Читать книгу Rake's Reform - Marie-Louise Hall - Страница 9

The chalky Roman road stretched like a pale ribbon ahead, in the pallid dawn light, as Jonathan Lindsay urged his tired horse on. The long ride from London had left him cold, hungry and impatient to see Jane Hilton’s face when he told her that he had succeeded in saving her arsonist.

He checked his horse as the road dropped steeply down into a hollow lined with hawthorns and scrub. He let the animal come down to a walk, glad of the respite from the biting wind that had cut through even his many-caped topcoat and caused him the loss of a new beaver hat. For a county so soft and pleasant in summer, Wiltshire could be damned bleak in winter, he thought, especially the edge of Salisbury Plain.

But then, as he rounded a sharp turn, all thought of the weather left his head. A fair distance ahead of him was a female rider, a rider he recognised more by instinct than any logic.

“Miss Hilton!” His shout was lost in the wind. For a moment, as she brought her horse to a halt, he thought she had heard him. But then, as he saw her dismount without so much as a glance behind her, he realised she was still oblivious to his presence.

“What the devil is she doing?” he muttered to his mount, which responded by coming to an uncertain halt itself.

He watched the distant figure with growing curiosity as she seemed first to address the hawthorns, and then cast her horse loose, shooing it away. Next she took off her hat, threw it down and stamped upon it, and then cast herself down upon the chalky road to lie prone across its centre.

And then from behind him, he caught the sound of hooves and the clatter of a carriage wheel borne forward by the wind. Looking back along the straight road, he saw a dark chaise, one which seemed to have more than its share of guards and bars upon its windows. He stared at it disbelievingly as understanding came with devastating clarity.

Prisoners were being transferred from Salisbury to Dorchester for the hangings, the chaise would already have slowed for the steep descent into the hollow, and would certainly stop at the sight of a lady, apparently having fallen from her horse. And the hollow was a perfect spot for an ambush with its high banks and ample cover. An ambush. No he shook his head at his own thought. He had to be wrong. Jane Hilton might have a strong sense of justice, but surely she would not be so reckless, so foolhardy, not for the sake of some poacher’s boy, would she?

He spurred his horse forward into a gallop as he answered his own question. The steep chalk track was slippery and he prayed his horse would keep its footing as it plunged and slithered towards Janey’s prone form.

Hearing the rapid approach of hooves, Janey shut her eyes, praying that the chaise would be able to stop in time. If it didn’t, it would run her over. But there was something wrong—the hoofbeats were far too light, too fast. There must be an outrider—why hadn’t she thought of that? Supposing his pistol had not come from the Salisbury Gaol’s armoury? She had been so sure she had arranged it so no one would get hurt.

She held her breath as she heard the horse and rider come to a slithering stamping halt upon the chalky mud, so near she felt the ground shake beneath her head as the rider dismounted. Then a moment later a hand was upon her arm, shaking her roughly, ignoring what she had hoped was a pathetic groan.

“Get up!”

She opened her eyes and stared in disbelief at the man bending over her. It was Jonathan Lindsay, his dark hair windswept, his eyes as dark a blue as his mud-bedecked top coat as he glared down at her.