Bea huddled down in the farthest corner, clutching the small blade against her and praying for Michael’s safety.
—
As he slipped out into the night, Michael was careful to make sure there was no one waiting to shoot him down or slit his throat. In the distance he heard the sound of hoofbeats and the low buzz of men talking. The carriage had rolled down into a ravine and he could see that the back wheel lay shattered against the side of the wagon. Straining to see in the half-moon light, he could barely make out two bodies lying in the grass just down the ravine. Either they’d been shot when the attack began or they’d been killed when the wagon landed. Either way, the groomsman and his second had died at the hands of the highwaymen.
When they’d been shot at, the horses had spooked and set off in a run. Thankfully their harnesses had broken and they’d gotten away. Michael knew that their only hope lay in their chance of escape before their attackers found them.
Returning to the side of the carriage, Michael climbed up the side of it and called to Beatrice. “We’ve little time,” he whispered. “Give me your hand and I’ll pull you out.”
“Is it safe?” she asked.
“Yes, but not for long. We’ve got to get you out of here,” he told her.
He saw her nod to him and then, standing up like a true warrior woman of centuries past, she tucked the blade into her boot and reached up to him. Grasping her arm, he pulled her up. Once she could reach the doorframe, she helped him by scooting onto its edge.
“Hurry,” he said as he scrambled to the side and jumped down. Motioning to her to follow, he held his arms out and she jumped down into them. A rush of desire went through him. She filled his arms, true enough, but he’d caught her under her skirt and his right hand now grasped a fine plump buttock.
“Michael!” He heard her gasp.
“I’ll apologize later. There’s no time,” he said, quickly setting her on the ground. He grabbed her hand and set off in a dead run, dragging her along behind him.
“Oh, dear,” she gasped as they ran toward a copse of trees. To her credit, she did keep up well; her skirts pulled up and her slender legs working, she ran full out beside him.
Just at the edge he saw one of the horses, its harness caught on a felled tree branch. There lay their only chance at escape. He heard the shouts of their attackers getting louder behind them.
“Here”—he turned to Bea—“hand me the knife.”
Holding it out to him, eyes wide with excitement, breathing in short gasps, she nodded. “They’re getting closer,” she said.
“I know.” He turned to the horse and cut it loose from the tree. Doing his best to calm the frightened animal, he muttered gentle sounds while he freed it from the branch.
“Are you going to wait until they’ve gone and try to fix the wagon?” Bea asked.
“I couldn’t fix that wreck if I wanted to. Our only chance lies in the strong legs of this fine steed.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Not just I, fair Beatrice. You and I together. We’re going to get away from here.” With that he jumped on the back of the animal and held his hand down to pull her up.
“But there’s no saddle. A lady never rides…”
“Beatrice. There’s no time. We either get away now or they’re going to kill me and cart you off to be the next Mrs. Bainbridge.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. Then glancing back behind her for only a moment, Beatrice clearly made up her mind. Taking his hand, she allowed him to pull her onto the back of the horse.
“Hold tight,” he ordered. Leaning on him, she reached around his waist and dug her fingers into his abdomen. Not waiting for her to change her mind, he kicked the animal in its flank. Answering his command, the horse lurched and took off in a full-out gallop.
He only hoped they’d gotten away clean.
“How long until we get to Slyddon?” she asked, her words being stolen by the
—
As he slipped out into the night, Michael was careful to make sure there was no one waiting to shoot him down or slit his throat. In the distance he heard the sound of hoofbeats and the low buzz of men talking. The carriage had rolled down into a ravine and he could see that the back wheel lay shattered against the side of the wagon. Straining to see in the half-moon light, he could barely make out two bodies lying in the grass just down the ravine. Either they’d been shot when the attack began or they’d been killed when the wagon landed. Either way, the groomsman and his second had died at the hands of the highwaymen.
When they’d been shot at, the horses had spooked and set off in a run. Thankfully their harnesses had broken and they’d gotten away. Michael knew that their only hope lay in their chance of escape before their attackers found them.
Returning to the side of the carriage, Michael climbed up the side of it and called to Beatrice. “We’ve little time,” he whispered. “Give me your hand and I’ll pull you out.”
“Is it safe?” she asked.
“Yes, but not for long. We’ve got to get you out of here,” he told her.
He saw her nod to him and then, standing up like a true warrior woman of centuries past, she tucked the blade into her boot and reached up to him. Grasping her arm, he pulled her up. Once she could reach the doorframe, she helped him by scooting onto its edge.
“Hurry,” he said as he scrambled to the side and jumped down. Motioning to her to follow, he held his arms out and she jumped down into them. A rush of desire went through him. She filled his arms, true enough, but he’d caught her under her skirt and his right hand now grasped a fine plump buttock.
“Michael!” He heard her gasp.
“I’ll apologize later. There’s no time,” he said, quickly setting her on the ground. He grabbed her hand and set off in a dead run, dragging her along behind him.
“Oh, dear,” she gasped as they ran toward a copse of trees. To her credit, she did keep up well; her skirts pulled up and her slender legs working, she ran full out beside him.
Just at the edge he saw one of the horses, its harness caught on a felled tree branch. There lay their only chance at escape. He heard the shouts of their attackers getting louder behind them.
“Here”—he turned to Bea—“hand me the knife.”
Holding it out to him, eyes wide with excitement, breathing in short gasps, she nodded. “They’re getting closer,” she said.
“I know.” He turned to the horse and cut it loose from the tree. Doing his best to calm the frightened animal, he muttered gentle sounds while he freed it from the branch.
“Are you going to wait until they’ve gone and try to fix the wagon?” Bea asked.
“I couldn’t fix that wreck if I wanted to. Our only chance lies in the strong legs of this fine steed.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Not just I, fair Beatrice. You and I together. We’re going to get away from here.” With that he jumped on the back of the animal and held his hand down to pull her up.
“But there’s no saddle. A lady never rides…”
“Beatrice. There’s no time. We either get away now or they’re going to kill me and cart you off to be the next Mrs. Bainbridge.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” she said. Then glancing back behind her for only a moment, Beatrice clearly made up her mind. Taking his hand, she allowed him to pull her onto the back of the horse.
“Hold tight,” he ordered. Leaning on him, she reached around his waist and dug her fingers into his abdomen. Not waiting for her to change her mind, he kicked the animal in its flank. Answering his command, the horse lurched and took off in a full-out gallop.
He only hoped they’d gotten away clean.
“How long until we get to Slyddon?” she asked, her words being stolen by the
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