by Anne Barton
“You should go, damn it.”
There were a dozen keys on the ring. “Tell me.”
Charles uttered a curse and tightened his grip on the struggling guard. “One of the black ones.”
Her hands shaking, she tried the first black key in lock. No luck. The second, however, fit perfectly. She turned it, and door’s latch released. She’d done it. Well, at least the first step.
But what to do about the guard?
She had no wish to hurt him, but he wasn’t going to let them just walk out of there.
“Help!” he shouted, before Charles clamped a hand over his mouth.
Charles leaned forward and spoke directly into the guard’s ear. “If you yell again, I’ll be forced to silence you.” There was no mistaking his meaning. “Don’t. Yell.”
He pushed his way forward, swinging the door outward and dragging Wescott with him. There was just enough room for Rose to slip through the opening into the cell. “Take the blanket off my pallet,” Charles said. “We’ll use it to bind him to the bars.”
While Charles held the guard, Rose slid one end of the blanket through the iron bars and around him. Squeezing into the space between the men, she tied a loose knot, then Charles quickly cinched it tight. Wescott’s arms and torso were bound for the moment but the blanket’s knot wouldn’t hold the struggling guard for long.
As though he’d read Rose’s mind, Higgins shouted from his cell. “Yer gonna have to knock him out if you want a chance in hell of escaping this godforsaken place.”
Charles moved in front of Wescott and looked into his eyes. “No. He’s just doing his job. But I do need to silence him.” He looked around, his gaze landing on a cloth on the table that the guard had been using to clean and polish his gun. Charles grabbed it and stuffed it into the guard’s mouth. “Sorry, Wescott.”
Rose’s heart pounded with fright. What on earth were they doing, threatening and tying up the prison guard? She’d known that getting Charles out of prison would be messy, but she’d naïvely hoped that brandishing the pistol would do the trick. The reality of guns and gags was tenfold worse than she’d imagined—almost enough to make her sick.
And yet, she’d gladly do it again to keep him from hanging.
He grabbed the key ring from the lock and his bags from beside his pallet. Rose ducked beneath the table to pick up her pistol.
“This way to the exit,” Charles said. “Let’s go, quickly.”
Just as she stood, a portly guard entered the room, a stunned look on his face. He reached for the gun at his waist just as she aimed hers, and—
Pow.
The guard’s shot whizzed through the air and echoed through the building.
Terrified, she turned toward Charles, who appeared to be unhurt. And enraged.
He dropped his bags, barreled toward the guard at the door, and slammed him against the wall, jarring the gun from his hand.
When the guard reached for Charles’s throat, he grabbed him by the ears and knocked their skulls together. The guard slumped against the wall and crumpled to the floor, out cold.
Charles picked up the guard’s gun and jammed it into the waistband of his trousers. Then he hoisted his bags over one shoulder and reached for Rose’s hand. “Let’s go.”
She tamped down the panic that hammered in her chest and followed him out the door and down the staircase, cursing the yards of silk and velvet that tangled around her legs.
At the bottom, she stopped him and pointed to a dark bolted door. “Should we try it?”
Charles smiled, impressed. Quickly, he slid the bolt aside, pried the heavy door open, and peered outside. “It’s clear.”
They stepped into the night and took deep breaths of clean, crisp, cold air.
He cupped one of her cheeks in his hand and looked at her with a tenderness that made her throat constrict. “You are very courageous—and a little bit mad. I can’t believe you risked coming here.”
The enormity of what she’d done began to sink in, and a tremor ran through her. “I had to—”
A ruckus sounded inside the prison, cutting her off. Angry shouts pierced the stillness of the night.
He pressed a brief, fervent kiss to her lips. “We need to move quickly. Follow me.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Bridle: (1) A horse’s headpiece, including the headstall, bit, and reins. (2) To hold back or restrain. See also unbridled, as in He kissed her with unbridled desire. And she rather liked it.
Charles led the way through the shadows, keeping Rose close to the prison wall and shielding her with his body. At the corner of the building, she stopped him. “Wait.”
She crouched by a large shrub and leaned underneath.
Fearing she was ill, he dropped to his knees beside her. “Are you all right?”
“There should be a satchel under here. I packed some things we’ll need.”
Charles still felt like he was in some odd dream. The Rose he knew did not brandish a pistol or orchestrate prison escapes. But now she was implicated in the entire mess—in nearly as much trouble as he was. He ducked his head to search beneath the bush, quickly located the bag, and pulled it out. “Here.”
“Thank you. Now we just need to—”
“Find a way out of Bath,” he said.
She swallowed. “Without being captured. I brought money. Shall we hire a hackney coach?”
He shook his head. “Too conspicuous and slow. We need horses. Let’s head over the bridge to the stable on High Street. Quickly, before the prison guards alert the entire town.”
She slipped her hand in his and they hurried along, she in her ball gown and jewels, he in his shirtsleeves. They would appear an odd pair to anyone who spotted them, and he supposed they were. But she’d risked everything for him, and he knew one thing without a doubt. He had to keep her safe.
