What the devil did he mean to do when he created a big enough hole? Leap through? If the fall from the moving vehicle did not injure him, there were the two rear wheels to contend with—not to mention what would happen if the Thibodeaux happened to look behind them and observe a large and recognizable man rolling out from beneath their coach.
Perhaps he would wait until they stopped to rest or change out their horses. But no, that avenue was equally unsupportable. They might miss a bearded giant escaping from the coach while they drove, their eyes fixed on the road ahead, but they certainly would not overlook his emergence while they were stopped at a coaching inn.
Oh God. Oh hell. He would have to jump free while the carriage was moving. Surely he had come to the same conclusion she had. If only he could give her some sort of sign, so she might know when he meant to make his move—but he wouldn’t, of course, because he had no bloody idea she was following him.
She muttered a prayer under her breath and kept as close to the Thibodeaux’s coach as she dared.
She’d stopped seeing wood bits littering the road for at least a quarter of an hour when they came to a narrow stone bridge. All the vehicles on the road slowed, arranging themselves into a decorous queue. Lydia fitted herself in nervously behind the mail coach, her eyes darting from her roan to the Thibodeaux’s conveyance.
And then she saw Arthur’s legs emerge, a slow controlled descent, from the bottom of the carriage.
Oh bollocks, he’d chosennowto free himself, when the road was crowded with passersby? What was he thinking?
And then she knew, a brilliant electric revelation. She urged the mare out of the line, driving her toward the bank of the small swift river, where—yes—hell—
As she watched, Arthur lowered himself the rest of the way out of the carriage, landed on the stones beneath, and then rolled in one smooth motion off the side of the bridge and into the water.
She swore aloud and leaned over her horse’s withers. They stopped hard at the bank, the roan pawing at the fronds. Arthur rose, sputtering, from the water and met her gaze.
Or—no. She was still veiled. He could not see her. She shoved the fabric to the side to behold his stupefied face more clearly. “Hurry,” she hissed. “Get out of there and climb on.”
“Lydia? How inhell—” But he was already obeying her instructions, water cascading from his body as he crushed several Scottish water plants beneath his boots. She loosed her foot fromthe stirrup just in time for him to replace it with his own and then swing up onto the horse’s back behind her.
The mare had been worth the hundred sovereigns. She stood sturdily beneath the addition of Arthur’s weight and the sudden slosh of frigid water down her speckled red flanks. Arthur’s arms came around Lydia’s body and he turned the horse quickly, carrying them both into the thicket of trees that lined the roadway.
“We have to get out of sight,” he murmured. “As deep into the woods as we can go.”
She nodded, and he transferred the reins to one hand, using the other to pull her against him.
“God,” he murmured into her hair. “Oh Christ, it’s good to see you.” His voice had gone rough. His hand on the reins was trembling slightly, the physical manifestation of his relief.
He brought them deep into the shadows of the heavy-limbed oaks, where the late-afternoon sunlight made dappled patterns on the leaf-littered ground. When he finally halted and dismounted, she half fell into his arms, and he pulled her up against his dripping form. His arms were hard as iron bars, his chest a firm solid wall, and she let herself melt against him, let him take her weight. All the fear that had swamped her since the moment she had seen his hand emerge from the coach seemed to leak away as he held her, as her body pressed against his.
He was safe. They were both safe and together.
In one quick decisive movement, he yanked off her bonnet and kissed the top of her head. “God,” he muttered. “God, I’ve been out of my head with worry. Ohfuck—” He stiffened and then pushed her back away from him, a trifle wild-eyed. “Your clothes. I’m soaking you with my wet things.”
“It’s all right. Everything I have on is wool. I’m perfectly dry. You, on the other hand—” She paused, noticing the raw scrapeacross the knuckles of his left hand. “Oh, Arthur! Is this from the floor of the coach?” She caught his hand between her palms and brought it up to her face. Her lips found the tips of his chilled fingers, and then she pressed them to her cheek, trying to warm him.
“Nay,” he murmured. His fingers cupped her face. “Merely scraped myself with the striker from my tinderbox. I used it as a lever for the floorboards. Thought my gunpowder would be too noisy a way out of there.”
“Oh for heaven’s sake.” She pulled his fingers gently away from her cheek to examine his knuckles once more, but he closed his hand over hers.
“I don’t feel it, love.”
“Of course you don’t. You’re frozen half to death.”
“’Tis not so bad as all that.” He looked down at his sodden garments. “Though I would not wish to ride together until I dry myself, I suppose.”
His lips were pale. His hand covering hers was terribly cold.
She felt a hot rush of emotion, a tide of resolve and fierce tenderness. She had come to rescue him, had she not? He still needed her.
“Take off your wet clothes,” she ordered.
He made a sound of protest, but she was already shoving at his jacket, urging him out of his shirt. When he was half-unclothed, she untied her own pelisse and curled herself around his chest, trying to share the warmth of her body with him. Her breasts crushed against him, and he took a slow, shuddering breath. His bare arms came around her, pulling her even closer, even tighter.
“For Christ’s sake,” he muttered. His fingers stroked her hair, the back of her head. Trailed down the nape of her neck and then wrapped around her waist. “Daft woman. Don’t ever do that again.”
