No, you won’t,’ Harry said crisply, not looking up from where he was searching the dead highwayman’s pockets.

‘I’m good with horses,’ she said, irritated by his flat veto of her suggestion. She’d managed to take care of her horse all the way from Cornwall to London without any problems.

‘If you think I’m going to let you wander the open heath, chirping at a strange horse, you must have taken leave of your senses.’ Harry scanned their surroundings once more. ‘You hired me to protect you.’

‘I didn’t know we were going to get waylaid by highwaymen,’ said Saskia, torn between annoyance and an absurd feeling she should apologise to him for the inconvenience.

‘Hiring me was rather like building a roof to keep out the rain and discovering it does equally well to keep out hail and snow,’ said Harry, from his tone obviously not pleased about it.

‘I don’t see why you’re in such a bad mood,’ said Saskia, sitting on the floor of the coach with her feet dangling towards the ground. Surely he couldn’t still be grumpy because he’d had to hug her for a few moments? ‘I’m a novice at being shot at—in fact, this is my first time,’ she pointed out, ‘but you must be used to it.’

‘I’m used to sandflies, but that doesn’t mean I like them.’

‘We weren’t attacked by sandflies. In any case, you’ve clearly led a very adventurous life. I really don’t see how much difference there is between fending off highwaymen or—’

‘The henchmen of your lord’s jealous former mistress,’ Harry interrupted drily.

‘Ah…well…’ Until Harry’s comment Saskia had temporarily forgotten her excuse for needing his protection. She’d told him she wanted him to keep her alive, but he couldn’t really have supposed the jealous mistress meant to kill her. More likely he’d assumed the other woman just wanted Saskia to be physically humiliated. No wonder he wasn’t best pleased at finding himself attacked by pistol-bearing highwaymen.

She remembered her money pocket and reached back into the coach to retrieve it. ‘I was going to give it to them,’ she said, when she saw Harry looking at it.

He nodded. ‘I didn’t make my reputation by letting bandits steal the goods,’ he said, ‘but it was a wise choice. If a man demands your money or your life, always give him the money.’

Despite the warmth of the summer’s day, Saskia wrapped her arms around herself. ‘What if he can only get the money after you’re dead?’ she said.

Harry looked directly at her for the first time since he’d released her from his embrace. His expression was guarded, but his eyes searching. She wondered what he saw and whether she had revealed too much in that involuntary comment.

‘I could only catch your horse, sir,’ the coachman called.

Harry raised his hand in acknowledgement, but kept his gaze on Saskia. ‘You do everything in your power to remain alive until you can remove the threat,’ he said.

The highwayman’s horse had gone for good, so Harry put the dead man on to his horse and sat beside the coachman on the way to the next village. The coachman was still shaken and he wanted to talk about what had happened. It took all Harry’s self-discipline to tolerate the other man’s anxieties and questions. He was still experiencing the after-effects of violence himself. That surge of diamond-cold ferocity in response to danger had served him well on many occasions. He knew it always took time to shift from that split-second lethal intensity to his usual equilibrium. But today his fight to bring his body and emotions under his control was much harder. From the moment he’d seen the highwayman levelling the musket he’d been driven by deadly fury at the threat to Saskia. And when the immediate danger was over and he’d seen how shocked she was, he’d been compelled to take her into his arms. To comfort her. To assure himself that she was indeed unharmed…

But he’d never before held a woman while the hot blood of combat still pounded through his veins. While he was still filled with rage at the enemy. Within a few heartbeats his battle-roused body had been invaded by a different kind of lust. A driving compulsion to satisfy his fierce desire for a woman—for Saskia.

He’d wanted to touch her. To stroke her. To press her hips against him—to thrust himself into her—

As she’d trembled with fear in his arms he’d fought a bitter battle with himself, furious and disgusted with himself that he could experience such savage physical need to take her when she was so vulnerable. She’d turned trustingly to him for comfort. If she’d known what he’d been thinking—feeling—she’d have been more terrified of him than of the highwaymen. The image of another woman screaming in powerless fear flashed into his mind. Despite his self-control, he shuddered.

