by Jayne Davis
“He’s right, sir,” Stevens said.
“We try to catch the coach,” Alex decided.
“Yes, sir!” Sam said with a grin.
* * *
The coach lurched sideways, throwing Phoebe against the wall and sending Georges tumbling onto her. Good, they were stuck in the mud again.
“Should of made ’em walk, like I told you,” Low-voice said.
“Shut your face,” High-voice snarled. “It wouldn’t make no difference, and the brat might of run off. If I could get my hands on that bastard what give us directions at the inn…” He spat on the floor, barely missing Phoebe’s feet, then thrust his face into hers.
“You sit still, you hear?”
Phoebe nodded without speaking. Even if they still thought she did not understand English, the menace in his voice and face was clear.
“You try to get out again, like last time, and I’ll gag you and tie your feet. The boy, too.”
A gust of cold air blew in a spatter of rain as the two men left the coach. The gloomy sky indicated that it was late afternoon.
Phoebe listened in satisfaction to the curses, and to the sound of the rain—that would make the muddy lanes even worse. This was the fourth time they’d got mired. Each time the two men had to get out to push, or try to turn the wheels by hand to get the coach moving again. The longer their journey took, the more likely it was that Alex would catch up with them.
The acrid smell of vomit from her clothing pleased her as well; Sal had left them smelling strong enough to make Brevare’s companion decide he’d ride on with him and a groom rather than share the coach. Now, when Alex came—and he would come—there would be only three men to deal with.
Unfortunately it wasn’t long before the men got the coach back onto firmer ground. This time only High-voice got in, after some muttered complaint from the other man about the smell. Phoebe kept her eyes on the window beside her as High-voice resumed his stare. He’d touched her breasts while manhandling her out of the inn, and his hand had lingered far too long on her bottom when pushing her into the coach.
The words of Brevare’s companion went through her mind again. She was to remain unharmed until milord had spoken to her. He’d followed that up with a shrug. They weren’t going to let her go afterwards, that was certain.
A shot?
The noise had come from behind the carriage. She sat up straighter, hope rising as her heart began to race. Rescue?
An answering shot came from above, then another. The coach tipped to one side and came to a sudden stop. From the roof, banging and swearing was followed by the crashing of breaking branches beside the coach.
“Another man inside,” Phoebe shouted, as loudly as she could.
“Shut up, you!” High-voice said, and slapped her face.
Her stomach clenched as she saw High-voice drag his pistol from his pocket, drop the window and stick his head out. She couldn’t see what was happening, could only hear the grunts and cursing of men fighting outside. As High-voice raised his pistol she felt for hers, twisting to fumble her bound hands through the slit in her skirts. There was no time to try to get the pistol out. It was pointing in the right direction—she needed only to cock it and pull the trigger.
Her ears rang with the noise, the smell of singed fabric filling the coach as High-voice jerked back and swore, his pistol falling from his hand into the lane as he clutched at one arm. She flinched, expecting him to hit her again, but he shoved the door open and disappeared into the pouring rain.
“His pistol,” Georges said, slipping past her and jumping down before she could stop him. She clambered out and almost fell into the ditch beside the lane. A moaning heap in the ditch was Low-voice, clutching one leg.
“Georges?” She regained her balance as she looked about her, trying to make out details in the shadowed rough grass below the hedge.
“—pistol—dropped—find—” The barely audible response seemed to be coming from close by, Georges’ voice drowned by grunts and muffled curses. Phoebe moved forwards, and the moving shapes turned into two men struggling near the horses’ hooves, fighting for control of a knife.
It was Alex and High-voice, and High-voice’s hand held the knife. Shouts and curses came from behind the coach; whoever had come with Alex couldn’t help here.
Fumbling in her skirts again, she wrenched the pistol out to the sound of tearing fabric. She cocked it, the click sounding loud in her ears.
“Don’t move.”
Both men froze.
