—from Lady Georgiana Cleeve to Selina Kent, Duchess of Stanhope, posted from Dunkeld
Oh God, Lydia thought,oh Godandoh damnandI’m sorryand alsoplease don’t let me kill Georgiana.
She had no idea if the horse had the bit in its teeth—she’d dropped the reins. But it certainly felt that way, because her horse was hurling itself forward, seeming not to notice the fact that every step brought them closer to the fast-approaching zebras. The post-chaise was still half off the road, which slowed their progress as the wheels dragged through the mud—but the weight of the carriage seemed only to further alarm the animal, which was breathing hard and dancing wildly as it tried to tow its terrified mate and the carriage as well.
“Slow down,” she said, her voice breathless and frantic, “oh please, we’re all going to die,pleaseslow down!”
And then Strathrannoch, the great enormous idiot, was beside her.
“Turn back!” she shrieked at him, chancing a glance away from her horse’s churning front hooves.
“You have to cut yourself free!” he bellowed back.
“What?”
“Cut yourself free! I’ll stay with the other horse and the carriage. Cut the straps and then get out of the way!”
“Withwhat?”
Strathrannoch rode a little closer, his black horse eating up the ground with its long strides. “Take my dirk.”
She chanced another look at him. He had the reins in one hand and a small knife in his other, brandishing it hilt-first. The blade must have been wrapped in his palm.
“Oh God,” she said. “I can’t. I can’t do that.”
“For Christ’s sake, take the damn dirk or we’re all going to meet the wrong end of sixty-four hooves!”
She squelched a brief flare of astonished admiration for his ability to do arithmetic at such a moment.
She looked at the dirk. She looked at the stampeding zebras, looming larger as they approached. And then she squeezed her eyes closed and thrust out her hand in the general direction of the earl.
She felt the hilt land, warm and solid, in her palm. She pulled it into her chest, her other hand still wrapped in the horse’s mane, her boots sliding about in her stirrups.
“Now,” he said. “Do it now. Cut yourself free. There are two leathers behind you that you’ll need to cut. I’ll hold the reins, and then hand them back to you when you’re done.”
“I can’t,” she whispered. Her fingers flexed convulsively around the dirk’s hilt.
“I can’t do it for you, lass. I can’t reach that far.”
Terror squeezed at her lungs. The horse rocked beneath her, and her fingers were wrapped so tightly in its mane that she feared what would happen if she let go. She could fall. She could be trampled.
But Georgiana was in the carriage behind her. She could not simply sit atop this beast and wait for death. She had to do what Strathrannoch had said. Shehadto. Her fear meant nothing in the face of Georgiana’s endangerment.
She took one shaky inhale. Armed with the dirk, she turned, her thighs squeezing the horse’s sides for dear life. She had to bend to reach the leathers that attached the horse to the carriage. She leaned, the horse’s mane in one hand and the dirk in the other, extending her body, her chest clamped down tight with anxiety. The horse’s hindquarters were dark with sweat and mud, bunching as its legs churned up the ground.
She stretched out the dirk and sawed it along the leather strap.
“Good lass,” said Strathrannoch.
She did not spare a glance to determine if he meant her or the bloody horse.
The dirk was razor-sharp, and it was the work of a moment to slice through the first harness strap. Carefully, so that she did not cut the horse, she moved the blade to the second strap.
“Wait,” said Strathrannoch, and she froze. “When you cut the strap, the horse is going to break free. I’ll ride alongside you long enough for you to turn around and grab the reins, and then I’ll go back for your friend in the carriage. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she rasped.
“Hold on like hell,” he said. “Cut fast and don’t let go.”