‘You did right,’ said the coachman. ‘Sewer dregs like that don’t deserve to live.’ With a nod of his head he indicated the highwayman.

‘I’ll not lose any sleep over him,’ Harry said curtly, realising the coachman had misunderstood the cause of his shudder. ‘But it’s inconvenient. We’ll lose some time over this.’

A few minutes later they reached the next village. It consisted of an inn, a church, a blacksmith’s, a baker’s and a cluster of houses. The arrival of the coach and the dead highwayman drew a small crowd of interested locals, one of whom was the constable. Several of the men recognised the corpse as Jem Crayford. According to their excited comments, he’d been a notorious local villain who had plagued the neighbourhood for the past eighteen months. But the forms still had to be observed. The constable asked Harry a few questions and then went in search of the magistrate.

After that, Saskia and Harry were urged into the inn, the innkeeper’s wife in particular making a fuss of Saskia. Harry’s eyes narrowed briefly as he realised Saskia was being taken out of the taproom into the landlady’s inner sanctum. He almost protested, but he was used to the separation of the sexes and it made sense to him that, after being exposed to male violence, Saskia needed the comfort of other women around her. Though she was quite calm, she was very pale and he could see signs of strain in her face. She threw one questioning glance at him and then allowed herself to be carried off.

A tankard of ale appeared in front of Harry.

‘Good riddance to the villain,’ the blacksmith observed. There was a mutter of agreement from the other men.

‘He was well known in these parts?’ Harry asked.

‘Crayford made the Dog and Duck alehouse over yonder his headquarters,’ said the blacksmith. ‘Boasted about his exploits, so I heard, but there wasn’t any solid evidence against him. Those who knew anything were too frightened to speak out—afraid they’d end up at the bottom of a well.’

‘Did he often hurt those he robbed?’ said Harry.

‘He shot coach horses as a warning to his victims.’ The blacksmith’s expression was grim. ‘After that, most people he held up were too terrified to do anything but hand over their valuables.’

‘Indeed,’ said Harry, thinking of the musket that had been aimed at his heart. He had no doubt that death, not terror, had been the intended outcome of that shot.

Saskia was grateful for the kindness of the local women, but she couldn’t afford to relax her guard in their company. Harry had introduced her as Sarah Brewster, and given the impression she was a respectable widow travelling to Portsmouth on unspecified business. Saskia was far more comfortable in that role than portraying herself as the mistress to an unnamed lord, but she still had to watch everything she said. Oddly, it reminded her of times during her married life when she’d found herself surrounded by her female Dutch relatives.

When she’d first arrived in Amsterdam she’d been a new wife. Much had seemed strange to her, but she’d assumed she’d eventually have a secure and comfortable position within Pieter’s family. After his accident she’d increasingly felt out of step with the other women. She hadn’t been in Amsterdam long enough before the accident to develop any deep friendships, and afterwards she’d rejected the role of ‘poor Saskia’, instead putting most of her energy into taking care of her merchant husband’s business. It was far more common for women to take part in business in Holland than in England, but Saskia had married into a wealthy family and none of the other women needed to take on such responsibilities. The other young wives had babies, and talked endlessly of their children, their husbands and their tasks within the homes they’d created.

Saskia had never confided in anyone her hurt, confusion and even anger at the way Pieter rejected the simplest gesture of affection once he knew he’d never recover any further from his accident. She’d found a way to manage her feelings and gradually their relationship had developed into something resembling a cordial but practical friendship between business partners. She’d greeted each baby into the family with warm smiles, but every time she hugged a new babe in her arms she’d ached with the knowledge she would never experience the pain and joy of motherhood. She hated the pity she saw in the other women’s eyes, so she never let her sorrow show—but she always returned the baby to its mother as soon as courtesy allowed.

Now, as she sat in the midst of the English women, grateful for their sympathy over her ordeal with the highwaymen, but longing for the moment when they’d leave and she could finally lower her guard, she wondered for the first time whether she wanted to go back to her old life in Amsterdam. She’d always assumed she would return after visiting her brother. She’d inherited Pieter’s business and she was proud of her achievements. But if she remained in Holland would she always be Pieter van Buren’s childless widow? She could marry again, but she felt no affinity for any of the Dutch bachelors of her acquaintance.

