Runaway Lady

‘My husband could not walk,’ she said abruptly. ‘He designed for himself a chair with wheels. He even made some of the more intricate parts himself—his hands were still quick and strong. But he could only use it on a flat surface. Clambering over rocky ground was just as much an impossible dream to him as the hawk’s flight is to you.’

She saw Harry draw in a sharp breath, but he didn’t look away as so many had when they’d first heard what had happened to Pieter. She didn’t know why she’d told him. Was she obliquely punishing Harry because she was so attracted to the strength and agility he possessed and Pieter had lost?

‘He was a man of resolution and determination,’ said Harry.

‘Yes, he was.’ She lifted her chin.

‘And ingenuity.’

‘Yes.’ Her relationship with Pieter had been severely damaged by the impact of his accident, but there had been many times since she’d fled from Cornwall she wished she could call on some of his practical ingenuity. She still had no idea how she was going to rescue Benjamin.

‘Why couldn’t he walk?’

‘He was hurt when a rope broke and a wooden chest fell on him,’ she said. ‘It was being hauled up to the second floor.’ She stopped speaking as vivid, still shocking memories crowded her mind.

Like many houses in Amsterdam, their home had been built with the end wall slanting outward over the street, so that goods could be easily winched up to store below the roof. Pieter had used that method to have a large, finely carved chest lifted, rather than have it carried up several flights of stairs. He’d been overseeing the work when the chest had come crashing down, pinning him beneath it. Saskia had heard the impact from indoors, and the muffled shouts and screams that followed. She’d run outside to find Pieter face down in the street, unconscious, blood on his forehead. In her first moment of horror she’d thought he was dead, and then that his skull must have been cracked. Later she’d discovered he’d suffered only minor grazes to his face. The permanent damage had been to his ability to walk. His legs weren’t broken, but after the blow to his lower back he could no longer feel or control them.

‘How did he die?’ Harry’s sharp question dragged her back to the present.

‘A fever last autumn,’ she said. ‘He was more susceptible to illness after his accident—but until that last time he’d always recovered.’

‘He was not killed in the war between the Dutch and the English?’

‘No.’ Saskia frowned with confusion at the unexpected question. ‘He was a merchant, but he never left Hol—home,’ she corrected herself just in time. She cast her mind anxiously back over all she’d just said. The picture of Pieter lying at the foot of their Amsterdam house had been so vivid she was worried she might have inadvertently said something that gave away the location. She was sure that once she’d explained the whole situation to Harry he would understand her Dutch connections were irrelevant, but she wasn’t yet ready to confide in him completely.

Harry’s dark eyes were alert and watchful as he studied her. She sensed the contained energy within him and felt a flicker of apprehension. She’d seen a hawk suddenly fold its wings and arrow down out of the sky when it spotted its prey. Was she the unwary prey on which Harry meant to swoop? Was he working for Lady Abergrave after all? Or was her nervousness caused by a far more fundamental reason—the awareness of a woman for a powerful, attractive man?

‘Are you going to eat anything?’ he asked.

‘What?’ She blinked and then glanced down at her forgotten breakfast. ‘I’ll bring it with me.’

‘Then let’s linger no longer. There’s no point in tormenting yourself by rising early if you don’t make good use of the extra hours.’

There was a note of amusement in his voice that caused Saskia to look at him suspiciously. ‘Do you like getting up early?’

‘As it happens, I do.’

‘I can’t stand people who like getting up early,’ she muttered as she collected her bread. ‘No matter how wayward they are in other respects, they always consider themselves entitled to moralise over the rest of us.’

Harry grinned. ‘The early bird catches the worm.’

‘Do not talk to me about birds,’ Saskia said darkly.

* * *

Harry rode beside the coach, relaxed in the saddle, though his eyes constantly scanned the surrounding countryside. The lush green fields and woods of southern England in early summer were very different to the dramatic and beautiful Turkish landscape which had become so familiar to him. The sky was a clear blue, and it had turned into a hot June day. The heat was of no consequence to Harry, but he felt the familiar urge to abandon the main thoroughfare and explore the shady woods and tranquil fields and heaths along their way. His tendency to investigate beyond his immediate surroundings had been of great value to him in the past. Experience had shown him that increased knowledge tended to confer increased power and choice. But he knew how to discipline his curiosity. Especially when he had a mystery closer to hand that was far more compelling than any slow-running English stream.

According to the woman in the coach, her husband had been crippled in a mundane accident years ago and died as the result of a fever, not a British cannonball. Had she nearly said Holland before she’d corrected it to home? The evidence that he was indeed dealing with Saskia was increasingly strong, but he was no closer to knowing her true plans. All he could be certain of was that either Saskia or Swiftbourne’s informant was lying. He could see no reason for Saskia to make up such a complicated story about her husband’s accident, whereas her lie about the jealous mistress did serve a purpose—it gave her an excuse to claim the need for protection.

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.

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.