Squeezing his hand as they scurried toward town, she said, “We’re going to be all right. I believe in you… and us.”
Awed by her faith in him, he smiled. “The stable is just over there.” He pointed across the street. “I’ll secure horses for us. It’s probably best if we’re not seen together.”
She reached into her reticule. “Take these coins.”
“I have money. Stay here. Should anyone bother you, show your pistol and scream. I can be at your side in an instant.” She nodded bravely and slipped around the corner of a building into the shadows.
Charles jogged across the road and entered the stable casually. A thin man slouched on an overturned crate, his cap pulled low over his eyes, snoring. Charles cleared his throat loudly and the man sat up.
“I’m bound for London and need two horses,” Charles told the stable hand. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
The stable hand blinked and looked at him curiously, no doubt finding it strange that a man without a jacket would request two horses this late on a winter’s night. He ran a hand down his lined face as if to say, either way, it mattered not to him. “I’ve got this pair.”
“They’ll do,” said Charles. But he sincerely hoped that he and Rose would not have to rely on the tired-looking mares to help them outrun any constables who gave chase.
“Let me saddle them up and you can be on your way.”
“I’ll give you a hand,” Charles offered. He hoisted a worn saddle over the blanket on the horse’s back and stooped to buckle it beneath her belly. While the stable hand wrestled with the saddle on the other mare, Charles dug several coins out of his bag and slapped them on the wide beam between two stalls. He hooked his bags onto the back of the saddle, shifted uneasily, and glanced out onto the street. Three men ran down the road, craning their necks from side to side as though they were looking for someone. And gripping their clubs as though that someone might be dangerous.
Holy hell. He had to return to Rose. Now. But the second mare wasn’t ready. He hopped onto the mare he’d saddled and took the reins in his hands.
“Wait a second,” the stable hand protes
ted, just loud enough to draw the attention of the men—constables—on the street. They immediately turned and headed for the stable. “I’ll go around the back,” one cried, splitting off from the trio. “You cut him off at the front.”
Damn. Charles had no choice. Leaving the second mare behind, he kicked his horse into a gallop and charged out of the stable, darting past the constables toward Rose.
Tentatively, she emerged from the shadows, holding her reticule and satchel in one hand.
When he stopped in front of her, she threw him her bags, reached for his hand, and allowed him to swing her up into the saddle in front of him.
Behind them, the constables yelled for them to halt and threatened to shoot. Charles wrapped his body around Rose’s as he urged the horse into a run, but the mare struggled with the weight of two riders and their bags. She could manage only a fast trot, and with just moonlight to illuminate their way over the frozen ground, that was probably for the best.
The men’s shouts subsided once he and Rose crossed the Pulteney Bridge, and they kept riding. Farther and farther from Bath.
“Are the men still following us?” Rose asked breathlessly.
“Probably, but at least we’ve put some space between us and them.” He wished he could give her more reassurance without stretching the truth to the thinnest of threads.
“That’s good,” she said firmly.
“Can you keep going for a while?” he asked.
“As long as we need to.”
They rode another hour. Charles looked over his shoulder every few minutes but could see no one trailing them. He listened for the sound of hooves thundering behind them, but the highway was quite deserted.
When the mare had nothing left to give and slowed, Charles steered her off the road and into an adjacent field. He found a stream where the horse could drink, dismounted, and helped Rose from the saddle.
“Oh, Charles,” she cried, launching herself into his arms. “I didn’t know what else to do. But I’m not sorry. I’d do it again.”
“Shhh.” He held her close and smoothed a hand over her hair, inadvertently freeing the silver ribbon that had adorned her curls.
As he bent to sweep if off the ground, she giggled. “It’s absurd, isn’t it?”
“Maybe a little. But you look beautiful.”
“It’s my break-out-of-prison ensemble,” she said through chattering teeth.
He looked down at her feet. “Pretty silver slippers can’t be much defense against the cold.”
“I brought boots. They’re in my satchel.”
“You should have told me,” he said. “I would have stopped sooner. Here.” He drew the greatcoat from his bag and spread it out so she wouldn’t have to sit on the frozen ground.
“Why aren’t you wearing that?” she said.
“I’m not cold.” It was true. Maybe he was still in shock, still struggling with the idea of what she’d done. For him.
He handed her satchel to her. “Did you bring another gown?” he asked hopefully.
“I did.” She sat, winced as she slid her slippers off her feet, then reached for a boot.
“Wait.” He knelt and took one foot in his hands, gently rubbing the warmth back into it before easing it into her boot. He did the same for the other foot, smiling at the little mewling sounds she made in her throat as he caressed her heel, arch, and toes.
He laced the boots and pulled her cloak tightly about her legs. “Better?”
She sighed and stood. “Much.”
“Good.” He picked up his greatcoat and draped it over her shoulders, but the back dragged behind her like a train.
“Please,” she said, pulling it off and handing it to him, “put this on. I won’t have you developing frostbite on my account.”
“You can use it as a blanket when we’re back on the horse.” But he had to find some shelter for the night, somewhere she could warm up and he could think about their next moves without fear of being discovered.
