“Ashley, please,” Maddie begged. She never begged, but she was at her wit’s end. “My father will be after us, and if we don’t leave soon, we won’t get away.”
Ashley, who by all appearances had settled into her seat permanently, said, “Then by all means, tell the coachman to drive on.”
Defeated, Maddie dropped her head in her hands. Mr. Dover, seeming to understand that a decision had been made, rapped on the roof of the coach.
He rapped three times, waited, then rapped again.
Nothing happened.
Maddie lifted her head and peered up at the hatch, where the errant coachman should have appeared.
“Where—”
There was a loud crash on top of the coach. Maddie ducked, afraid the ceiling would fall in on them. The ceiling held, but the crash was followed by a scrambling sound. She stared at Ashley, who for once in her life looked frightened.
Maddie almost groaned. The dreaded adventure was starting already.
Mr. Dover reached for the hatch, but the coach lurched and he fell back. Maddie staggered against the window with a small squeal, then almost tumbled out the door when it was thrust open and a dark-haired man with a bloody nose and a coffee-colored stain on his buff breeches climbed inside.
He barely got the door closed before the horses were whipped into frenzied motion and the coach pitched violently.
The man practically fell into the seat beside Ashley. He pushed his dark hair out of his eyes, his gaze falling on each one of them. When his dark eyes met hers, Maddie gasped, unable to breathe. There was something feral and untamed about this man. The space between them seemed to buzz with heat.
He gave her a wicked smile, and she swore she heard the hiss and crack of lightning.
She tried to close her mouth or to make it function, to say something. Her mouth moved, but no words would form.
The man settled in, stretching one booted foot out to rest beside her, and said, “So, where are we going?”
Chapter Three
The two women and the man stared at him as though he had three heads. Hell, he might. At this point, Jack figured anything was possible. He and Nick had run at least a mile, probably more, through London. They’d felt the hot breath of Bleven’s men on their necks the entire way.
There’d been several minor scuffles. Jack had taken out one of the thugs with a step into a lucky doorway and an equally lucky find of a loose board. Nick had managed to lose two of their pursuers by taking a side street and doubling back. But the men always caught up to them again.
Five against two weren’t bad odds. Jack had faced worse. But when the five had pistols and various other weapons, and the two had naught but bare hands, the odds changed a bit.
Jack knew he and Nick could keep running, but he worried that eventually they’d take a wrong turn and find themselves looking down the barrel of a gun. That fear was confirmed when he and Nick rounded a corner and slammed into one of Bleven’s thugs, who had managed to get ahead of them without realizing it.
The next thug might not be so unprepared.
That was when Jack had seen the carriage. The horses were harnessed and ready to depart, and while Jack watched, the coachman climbed off his box and stepped into an alley to answer nature’s call. Jack couldn’t believe his luck. Maybe it was turning after all.
He motioned to Nick, who understood the plan immediately—there were some benefits to getting in trouble with one’s brother—and Nick indicated that he’d take the coachman’s place. Jack had the more dangerous task of subduing the coach’s natives.
His plan had been to throw them out and steal the coach outright, but one look at the blue-eyed, dark-haired beauty, and Jack felt the ground give out from under him.
True, it might have been that Nick chose that moment to urge the horses into motion, but whatever caused the heady, falling feeling, Jack knew he was never going to toss that exquisite creature out on the road. If anything, he was going to pull her into his arms.
He shook his head. The direction his thoughts were taking seemed to indicate the coffeehouse squabble with Nick had done more damage than he’d thought. When was the last time he’d allowed a woman—no matter how beautiful—to interfere with his plans?
When was the first time?
Never.
And he wouldn’t start allowing women to run roughshod over him now. He’d toss the man, then the blonde, then the petite brunette.
No, he’d start with the brunette.
