by Rebecca King
The horse, still tethered, began to scream and thrash as he was dragged down on to his side, the traces biting into his flesh painfully.
Peter cursed, knowing the horse would kill himself if he didn’t stop thrashing. He saw Jemima hiding under the meagre protection of the hedgerow. Relieved that she at least appeared unharmed, he quickly removed the knife from his belt and cut the harness to release the horse. Although the last thing they needed was for him to run off, if he remained tethered he would harm himself and be useless anyway. Peter had been around horses enough to know that if he tried to get to his head and soothe him, the beast would just run him over; and that was the very last thing he needed. He knew he was taking a risk, but had no option.
He cut the harness and lifted the highest trace enough for the horse to lunge to his feet. Sensing freedom, the animal broke into a full gallop.
“Peter!” Jemima shouted, watching in horror as the animal disappeared down the road.
“We have no choice,” Peter replied, dropping the trace he was holding and heading toward her. “I hope he won’t run too far. Are you all right?”
Jemima tried to stand up and winced at the pain down her back. Although she ached, there was no overt pain, indicating that nothing substantial was broken. Still trembling, she accepted his embrace as he swept her into his arms.
“Just shaken,” Jemima gasped. “Are you all right?”
Peter nodded, hoping to God he never again saw anything as horrific as Jemima lying helpless as a cart fell almost on top of her. “I’m sure I will have a nightmare or two myself, but otherwise am unharmed.”
They stood clinging to each other by the side of the road for several minutes. Peter placed random kisses around her face as he murmured soothing endearments to her, clearly still shaken by the near miss that could have ended so badly for Jemima. She couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it. Her knees trembled so badly that she wondered how they managed to carry her weight. If Peter released her, she would fall into a heap on the floor.
Holding her tight against him, Peter frowned at the cart. He had checked the wheels himself that morning before they had left the inn. Although the main body of the cart was worn, the wheels and bearings were in excellent condition, having been replaced only a few months ago. Peter was positive that the wheel had been intact, with no sign of wear and tear, or cracking. Although the track was rutted, the holes weren’t deep enough to damage a wheel sufficiently to make it fall off.
The longer he stared at the protruding metalwork, the deeper his frown grew.
Jemima sensed the tension in him, and eased back in his arms.
“What is it?” she asked, following his line of sight back to the cart. Although she didn’t know what he was thinking, her survival instinct warned her that something was amiss. She didn’t know much about carts, but knew that wheels could break and often did fall off carriages; but not one as well maintained as Dominic’s.
“Do you think it was deliberate?” Her voice was almost timid as she asked, and she glanced up and down the road suspiciously for any sign of someone approaching.
Peter shook his head slowly. “I’m not sure, but I don’t think we should stand here to wait for someone to find us. We need to get moving.” He turned toward her, his face stark in the encroaching darkness. “Do you think you can walk? The next village is a few miles ahead of us, and we are going to have to go on foot.” He didn’t add that it was going to get very dark, very quickly and he had no light to guide their way. Jemima was terrified of the dark, and would hate to be out alone without even a candle.
Jemima sensed his worry and hastened to reassure him, in spite of her own fears and doubts. Bravely smiling up at him, she nodded, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice.
“I’ll be fine. Do you think we should try to move it?” She nodded toward the now useless cart.
Peter shook his head. “No. If someone is following us, they can move it.”
Jemima made a mental note to ask him about his comment later, when they were away from possible danger. Instead she drew back her aching shoulders, took a deep breath and glanced at him.
“If you know which way this village is, let’s get going then. We can’t stand about here chatting all day now, can we?” With that, she stuck her chin in the air, skirted tentatively around the lumbering mass of wood now lying uselessly in the middle of the road, and began to walk.
Peter watched her go with pride. He knew she had just fobbed him off, and was undoubtedly as shaken as he still was, but he admired her for her fortitude and determination not to be cowed by the latest turn of events.
He took a moment to grab their bag and his cloak, and study the wheel in the waning light. It confirmed his suspicions that someone had loosened the bolt. Cursing roundly, he hurried after Jemima, studying the area around them carefully as he walked for any sign of the missing item.
Within minutes, it began to rain.
“Do you think we should get off this road and out of sight?” Jemima asked, wiping moisture from her eyes so she could see Peter more clearly, only to gasp at what she saw. His hair was plastered to his head, but the steady rivulets of water trailing down his chiselled cheeks was black, as the volume of rainwater began to penetrate the thick boot polish, washing it away for all to see.
Peter shook his head, eyeing her sodden hair and the black stripes running down her face. Despite their dire situation, he burst out laughing.
Although the rain was rapidly turning the ground beneath their feet into a quagmire, Peter couldn’t resist the lure of her blackened face. Whether it was due to lingering fear for her safety, or the sight of her soaking wet, he gave in to his driving need to sweep her into his arms. The warmth of his lips captured and held hers for several minutes as he snuggled her against him.