“We’ll give the mare a few minutes to recover, then go search for a place to rest. I won’t let anything happen to you,” he said.
She smiled. “I know.”
They traveled for another hour, maybe two. Riding under the stars, Rose lost track of time. After all of the evening’s excitement, she would have thought it impossible to feel sleepy, and yet her eyelids drooped. She leaned back against the warm, hard wall of Charles’s chest and told herself that everything would turn out all right. As long as she was with him, she would be fine. They would be fine.
Leaning close to her ear, he said, “There’s an old barn ahead. If it’s vacant, it should suit our purposes nicely.”
He pointed off to the right, and Rose squinted in that direction, barely able to discern the barn’s outline in the moonlight. It was large and dark, and if it afforded them a place to hide for the remainder of the night, it was a godsend.
Charles stopped several yards away from the structure and dismounted. “I’ll have a look. Stay here, and I’ll return shortly.”
He disappeared around the front of the barn, and a minute later she heard the rattling of a wooden door, followed by the smashing of a metal lock.
For a moment, all was silent, then the creak of a rusty-hinged door echoed across the field and skittered down her spine. She held her breath, waiting for a signal from Charles.
Soft light spilled from the barn door, and as Charles strode toward her, the silhouette of his broad shoulders and narrow hips made her want to sigh. “Our lodgings for the night,” he announced, helping her down from the mare. “Not as luxurious as you’re accustomed to, but they’ll do.” He led her to the door and reached for the dented lantern hanging from a hook just inside. It didn’t illuminate the whole barn, just enough for Rose to see some empty animal pens, a pitchfork and some other abandoned tools, and hay. Lots of hay.
He flipped over a crate and set it in an alcove away from the door and the bitterly cold air that drifted through it. “Rest here for a moment while I see to the horse.” As she sat, he shrugged off his greatcoat and settled it around her shoulders. Infused with his scent and the warmth of his body, the coat thawed her more quickly than any fire could have. She tucked her feet and hands beneath its folds and watched as Charles led the mare to a pen and shut the door to the barn.
They had so much to say to each other, so much to discuss. But she felt as though she’d used up all her words for the night trying to flee the ballroom and negotiate Charles’s release. Besides, there were issues she wasn’t quite ready to face.
As though he understood, Charles said, “You must be exhausted.”
She nodded, and for the first time that evening, felt as though she might cry. He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her.
She laid her head on his shoulder and breathed slowly until she was calm again. “I brought a bit of food in my satchel, if you’re hungry.”
“I’m not, but maybe you’d like something to eat?”
“No.”
“Very well, then I’m going to make you a bed. I don’t suppose you have a blanket in your bag?”
She smiled. “I’m afraid not. I only brought my boots, a change of clothes, money, and some food.” Just the things she’d thought they might need after Charles’s escape… until he could board a ship for America. “I did pack a large shawl, though. Would that help?”
“It would.” He stood, grabbed the pitchfork, and tossed large bunches of clean hay onto the floor beside her. His movements, so easy and familiar, transported her to that magical summer when she’d followed him everywhere. She might have been a girl again, naïve, troubled, and hopelessly in love with the stable master—the only person who truly understood her. She’d thought then that her life couldn’t possibly be more complicated. How wrong she’d been.
“How did you hide the satchel outside the prison? Weren’t you at a ball earlier this evening?”
“I sent it to Edward and Shirley at Yardley Manor earlier today.” It
seemed ages ago. “They brought it when they picked me up from the ball in the wagon. They drove me directly to the prison, and I threw the satchel under the shrub. I waited there while they drove out front and yelled at each other as though they were having a row to end all rows. When a couple of guards ran out to see what was happening, I slipped through the side door behind them.” She shrugged. “It was shockingly easy.”
He set down the pitchfork, went to unhook her satchel and his bags from the horse’s saddle, and set them both beside Rose. Gesturing to the large mound of hay, he said, “Not the finest of mattresses, but it will be comfortable enough once we cover it with your shawl.”
She rummaged through the satchel and held up the shawl.
“Perfect.” Together, they unfurled the soft wool garment and held the corners, letting it billow down over the hay. He slipped his bag under one end of the shawl and punched it a few times. “You can use this as a pillow. Ready to try it out?”
She was indeed. The makeshift bed looked surprisingly inviting. “Only if you lie down, too.”
“I’m going to remain awake. We should be safe here,” he quickly assured her, “but it’s best if I keep an eye out in the unlikely event that someone stumbles upon us.”
“You don’t have to sleep,” she said. “But at least lie down and rest with me. You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”
“An invitation such as that is nigh impossible to refuse. I’ll join you for a bit, just until you doze off.”
He held her hand as she sat on the pallet and sank into its softness. She patted the spot beside her, and he stretched out there, compressing the mound of hay beneath him to half its original height. Together they leaned back, resting their heads on his lumpy bag.
“What do you have in your bag?” she asked. “Stones?”
“All my worldly possessions. You’ve probably got a volume of Grimms’ fairy tales beneath your neck.”
She turned toward him, her eyes shining suspiciously. “A book. You didn’t leave them all at your cottage.”