The innkeeper’s wife complimented Saskia archly on travelling with such a fine, handsome gentleman. ‘Any woman would feel safe in the hands of such a man.’

‘I am fortunate to be travelling with him,’ Saskia replied sedately, but her thoughts instantly focused on the exciting feel of being in Harry’s arms—at least until he’d had enough of such close contact with her. That memory hurt, and she quickly shut her mind to it.

From the expression on some of the other women’s faces, she suspected they were also imagining the pleasure of being in Harry’s embrace. She suddenly realised that, for the first time in years, she was the object of curiosity and perhaps even feminine jealousy because of a man. Harry, with his dark good looks, masculine charisma and indefinable air of danger, was the kind of man most women daydreamed about at some time in their lives. And he was with her. No one needed to know it was only because he’d responded to a notice on a coffee-room wall, and that he’d made it silently, but unmistakably, clear he didn’t wish to hold her a moment longer than necessary.

‘Yes, it is good to be in his hands,’ she said serenely, hesitating just long enough before continuing, ‘Normally I do not care for travelling, but he has managed every detail of the arrangements.’ As the other women glanced at each other, she felt a burst of secret pleasure at her play with words. She had said nothing untoward. A widow unused to travelling might well ask a male friend or relative to assist her—but the picture of herself as the kind of woman who’d attracted Harry’s sensual interest was enticing.

She wished it was true. It hurt far more than it should that it wasn’t. Then she was angry with herself for caring—and suddenly she was desperate to be alone. She still hadn’t told Harry they weren’t going to Portsmouth. And somehow she had to persuade him to help her rescue Benjamin. Harry had been in a bad temper ever since the highwaymen’s attack. What if he no longer wanted to continue on with her? The possibility he might abandon her was so awful it almost brought tears to her eyes.

She gathered her composure sufficiently to thank the innkeeper’s wife and the other women and explain she needed to lie down for a while to recover. When they’d gone she sat at the window, worrying over the enforced delay to their journey and trying to decide how to persuade Harry to help her. As she did so she watched the people who came and went from the inn yard. Always, on some instinctive level, she was searching for Tancock’s face. He shouldn’t be here—but she hadn’t expected to see him on her godfather’s doorstep either.

Harry gave his statement to the magistrate and constable in one corner of the taproom. The rest of the village men remained at a respectable, but intensely curious, distance. When they’d first arrived, Harry had identified himself only as Sarah Brewster’s escort. Because Saskia wasn’t present at the interview with the magistrate, he was able to give his real name to the magistrate and put his true signature to his statement.

‘I was given information a month ago I’d find Crayford at the Dog and Duck with his latest booty,’ said the magistrate grimly, ‘but when I got there he’d gone. You did well to protect Mistress Brewster from his attack.’

‘He’s not the first bandit I’ve dealt with,’ said Harry. ‘I take it you’re satisfied with my account?’

‘Yes, of course. Your coachman’s statement agrees with yours in all essential details. Will you take supper with me this evening? I am eager to hear first-hand the experiences of one who has recently returned from Turkey.’ The magistrate’s eyes lit with genuine interest. He’d had no difficulty recognising Harry as a gentleman—but then Harry had made no effort to pretend to be anything else during their conversation.

‘Thank you. I would be honoured to do so, but I am afraid I must decline,’ said Harry, with real regret. He liked the magistrate’s down-to-earth approach to his duties. ‘I promised I would escort Mistress Brewster safely to Portsmouth. I have not spoken to her since we arrived here and I must consult her wishes for the rest of our journey.’

The other man nodded. ‘Perhaps you will have an opportunity to call upon me when you are returning to London,’ he said.