The heavy rumble of thunder in the distance broke them apart several minutes later. Peter released her lips and glared into the sky, cursing fate for being so cruel. Being rained on was bad enough, and made their journey to the village on foot treacherous, but to be out in the middle of nowhere in the midst of a raging thunderstorm was simply asking for trouble. It was imperative they get to safety; and quickly.
“We need to get moving,” he declared, reluctant to break all contact with her. Keeping hold of her hand, he began to walk, stepping carefully over the muddy holes and puddles forming rapidly around them.
As they trudged along, listening to the rumbles of the thunder approaching, Jemima was filled with a sense of urgency unlike any other. Having spent most of her life living beside the sea, she wasn’t a stranger to thunder-storms, and knew from the almost constant thunder that this storm was close, and was going to be a bad one. Lengthening her stride, she was practically running beside Peter as they decided to cut across the fields and shorten the distance they needed to cover.
In the far distance, the small dots of lighted windows were barely visible, but at least they were in sight. They gave Jemima a ray of hope that they would get to safety before being struck by lightning.
“Do you think someone tampered with the cart?” Jemima gasped, trying to keep pace with Peter’s long stride. She hadn’t missed Peter’s careful study of the cart and wheel before he had caught up with her. Clearly he had his own suspicions, but hadn’t yet seen fit to discuss them with her.
As the miles had passed and he had made no move to broach the subject, she realised it was down to her to ask the question.
Peter glanced over at her thoughtfully. Given she had been tossed from a cart, nearly trampled on, was soaking wet and was streaked from head to foot with mud and boot polish, she at least deserved his honesty.
“I think it may have been. The wheels were checked thoroughly before we left Dominic’s house. I know for a fact the bearings were changed not so long back, so are still relatively new. It doesn’t look like they failed, or the wheel succumbed to the ruts in the road. Unless I am mistake, the bolt was loosened, as it wasn’t anywhere near the wheel, or car
t.
“So you think someone loosened the bolt, knowing that it would cause the wheel to fall off – at some point during our journey?” Jemima immediately thought of Hugo.
It appeared that Peter was thinking along the same lines when he sighed and looked over at her, pausing only long enough to help her over the stile before answering her. “I think someone may, and I stress may, have.”
“Give me the truth, Peter,” Jemima gasped, drawing to a halt. Ignoring the steady stream of water running down her hair, she tossed the sodden mass over her shoulder and glared up at him through the darkness that had now settled around him.
“I don’t know,” Peter practically shouted over the thunder, which was now directly ahead. “If we don’t get out of this bloody rain, we are both likely to drown, so move!” He grabbed hold of her cloak, his frustration mounting with doubts that just wouldn’t go away.
“Do you think Hugo tampered with the cart?” Jemima was determined not to be put off and jerked her shoulder out of his grasp, glaring at him defiantly when he glanced over at her.
“I don’t know. Are you certain it was him who was with you in the gaol? Could he not be disguised himself?”
Jemima thought about that for several moments. She hated to think back to that harrowing morning in the narrow corridor, listening to people meeting their death and the baying crowds that had come to watch, but knew she needed to if she wanted answers.
“I am positive that the man who stood in front of me was Hugo Dunnicliffe. Whether he is also working for Scraggan, I don’t know. But if he is, it doesn’t make sense that he kept me from going to the gallows,” Jemima gasped, fighting to talk through the need to breathe.
“Unless he needed the information both he and Scraggan knew you had. He had to save you from the gallows to gain your trust and retrieve the evidence against Scraggan.” Peter went cold inside, thinking of the plans they had made and Hugo’s insistence that he be the one to accompany Peter and Eliza to Padstow, rather than allow one of the Star Elite to do it, or them to go alone.
“But he has the evidence on him, so why has he been going to such lengths over the past couple of days?” Jemima gasped, relieved when Peter immediately jerked to a halt and turned to frown down at her.
“Shit!” Peter spat, staring at her.
“What?”
“We’re being set up,” he replied, taking the opportunity to turn in a circle and study what he could see of the area around them. Although there was no sign of movement, that didn’t mean they weren’t being watched.
“How do you know?” Jemima frowned, wondering what Hugo had said earlier that morning.
“We have arranged to meet at a tavern, in the village over there. The only way to the village is by that road,” he jerked his head back toward the way they just came. “He also knew that at some point during our journey the wheel would drop off, leaving us helpless and in the middle of nowhere.”
“Do you think we are walking into an ambush?” She glanced around her with fearful eyes, searching the shadows for danger. Although there were vague flashes of light, she could see very little around her in the inky blackness. She fought the wave of unease the darkness caused her, but slid closer to Peter anyway.
“I think we probably are,” Peter muttered reluctantly, frantically considering their options. He shook his head and cursed himself for being every kind of fool. If he was by himself, he would have no qualms about curling up in the hedgerow and waiting out the storm, no matter how cold and wet he got. But he couldn’t allow Jemima to stay outside in such inclement weather. She wasn’t battle-hardened, and he couldn’t expect any lady to suffer such an ordeal, whatever she had experienced in life so far.
“Then let’s skirt the village and move on to the next one. We can send word to Dominic from the next inn and ask if he could send us another cart. At least we will then be out of Hugo’s gaze and away from any imminent threat.” Trying to think the situation through logically was helping to keep her rising panic from overwhelming her.
