The carriage was empty. She scrambled out, then peered carefully out the window. She could hardly see a thing—it was raining—but from the shouts exchanged, it seemed Nixon was up ahead with the horses and the coachman was on the other side of the coach, stuffing bracken and gorse under one of the wheels.
Lily threw her cloak over her—thank goodness it was a dark color—stealthily unfastened the door, then leapt from the coach and ran into the low scraggly vegetation that stretched for miles on either side of the empty road. Her only hope was to lie down in it, go to ground like a hunted hare, and hope they wouldn’t see her.
Half a dozen steps later she found herself fallinghelplessly, landing facedown with a hardsplat. She lay, winded for a few moments, her lungs straining for air, her brain racing, trying to make sense of what happened.
She was in some kind of hole... no, it was a ditch, running parallel to the road. Her breath returned in a rush. Keeping her head well down, she lay in shallow, freezing, stagnant ditch water, gulping lungfuls of cold, bracing air, trying to marshal her drug-hazed wits.
Had she made any noise when she’d fallen? She couldn’t remember, but a small scream or exclamation seemed likely. Had they noticed? Or had the gag muffled any noise she’d made? She peered cautiously over the lip of the ditch, through the meager cover of the vegetation that lined it.
In the driving rain she could barely make out the shape of the coach. She squinted through the gloom, hardly daring to breathe.
Nixon and the coachman continued shouting instructions—and abuse—back and forth. Lily breathed again. They hadn’t noticed her escape. Yet.
With some difficulty, for her wrists were still bound, she pulled her cloak over her head. Thank goodness she’d worn it to the Mainwarings’ rout instead of the cream silk and taffeta one. The dark blue velvet would at least hide her, if not keep her warm and dry—between the rain and the ditch water, she was drenched to the bone. And somehow, wet or not, the heavy weight of the velvet was comforting.
The Mainwarings’ rout.It seemed an age ago. Was it only last night? Or the night before? She didn’t know. The drug had stolen time.
Released from the tight constriction of her prison, she could raise her bound hands enough to scrape her gag off. Thankfully, she gulped in fresh, damp air. Her wrists were still bound tightly, but she could breathe and she could run.
Bending low Lily half crept, half crawled along the ditch, praying she wouldn’t be noticed.
A loud shout almost stopped her heart. She froze, expecting any moment to be roughly seized and dragged back to the coach, but nothing happened. Eventually, unable to bear not knowing, she peeped over the side of the ditch.
Through the veil of rain, she saw Nixon climb back into the carriage and the driver take his seat and gather up the reins. The carriage moved slowly away. She watched breathlessly until it breasted a slight hill and disappeared.
She forced herself to wait—what if Nixon decided to lift the lid and check on her?—but after a few agonizing moments Lily decided she could delay no longer. She clambered out of the muddy ditch and began to run.
Chapter Four
Her mind was all disorder. The past, present, future, everything was terrible.
—JANE AUSTEN,MANSFIELD PARK
“Woman on the road up ahead, sir,” Ned Galbraith’s coachman said through the communication hatch. “Looks like she’s in some distress.”
Ned glanced out the window. There was nothing for miles, no sign of habitation. “Alone?” It was not unheard of for women to feign distress as a trap for unwary travelers. They’d stop to help and the female’s colleagues would emerge from hiding and rob them.
“No place to hide that I can see,” Walton agreed. “A poor spot for an ambush, I reckon.”
Ned sighed. “Very well, let’s see what—”
“Another coach just came over the rise.” Walton’s voice rose with excitement. “Looks like they’re trying to run her down—and bloody hell, sir, I think her hands are tied!”
Ned poked his head out the window. Sure enough a bedraggled-looking female was running unsteadily toward his coach, waving her arms frantically—and yes, they were bound at the wrist. Another carriage was bearing down on her, the driver whipping at his tired-looking horses.
She looked terrified.
Ned didn’t wait; he swung down from his slowing carriage and ran toward the woman. At the same time a dark-haired man jumped from the other carriage and seized her in a rough grasp.
“Help!” she shrieked, struggling to pull herself free, but she was no match against his brutal strength.
The man growled something Ned didn’t catch and dragged her back toward his carriage.
“What the devil is going on?” Ned picked up his pace.
“None of your damned business,” the man shouted over his shoulder. “Go on your way.”
“He’s abduct—” Her captor jerked her hard and she nearly fell.
