From his perch, the driver slumped forward. His tricorne hat was gone. A black-red hole dented his head.
“Down.” Lord Cunningham scrunched himself into the landau floor, hands over his head. His breathing raced faster than the carriage. “Down, Margaret!”
“We need to jump!” Another shot whizzed. A carriage lantern shattered. “Now! The reins—”
The driver toppled over. Gone. The horses bolted faster.
With a numbing surge of adrenaline, she flung herself to the opposite seat and climbed for the driver’s empty perch. Her dress tangled about her legs. Bonnet ribbons fluttered in front of her face.God, help me.Securing her grip on the perch, she leaned forward and groped—
Another shot.
One of the horses downed, the other reared, and the landau raised on two wheels. Then everything whished and whooshed around her. A scream. Mayhap her own. The sensation of falling dropped her stomach, and the shadow of the hurling carriage sent her mind shrieking.
Earth pounded her face.
She flopped downward.
At first groping, resisting, grabbing fistfuls of grass in attempt to catch her fall. Then just floating, not tethered to anything, as her mind grew feathers and wings. She flew into darkness and felt nothing at all.
CHAPTER 11
A dull pain radiated through Tom as the slobbering mutt jumped up and slapped its paws on his thighs. Mud streaked his trousers. “Down, boy.”
“Oley’s a girl.” From the second story of the coaching inn, Betsey leaned over the outside railing. She wiped loose hair from her smirking eyes. “Don’t you know a girl, Mr. McGwen, when you see one?”
He rubbed the animal’s head, pushing her down with the other hand. He kept on toward the front door without looking up.
“What you want? Come for your ladylove?” Louder. “She ain’t here, Mr. McGwen. They left near an hour ago.”
He halted and craned back his head. “Where to?”
“That abbey, reckon.”
“Did she leave me any word?” He wasn’t certain why she would. Still. He had not thought she would dry the blood off his face either. What had possessed her to accompany the doctor last night? She had shuffled into Tom’s chamber unafraid. She had stepped close to him, spoken to him, just softly enough he might have pretended nothing had changed.
That she was still Meg.
His Meg.
“Well.” Betsey flapped a white sheet, dust flying. “All she said was things I ’pose you wouldn’t want to hear.”Flap.“Things about that lordy.”Flap.“I’ll not be the one to tell you, to be sure.”
“Miss Creagh.” He tried to rein his anger as showers of dust landed on his face and the infernal dog once again leapt on his trousers. “Talk sense.”
“I am. ’Deed, it makes perfect sense why Miss Foxcroft would want to marry him. Why wouldn’t she? I would. Heishandsome, you know. And rich.”
Marry him?Repulsion chilled him. Then burned him, like a fever creeping across his brow. No, she would not marry him.
She’d already promised herself to Tom.
Whether she remembered or not.
Lifting the dog off him, Tom strode into the inn and brought his fists down on the long wooden counter. “Has Dr. Bagot departed yet?”
“Decided to stay a day or two longer to take in the sea air.” Mrs. Creagh frowned. “Might be in his room. Might not. I don’t have time to keep up with every Jack Adams who stays here.”
“Which room?”
“Eleven. Second floor.” Mrs. Creagh pruned her lips. “But mind you take care of your business and get. This hain’t no visiting parlor, see?”