High-voice didn’t turn his gaze from Alex or release his hold. “You’ve fired it.”
“I had two,” Phoebe lied.
Georges tugged on her skirts. “I found his gun.”
Taking it from him, she cocked it and pointed it at High-voice. “This one is loaded,” she said.
High-voice did look round this time. As he did so, Alex wrenched the knife from his hand and sent a fist into his face. The man went limp, and Phoebe felt weak with relief as Alex scrambled to his feet.
Alex ran his gaze over Phoebe, letting out a breath of relief as he saw that she was holding the gun steady in her bound hands, still pointing it at the man on the ground—she could not be injured badly. Staying out of her line of fire, he slid the knife carefully between her wrists and sawed at the rope.
“Sam?” he shouted, keeping his gaze on what he was doing with the knife.
“Shot one, got the driver covered,” came a voice from the other side of the coach.
“There were only three of them,” Phoebe said, before he could ask her.
“Are you all right?” he asked as the rope finally gave way.
She nodded, face pale.
“Can you hold the gun on him a little longer?”
“Yes.”
He slipped the knife into his pocket, then removed his assailant’s belt and used it to tie his hands behind his back, ignoring the man’s moan of pain. He took the pistol from Phoebe, and she stretched her arms and rubbed her wrists.
“Not long now,” he said, and went to help Sam tie up the driver. There had been a third man, as well as his own wounded groom.
“See what’s happened to Stevens, can you?” Alex said, and Sam headed back along the road.
“There’s one in the ditch here,” a young voice called. Alex found Georges watching a man groaning and clutching one thigh. He couldn’t make out much blood, so he dragged him over to the other two and tied him up.
“Phoebe, are you sure you’re not harmed?”
“A headache,” she admitted. “Nothing that a hot bath and a drink won’t fix.”
“Thank God.” Then he did what he had been wanting to since he saw her. He pulled her into his arms, trembling from the emotions he’d been keeping under tight control for the last few hours. He felt her gradually relax against him, releasing her when she gave him a gentle push.
“Georges?” she called, looking around. “Are you hurt? Come here.”
Georges moved over, and she crouched down and gave him a hug. Alex could see the tracks of tears running down the boy’s face.
“You were very brave,” she said. “You helped to save us all!” He sniffed and clung to her skirt, but stopped crying.
“You’re not hurt?” Alex asked, bending so his face was level with the boy’s. Georges shook his head. “Thank you for helping,” Alex said, seeing a faint smile.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and stood.
“Are you hurt?” Phoebe asked.
“Nothing that a hot bath won’t fix,” he said. He heard her little snort of laughter—slightly shaky, but definitely laughter. Awed at her courage, he noticed a brief shudder in her shoulders.
“You two get back in the coach out of the rain,” he ordered. “One of Nick’s grooms was with us; I need to see what happened to him.”
He watched Phoebe help Georges into the coach, and then walked back down the lane. He found Sam bending over a prostrate figure.
“Silly bugger got hims
elf shot and then fell off his horse,” Sam said.
Easing Stevens into a sitting position, Alex opened his coat. A bright patch of red stained his shirt, low down under his ribs.
“Just a graze, sir,” Stevens said, gritting his teeth. “But I put my shoulder out when I fell.”
“No more riding for you then. Come, we’ll get you in the coach. We’ll soon have you back at the Black Bull.”
Sam helped Stevens to get up, lifting the groom’s good arm over one shoulder, and they walked slowly back up the lane. Alex hurried ahead when he saw Phoebe still standing beside the coach.
“Do you know where they were taking us?” she asked.
“You should be in the coach,” he said.
“Did you know Brevare was with them?” she asked, ignoring his comment. “At the inn. He was with another man, but they were taking me to see someone they called ‘milord’. This milord must be the man Marstone is after. He’s waiting for them—us—at the coast, but I don’t know where.”
