But how long would she have to endure the untenable advances of a whisky-soaked and whiny viscount? Could they be persuaded to release her, to leave Glenna alone? Her father wanted money. Parkington wanted revenge. Easier to assuage her father’s greed.
The coach jerked around a corner, and Parkington fell on top of her.
She shoved him away. “Desist. Now.” She had no means of making her demand a threat. God, that she did. If she escaped this, she’d walk about like Samuel every day and everywhere, threats stashed about her person like sharp-tipped handkerchiefs.
He opened his eyes wide, innocent. Ha. “The road is a curvy one, my love.”
Luv.What Samuel called her. “Do not call me that.”
“Then what should I call you? Darling, dear,wife?”
“I’m to marry, but not you. I’d rather marry a dog than let you place a ring on my finger.”
Her father erupted in laughter. “No one wants to marry a rotting spinster like you. No offense, Parkington.”
“No offense…Parkington?” Emma curled her hands into her skirts to keep from strangling the man whose blood flowed through her veins. Patricide might be tempting, but not advisable. “If you had listened to me in the ballroom or remained in Scotland to receive my letter, you would have discovered thereissomeone willing to marry me. A duke.”
“A duke?” Something thoughtful in her father’s voice. He scratched the stubble on his cheek. “The one you’re in London to help?”
“The very same. He’s rich. And he’ll be quite put out you’ve dragged me off.”
“Quite grateful, more like,” Parkington muttered. “Who would want a shrew like you?”
“You, apparently.”
“I want to see you pay, mylove.”
She punched him. In the small space of the too-crowded coach, she reared back and let her fist fly, let it crack into the flesh and bone of his damn nose.
He gasped, and the shock of air rushing into his lungs produced a scream. Huddling into the corner of the coach, as far from her as he could, he grasped his face with both hands, blood trickling down his lips and dripping on the already-stained linen of his cravat.
In the flash of an instant, as she shook out the throbbing in her hand, his expression slipped from shock to hate. And he lunged.
And the coach lurched, the horses crying outside, Parkington’s body tumbling through air and into the squeaking seat next to her father. A thud, a grunt, her father’s curse.
The coach slammed to a stop.
Her father shoved Parkington to the floor and thumped on the roof. “Don’t stop!”
But the coach did not start. And the door was just there, within grasp. Emma reached for it. Parkington blocked her way, throwing his bulk against it, blocking escape.
Until the door swept open, and he fell out, backwards, feet flying over his head before he landed in a heap on the road, in the dirt.
Where he damn well belonged.
Emma posed to jump out of the coach and into the dark, silent night—the moon dimmed by wandering clouds. She’d run all the way back to London if she had to. But before she could leap, a manacle wrapped around her waist and hauled her backward. Her father pinned her, but she jammed an elbow into his ribs.
“Oof. Bitch.” He held her more tightly.
“Let the lady out,” a deep voice cried into the night. “Release her now.”
“Bloody highwaymen,” her father spat.
Not a highwayman. The other half of her heart, making demands in that imperious voice she’d come to love.
She threw another elbow at her father, caught his nose hard, and jumped for the exit right as Samuel said, “I’ve got a knife to this man’s throat. Release the lady or your friend discovers if there is a God. Oh… Emma. There you are.”
“I’ve got no money,” her father yelled behind her. “Take her!” He shoved Emma forward, and she toppled out, landing in Samuel’s solid, warm arms.
