Allison Lane by A Bird in Hand Page A

jumping into a flooded river seem reasonable? 
    But it was too late to stop him.
    “We must fetch help,” he shouted to John Coachman as he vaulted back inside.  “Spring ‘em!”
    The carriage lurched forward.  The horses splashed through the water and onto the bridge.
    Sedge fingered Randolph’s card case as he squinted at the river.  No heads dotted its surface.  No arms struck out for the bank.  Had Randolph hit a rock with that reckless plunge? 
    He shuddered.  How was he to face Wyndport if Randolph perished?  How could he face Whitfield?
    Fool!  Such thinking was unproductive. 
    He tucked the card case into his pocket for safekeeping.  Randolph was a strong swimmer who would easily rescue whoever had fallen into the water.  But he would need dry clothing when he emerged.  An inflammation of the lungs could kill him.  Yet finding him would require help if they were to manage it quickly.  It was anyone’s guess how far downstream he would land.
    The carriage bucked wildly as it raced along the uneven road.  Mud sucked at the wheels.  Rain battered the roof, though he had been right about the estate wall.  It kept the wind away.
    A sudden swerve sent them into a skid.  Sedge caught a glimpse of gates flashing past the windows, their posts topped by huge stone birds.
    Ravenswood.
    The gatehouse was a tumbled ruin, so he would find no help there, but the manor was visible in the distance, perched on a rise across the valley.  And seeking assistance from an estate was better than in a village.  Lord Fosdale could command the servants to help, so Sedge would be spared enlisting the cooperation of strangers.  He had no doubt Fosdale would do it.  Allowing harm to befall a duke’s heir would create a scandal that would cling to him for life.
    John slowed the team.  Away from the sheltering wall, the wind slammed into them.  Trees might have offered protection, but few dotted the park grounds.  Gusting gales whipped those few into frenzied dances that bowed the smaller ones to the ground and back in an orgy of curtsying lit by flash after flash of lightning.  Pines shivered, their heavy foliage fighting blasts that sought to strip them bare.  Leaves and twigs battered the windows.
    Sedge grimaced.  How was John faring under this onslaught?  Or the horses? 
    A loud crack boomed outside, sharper and more immediate than the ubiquitous thunder.  Ripping sounds filled the air.  The horses screamed. 
    “Hell and damnation!”
    A huge pine toppled, swooping straight for him.  Sedge lunged across the carriage, but there was no escape.  His shouts joined John’s curses.  The moment stretched endlessly, punctuated by rending, cracking, and dizziness.
    Then silence.
    Sedge opened his eyes.  He was alive.  The wind continued to wail, though his thudding heart dulled its sound.
    Pine needles and splintered wood nearly buried a wad of fabric an inch from his face.  His greatcoat.  The remains of Randolph’s hat peeked out nearby.
    It took him a moment to realize that he was hanging headfirst off the seat. 
    “Aayaahh!”  Pushing himself up stabbed pain through his left arm.  His shout trailed away into curses.
    A new blast of wind shook the coach.  Water spattered the back of his head. 
    Gritting his teeth, he fumbled about until his right hand found a sturdy hold, though he was shaking so badly he could barely hang on.  Fierce effort pulled him upright, but not without painful contortions that more than once threatened him with unconsciousness.  He wiped the sweat from his forehead, swallowing nausea as he took stock of his narrow escape.
    The coach sat on a slant, skewered by a tree limb that entered through the roof and continued through the floor.  Jagged splinters stuck out at intervals.  Broken branches and wet foliage filled much of the interior, leaving only this cramped corner where he had landed.  Rain battered the wreckage.  He needed to escape, but the door was