Had they ever talked about it?
No. They’d seldom spoken of anything beyond immediate trivialities, perhaps out of fear that it might lead to a deeper attachment on one side or the other.
“You’re thinking about him again,” she scolded herself.
If she wanted to know his home county, she should save her questions and put them to Miss Ivy on the drive back to Bath.
That sensible idea hit upon, Felicity settled herself to imagine the quiet, cosy household she would fashion for her family of two. She scarcely noticed her breath slowing to keep time with the gentle bounce and sway of the carriage.
Some while later, she roused slightly as the sound and tempo of the ride altered. Awake only enough to tell herself they must be traveling over the cobbled city streets of Bristol, she sank back into slumber.
She woke next in a sudden, disorienting manner as the carriage slowed abruptly, sending her hurtling forward onto the opposite seat. Darkness still wrapped the landscape outside. How long had she been asleep? Where were they?
High skittish whinnies from the horses penetrated the interior of the carriage as it came to a full stop. Felicity regained her seat, then reached up to rap her knuckles on the ceiling and demand an accounting from Mr. Hixon. The next sound from outside made her hand freeze in midair and her stomach churn in a way that had nothing to do with her pregnancy.
“Stand and deliver!”
Could someone be playing a tasteless prank? Felicity wondered as she scooped her reticule from the floor to hide in the folds of her cloak. Surely highwaymen were a fixture of the last century, not this one.
Or had travelers become more cautious about venturing over deserted stretches of road after dark? Thorn’s prudent warning echoed in her thoughts. It will be a difficult journey—perhaps even dangerous.
She’d been so anxious to distance herself from him and so impatient with his attempts to take control of the situation. What had she expected? Thorn Greenwood was a man, after all, not a lapdog.
“Give us leave to pass,” shouted the coachman. “What do ye want, anyway?”
“Wha’ d’yer think?” came the reply, followed by harsh laughter that made Felicity break out in gooseflesh. “Nice lookin’ rig like this, bound to have good pickin’s, eh? Let’s take a look.”
Felicity wedged herself into the corner farthest from the carriage door as she heard a rider dismount and footsteps approach.
“I’ve got a pistol cocked and I ain’t afraid to use it,” called the highwayman for the benefit of anyone inside the carriage.
Felicity fumbled in her reticule, extracting several pound notes from the large number inside. This knight of the road would never miss them. Though her pulse throbbed in her ears, she lunged for the carriage door and threw it open.
“Here.” She thrust her reticule toward a man-shaped shadow. “Take it and let us be on our way. I must get to Gloucester by morning—my mother is very ill.”
If such nefarious creatures had hearts, that story together with her ready cooperation might save her from being molested further.
Or perhaps not.
“I’m right sorry to ’ear that, ma’am,” the highwayman replied.
He shook the reticule. Several golden guineas at the bottom jingled. “Thanks for this little gift. But don’t be in too big a hurry to get on your way again. Those prads of yours sound a bit winded to me.” He referred to the horses.
When he took a step nearer, Felicity retreated into the depths of the carriage.
“Are ye as pretty as ye sound, I wonder?” A gloved hand reached in and groped toward her.
“I’m not at all pretty, and…” Felicity floundered for anything she could say that might deter this criminal from doing what he appeared intent on. “…and…I have the pox!”
Felicity heard a dull thud, then the highwayman pitched into the carriage. The scream she’d been choking back for some minutes ripped from her throat.
Chapter Four
Thorn Greenwood shifted in his saddle. He’d been riding hard for several hours on a succession of narrow county roads which skirted around Bristol to reach the highway that ran between that bustling port and the city of Gloucester, over thirty miles to the north. A bilious sense of urgency gripped his belly as he spurred the spirited mount St. Just had loaned him.
A brisk west wind from off the mouth of the Severn whipped the horse’s mane and threatened to snatch away Thorn’s hat. He jammed it down tighter and kept riding.
“I should never have let her leave Bath without me,” Thorn muttered aloud the words that had drummed in his head over and over while he’d been riding.
The full moon hung low in the sky, casting a pale ghostly light over the heath and on the black ribbon of road that wound through it. Thorn squinted into the shadowy darkness, straining to catch the faintest sign of Felicity’s carriage.
Might he have reached the highway before her? Or was she several long miles ahead of him on this lonely, perilous stretch of road?
Thorn did not have long to ponder the question, for just then his horse reached the crest of a slight rise. From that vantage he could make out a small bobbing light not far ahead—one that he prayed was being cast by a driving lamp on Felicity’s carriage.
A sigh of relief rose to his lips, only to be sucked back in a gasp. The light had abruptly stopped moving.
That might mean any number of things, but at the moment Thorn could think of only one. Crouching low in the saddle, he urged his flagging horse to one last desperate dash, fearing he might be too late. The pounding of his heart outstripped even the fast-rolling thunder of hooves against the road.
In the instant he drew close enough to see, Thorn recognized Felicity’s equipage. The flame of satisfaction that flared within him rapidly quenched at the sight of a man preparing to enter the carriage box.
A man with a white handkerchief shrouding the lower portion of his face.
As Thorn drew near the carriage, he reined in his mount, then hurled himself from the saddle onto the intruder. The two of them pitched into the carriage as a woman’s scream pierced the darkness.
The boneless sprawl of the man beneath him told Thorn the fellow had been knocked senseless. Just to be safe, he groped around the carriage floor until his hand closed over the highwayman’s pistol.
“Keep away from me!” cried Felicity. “Keep away, do you hear?”
Thorn struggled to speak so he could reassure her that all was well—at least better than it had been a few moments ago. But his flying tackle of the highwayman had both winded and stunned him. Unable to coax out any words louder than a whisper, he scrambled up from the floor, intent on comforting Felicity in his embrace, instead.
As he reached for her, she screamed again, loud enough to make his ears ring. At the same time, her heeled slipper came into violent contact with his midriff. Thorn doubled over with a grunt of pain.
He lurched backward, only to trip over the unconscious highwayman and crumple onto the seat opposite Felicity. Before he could catch his breath or collect his wits, she fell on him, scratching, slapping, pummelling like a wild creature. Thorn fell back before the onslaught, his hands raised to fend off the worst of it.
“Felicity!” he gasped.
Her attack did not abate. If anything, it gathered speed and force, each blow punctuated by a squeal or high-pitched grunt.
“Felicity, it’s Thorn.” He caught her deceptively fragile wrists in his hands to stay her assault and gave her a good hard shake to bring her to her senses. “You’re safe, now.”