“Pett, near Winchelsea,” Alex told her, turning as Sam and Stevens reached them. “This is Sam, from the inn. He found out from the driver where they were going. Your brother and Nick should be on their way there by now.” He opened the door and helped Stevens to get inside.
“They’ll only be looking for me and Georges,” Phoebe continued, one hand grasping his arm. “They won’t be looking for Brevare and the man with him.”
“I can’t leave you here,” Alex objected, knowing what she was hinting at. “I’ve got to take you back.”
“You’ve got to catch this man!” she insisted.
His head agreed with her; his heart did not. This was the best chance they were likely to get to identify the chief traitor. But to leave a woman and a young boy alone? It was a long way back to the inn, it was still raining, and it would be dark soon.
“It’s going to be difficult getting back through all this mud,” Alex said.
Sam snorted. “Not if you go the sensible way, sir. It’s not far to the post road. Easy after that.”
“Stevens?” Phoebe put her head into the coach and addressed the groom. “Do you know the way back to the inn from here?”
“I reckon I could find it from the post road,” he said. “But I can’t drive the coach, miss!”
“I’ll be driving,” Phoebe said. “You’ll only need to show me the way.” She looked at Sam and Alex. “If you can get us to the post road before you leave?”
“It’s cold,” Alex pointed out. He knew she was right, but he didn’t want her to be. “You’ll catch your death!”
“Give me one of their coats,” she said. “Or give me yours and you take one of theirs. It might help you to get closer to milord when you find him—he might think you’re one of his men.”
“I can’t risk leaving you alone with those men,” Alex said.
“Leave them here. You can come back for them later.”
“It’s cold,” Alex said again.
“So?”
Her meaning sunk in and he gave a brief crack of laughter. “Quite right. You’re sure you can do this, Phoebe?”
“You have to go,” Phoebe said. Her lips were turned down, but her voice was determined.
He capitulated. If this ‘milord’ wasn’t caught, he might make another attempt to harm Phoebe.
“Sam, are you willing for more?” Alex asked.
“Yes, sir!”
Ten minutes later, with the prisoners bound to a nearby tree, Alex helped Sam push the coach out of the ditch while Phoebe led the horses. Stevens was perched on the box, his arm in a sling fashioned from his neckcloth, with Georges beside him.
How far was it from here to Pett? If Sam knew the way, they might just reach the levels before the coach was late and the men meeting them on their guard. Phoebe was right—he had to try.
“Best lead them to the road, sir,” Sam said. “It’s not far, and the walk’ll warm Miss a bit.”
Alex saw the sense in that, and joined Phoebe, grasping the harness and helping her to lead. When they came to a wider road, Sam turned the horses. He lit one of the lanterns fastened to the front of the coach. “It’ll be dark before you get back,” he said, then gave Phoebe directions for reaching the inn.
“Tell Stevens as well,” Alex said, and Sam clambered onto the box.
“Phoebe?”
She moved closer, looking up into his face. His arms went around her before his head told him he shouldn’t.
“Phoebe, you’re feeling good now you’re safe?”
She pulled back slightly, nodding. “Apart from the headache,” she said.
“I know the feeling,” he said seriously. “It feels good—but it will wear off and you’ll feel bad—frightened.”
“I’d better get us back to the inn before that happens, then.”
“Phoebe—”
“I do understand what you’re telling me, Alex. We’ll manage.”
She would, this woman he wished were his. He pulled her closer, and her turned-up face was too much of a temptation.
Phoebe came to him without prompting, reaching to cup his face with one hand, curling the other around his neck. Their lips met gently at first, but then the pent up emotions of the last few days went into the kiss: all the longing for her he’d felt while making up to her cousin, the fear for her safety, the relief at finding her largely unharmed.
The feel of her mouth, her hand on his face and her body pressed against his own—those things would keep him warm for some miles on his way.
On that thought he lifted his head, ignoring a faint sound of protest from her, even though it almost killed him to do so. He—they—had tasks to complete.