Harry took his leave of the magistrate and went out into the courtyard to stretch his legs and breathe some air untainted by the pipe smoke filling the taproom. The hot summer day had become a warm, golden evening. Across the fields he could hear church bells tolling for the evening service. Such a familiar sound from his boyhood, but one he hadn’t often heard as an adult. There were synagogues and churches in Smyrna, but though Jews and Christians were free to follow their own religions, church bells were forbidden. Harry was more accustomed to hearing the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer five times a day than the sounds of his childhood.

His memories of the Levant were interrupted when several of the men who’d been sitting in the taproom accosted him with cheerful greetings and eager questions about the highwaymen’s attack.

From her window, Saskia saw Harry enter the yard and her pulse quickened. Even at a distance she was immediately aware of his self-assurance and the poised strength in his lean body. He was surrounded by a group of men. She began to feel frustrated because she wanted to speak to him, not watch complete strangers slap him on the back. She was just about to go down into the yard when another man spoke to him. As the man turned more fully towards her, her instincts buzzed a warning. She’d seen him before. At first she couldn’t remember where, but she immediately tensed at the sight of a man she recognized, but couldn’t identify. It wasn’t Tancock, but—

Trevithick House! She’d seen him at Trevithick. He was one of Tancock’s underlings.

Sick fear gripped her as she watched Harry speak to him. It seemed to her horrified gaze that, though their conversation was brief, they were making arrangements to meet later. She watched Tancock’s henchman slap Harry on the back. For an instant she was overwhelmed by crushing disappointment. She’d trusted Harry—but she knew little about him except he was fast and dangerous with the weapons he carried. Had he been working with Tancock from the beginning?

She dared not challenge him. If he was in league with Tancock, he would never give her the chance to escape once she’d revealed her suspicions. She backed away from the window. For a few seconds despair almost overcame her that once again her plans had gone astray. But she couldn’t afford to despair, any more than she could afford to hesitate. She dived across the room to her bag.

Harry extricated himself from his new friends and went in search of Saskia, but the innkeeper’s wife was alone when he found her.

‘Mistress Brewster said many times how thankful she is you were with her today.’ There was a mixture of curiosity and admiration in the landlady’s gaze as she looked Harry up and down. ‘You have a hardy way with villains, sir, but I’m sure any woman would feel safe in your hands.’

‘I did what was needful,’ said Harry curtly, ill at ease with both the blatant appreciation in the landlady’s eyes and the tone of her compliment. ‘I do thank you for your kindness to Mistress Brewster,’ he added, trying to make up for his initial brusqueness. ‘Where is she now?’

‘I put her in a room overlooking the yard. I will show you—’

But to Harry’s relief, the landlady’s attention was claimed by another customer, so she was obliged to give him directions. He didn’t mind being slapped on the back by the village men for dealing with a local villain, but the landlady’s admiration was another matter.

Saskia didn’t respond to his knock, nor to his voice when he identified himself. The first breath of alarm whispered through him. He opened the door without hesitation. One sweeping glance told him the room was empty. There was a discarded lady’s glove lying on the floor. He picked it up, recognising it immediately as one he’d seen Saskia wear. His hunting instincts went on to full alert. He stepped out of the room and quietly closed the door. He hadn’t seen any sign of Saskia on his way into the inn, so he continued further along the passage until he came to another set of stairs. At the bottom he found he had a choice of going back into the main yard he’d just left or towards the stables. He went towards the stables. He was in time to catch sight of a stripling in a plain brown coat and brown breeches disappear around the corner of the stables. A stripling with Saskia’s hair and carrying her familiar bag.

She was alone. Harry’s fear that she’d been snatched by her enemies receded. But was she going to meet someone else? He lengthened his walking stride to a deceptively ground-eating pace until he’d passed two grooms chatting by the stable door. As he turned the corner of the building he saw the apparent lad hurrying away from him, staying in the shadows behind the stable. Now there were no witnesses Harry ran, swift and silent in pursuit of his quarry. He caught Saskia by the shoulder and spun her around.

The instant he touched her, she gave a sobbing gasp of pure terror. He saw the dull glint of a knife blade as she struck wildly at him. He knocked her arm aside, but she kept attacking him in desperate silence.