Peter shook his head. “We cannot stay out in this storm, it is too dangerous.”
As if agreeing with his declaration, a huge gust of wind buffeted them, lashing them relentlessly with rain. Thunder suddenly crashed directly above them with such ferocity that Jemima squealed and jumped closer to Peter, her hands reaching for him through the darkness.
“We need to get moving,” Peter ordered, capturing one of her hands in his and tugging her toward the village. With no other reasonable option, they had to risk going to the tavern. If they went around the back, they could bunk down for the night in the stable. They could at least see if Hugo’s horse was stabled, and have a second way out of the stable yard if anyone posed a threat. More importantly, they would be out of the wretched storm.
They had taken no more than a few steps when a jagged slash of lightning lit up the night sky. Jemima screamed when, no more than a few steps away from her, stood a man, just as wet as she was, the sharp angles of his face lit by the flash of lightning. Just as quickly he was swallowed by the inky blackness around them as the lightening vanished.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Peter cursed.
Jemima was aware of him moving quickly past her before a loud grunt reached her ears. She gasped at the sound of flesh meeting flesh as he grappled with the stranger.
Jemima quickly turned in a circle, trying to see through the darkness for anyone else creeping toward them in the night, but could see nothing.
She could barely see Peter and the man wrestling on the ground.
“You bastard!” Peter snarled, landing a well-aimed blow on the stranger’s jaw – it was Hugo!
Hugo grunted, and dodged Peter’s other fist when it swung too close to his cheek, only to curse when Peter’s second fist caught his brow.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” he gasped, knowing that, if someone didn’t do something, they would probably spend the remainder of the night grappling in the mud. He was wet, dirty and getting far too many cuts and bruises on his face for his comfort, but he wouldn’t give in and simply allow Peter to pound him. He had men to command; men who would undoubtedly raise questions if he looked like he had been in a bar brawl.
“You set us up, you bastard!” Peter snarled, shoving Hugo hard into the ground, one hand clamped painfully around the man’s throat.
Hugo tugged at his wrist hard, using his free hand to land a punch on Peter’s stomach. Peter grunted and loosened his hold enough to allow Hugo to pull free. Another well aimed punch winded Peter enough for Hugo to push him off his legs and wriggle free. He had almost got to his feet before Peter dragged him back down into the mud.
Jemima stared at them for several moments and jumped when another jagged bolt of lightning lit up the sky. She turned in a circle again, but could see nobody else around them other than a solitary horse standing beside the hedgerow, looking as wet and miserable as herself.
Realising Hugo was alone, she knew that if they had any chance of getting out of the storm, she had to break them up. Sighing, she roughly grabbed a hand-ful of the material at the back of Peter’s shirt when he would have dodged Hugo’s blow. His grunt as Hugo’s fist landed on his jaw made her wince, but she held little sympathy for Peter when he immediately moved toward his opponent with his fist ready to strike.
“Will you two stupid idiots STOP!” she bellowed, wondering if she could find a stick, or something, to smack them over their stupid heads with.
She sighed deeply when they ignored her and continued to trade blows. Hugo, in retaliation for the brutal beating he was receiving; Peter in vengeful anger. He was still angry with the man for asking Jemima to put herself in danger, and then causing the carriage accident that had left her stranded out in the middle of a ferocious storm with nothing to protect her but himself.
Peter wasn’t sure who he was most angry at; himself for allowing Jemima to go along with Hugo’s request, or Hugo for requesting her help in the first place.
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nbsp; Inside a small voice warned him that he was being illogical, but he didn’t care. The frustration he had felt over the past hellishly long months had built to uncontrollable heights and now demanded release. Hugo, unfortunately, was in the wrong place at the wrong time. If he did work for Scraggan, Peter reasoned, then he was getting nothing less than he deserved for being a ruthless bastard willing to kill a woman to line his pockets and betray his country.
Hugo wondered if Peter had finally lost his grip on sanity. His relentless pounding was driven by something far deeper than the need to protect Jemima. That thought made him pause and dodge the fists aimed at him, rather than return them.
“Wait!” he gasped, cursing when he tasted blood from a cut on his lip.
He caught Peter’s fist in one beefy hand and glared at his opponent. “Where is she?” he gasped, before Peter could continue his relentless fury. It was enough to make Peter stop.
He froze and glanced around them. There was no trace of her.
“Jemima!” he shouted, swearing when she didn’t reply. He glanced over at Hugo, who was also trying to peer through the darkness. “If you have taken her, you bastard, I’ll kill you.”
“How in the hell could I take her? I was busy giving you a pasting,” Hugo replied, wiping blood off his cheek. He ignored Peter’s snort and tried to peer through the driving rain for any sign of her. He put a hand on Peter’s chest, preventing him from moving as he stared at the ground.
“This way,” he nodded toward the hedgerow where he had left his horse.
Within minutes they were at the side of the road, just in time to see Jemima turning the horse around and heading down the road leading to the village.