“Be careful,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, just stay in the coach. I’ll check on my way back.”
He felt, rather than saw, her nod of agreement.
“There are two loaded pistols inside,” he added. “Stevens—”
She put a finger on his lips. “We’ll manage. Come back… come back to me?”
“You ready, sir?”
Sam’s voice interrupted them before he could answer, and he dropped his arms.
She touched his cheek again, then moved away, waiting by the box of the coach for him to help her up. There was no time to say more.
“Go carefully,” he said again, as Phoebe set the horses into motion.
“And you.” Her words were almost lost in the clatter of hooves.
Mounting up, Alex followed the coach until it rounded a bend, almost wanting an excuse to go with her. But although she was driving slowly, she was in control.
He turned his horse and spurred back down the road to rejoin Sam.
Chapter 51
Phoebe shivered. It had stopped raining, but the chill wind still carried moisture with it. She had a thin pair of gloves, but they were intended for a walk on a spring day, and the cold bit through them, numbing her fingers. The sun had set some time ago, but the clouds were beginning to clear.
That last embrace, the kiss, had warmed her through, adding to the lightheaded feeling of relief that she was out of milord’s clutches. But, as Alex had warned, that sense of relief was ebbing, the responsibility for Georges and Stevens looming larger in her mind. Had sending Alex off to the coast been a mistake?
“There’s another signpost,” Georges said from beyond the injured groom. Screwing up her eyes, she could just make out a fingerpost showing pale against the trees behind it. She slowed to a stop.
“Stevens?”
The groom was a heavy weight against her shoulder, but he roused enough to look around. “Left here, miss. Not too far now.”
Thank goodness. Another gap in the clouds allowed moonlight through, and she could see the road more clearly. She took the corner slowly—if she steered into a ditch their only option would be to wait or walk. Stay in the coach, Alex had said—the idea was tempting.
No, she had to get Georges and Stevens somewhere warm. There was no saying how long Alex would be
away. She put from her mind the idea that he might not return at all.
Concentrate.
She could do this.
The trees beside the road gave way to fields, then Georges spoke.
“Look, Phoebe, lights!”
“It’s the inn, miss,” Stevens confirmed, sitting up straighter.
Someone must have been watching, for two shadowy figures came out into the road as Phoebe slowed the horses to a final stop.
“Sam? Mr Westbrook? Best if you drive them straight round the back.”
It was Sal Robins.
“No, they went on.”
“Bless me, Miss Phoebe driving?” The woman came right up to the coach, the surprise on her face showing in the light from the inn’s windows. “Ben, you lead these horses round.”
The second figure went to the horses’ heads, and Phoebe gratefully relinquished control.
“We’ll get you inside through the back, miss. No need for the folks in the taproom to gawk at you. Who else you got there?”
“My cousin, and one of the Oakley Place grooms. He’s injured.”
“Ben, help them get down, then see to them horses.”
Ten minutes later Phoebe and Georges had been taken into Mrs Robins’ private sitting room, stripped of their damp outer clothing, and wrapped in blankets. The mug of hot soup warmed her hands and insides, and the heat from the fire was beginning to thaw the rest of her.
Georges huddled closer, and she put an arm around him. He’d been incredibly brave.
“I’ve got Stevens in bed, miss, and the doctor sent for,” Mrs Robins announced, a hubbub of talk from the taproom drifting in through the open door.
“Thank you, Mrs Robins. Make sure he sends the bill to Oakley Place.”
The woman dismissed the offer with the wave of a hand. “I’ll sort all that out tomorrow. D’you want him to take a look at you as well, when he comes?”
“No, thank you. He’ll only tell us to keep warm and rest,” she said. “If we could have something more to eat, though?”
“Right, miss.” She eyed Phoebe critically. “You’d best borrow a gown of mine, miss. It won’t do to be sitting around like that.” A broad smile crossed her face. “It’ll only fit where it touches, like, but at least you’ll be decent.”