Chapter Twenty
These ominous words, dreaded by every traveler, struck a quite different chord with Charlotte.
Oh great, good heavens!
It sounded like Rafe.
It must be Rafe. The mask she’d seen at Dovehouse Farm confirmed he was a highwayman.
The highwayman.
Culverdale pulled down the sash and peered cautiously out the window, his pistol upright against his cheek. The instant she saw his hand tense to point the weapon, she knew she must act at once.
She threw herself at him, catching him unawares, and dragged his arm down.
Alas! Not soon enough. An ear-splitting blast from the gun was followed by the sound of splintering wood as the ball cracked through the side of the carriage.
A bellow of pain assaulted her ears.
No!
Rafe had been hit!
Culverdale, his hat awry and his thin face twisted in fury, turned to wrestle with her. He kicked the door open, struggling to throw her out of the carriage. Just as she was about to lose her balance, he let go abruptly and collapsed across her, the gun clattering to the floor.
She quickly extracted and righted herself. Blood was soaking through Culverdale’s wig, running down his neck and over the ruffled front of his shirt. She looked up, and there was Jenny, a broken wine bottle quivering in her hands.
“God in Heaven, I’ve killed him!” squeaked her maid.
Culverdale groaned.
Not dead, thank God.
When Charlotte got over her shock enough to examine him, she realized what she’d thought blood was actually claret from the bottle.
“Whatever made you do that?” she asked, hugely impressed.
“I saw the bottle in a pocket in the door when we climbed up. When his lordship pulled out a pistol and you tried to stop him shooting the desperate creature outside in cold blood, I knew I must help.”
“Well, thank you. But we can’t leave him like this. Let’s sit him up. Then work out what to do.”
Just as they succeeded in getting the insensible peer back onto the seat, the carriage doorway darkened and a masked face appeared.
Jenny’s robust shriek brought Charlotte’s headache back with a vengeance.
The highwayman took in the scene inside. With a groan, he pressed a hand to his forehead. “Miss Charlotte Allston. I might have known our paths would cross again in such dramatic fashion.”
Rafe—for it was indeed he—reversed back down the steps and clung awkwardly to the door as she and Jenny tumbled out of the carriage. As soon as they’d gained the ground, the vehicle lurched forward a few yards.
Charlotte looked up in alarm. The coachman, presumably struck down by Rafe when he jumped from his tree onto the carriage roof, was slumped forward over the reins. The horses stamped and rolled their eyes, threatening at any moment to hurtle off, dragging the coach and its two unconscious occupants with them.
Rafe limped across to grasp the leader’s harness, and she ran to help him. “Are you hurt?”
“Damned ball caught me in the thigh. I’ll need patching up, but not until I’ve searched Culverdale’s pockets for documents. Can you calm this animal while I do so?”
She nodded and took hold of the leathers. There was another groan from the carriage, and a frightened gasp from Jenny.
“He’s waking up,” she cried. “What shall I do? He’ll be so angry with us!”
Charlotte looked to Rafe for help. He staggered, and collapsed back against the wheel of the coach. He was in no condition to do anything. It was down to her now, and she had to think fast before he was further weakened by loss of blood.
“You’re right. We should go,” she said. Releasing the horse’s head, she caught Rafe about the waist and tried to take his weight. “And quickly, before this gentleman faints.”
“I’ve never fainted in my life,” Rafe rasped. “Stop interfering, Miss Allston. I must make a captive of the villain, and turn him over to the authorities.”
“And bleed to death in the process? What if he comes to? You’ll be no match for him in your present state. Come now, while you’re still able.”
Rafe emitted a deep groan, and she felt him relax against her shoulder.
Jenny looked alarmed.
“Don’t worry. I know this man. It’s quite safe,” she said. “Quick, help me before he falls!”
They soon had his weight balanced between them. She scanned the ground quickly to make sure nothing incriminating had been left behind in the scuffle, then glanced at the sky. It was still raining—thankfully not as hard, but it was unlikely to clear anytime soon—which would wash away any blood trail.
Taking a deep breath, she thanked her lucky stars she had a strong stomach and wasn’t the kind of person likely to faint in the jaws of danger. She thanked them, too, for Jenny’s loyalty and presence of mind.
And she fervently prayed that Culverdale would never know who it was who had knocked him senseless.
Recovering a little, Rafe slid his arm away from Jenny and rummaged at his belt, producing a dagger. “Here,” he told the maid. “Cut the ribbons, close to the body of the lead horse. Right through, so Culverdale can’t follow us. Then cut a two-foot length of leather strap and bring it to me.”
“We must get away from here!” Charlotte exclaimed as Jenny came running back to them with the strap. “We can’t afford to linger.”
“Much as it infuriates me to leave the blackguard behind,” he ground out, “I believe you’re right.” Replacing his dagger in its sheath, he said, “Quickly. We must get out of sight. Head straight for the stand of trees on that little hillock.”
Jenny thrust her shoulder beneath his armpit, and Charlotte took his weight on the other side. Between them, they pushed through the soaked undergrowth and forged a path to the place Rafe had indicated. When they were a good quarter of an hour away from Culverdale and his driver, he pointed to a shadowy opening in the dense undergrowth beneath an ancient spreading yew. “Hitch up your skirts and crawl in.”
Jenny squeezed through first, and Charlotte insisted Rafe follow. When his muddy boots had disappeared inside the concealing canopy, she cast a quick look over her shoulder, listening for pursuers.
There were no sounds but the wind soughing in the branches and the steady patter and drip of the rain. The woods were getting darker by the minute, which could only be to their advantage, though how they would make their way home cutting across country if there was no moon, she’d no idea. From their hiding place it was impossible to see the coach, but there were no noises of hue and cry or moving lanterns, so there was still hope they would escape undetected.
She hitched up her skirts, knelt on the sodden ground, and wriggled through the gap into a dark, rank-smelling cave of greenery. She could only imagine what kind of creatures called it home.
There was just enough space for the three of them, and any movement invariably resulted in banging one’s head on a branch or being scratched by a limb. After her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she saw Rafe tying the leather strap tightly around the top of his thigh.
“I need something for a bandage,” he whispered. “Do you have a handkerchief in your reticule?”
“Too small,” she responded. “We’ll use my stockings.”
It was an awkward scrabble in the confined space, but with Jenny’s help, one stocking was removed, turned inside out, and folded into a soft pad, the least muddy side of which she applied to Rafe’s wound. The second stocking she tied around his leg to keep the first in place.
“Now we wait,” he said.
She peered at him incredulously. “No! We need to get you to a surgeon.”
“That must wait until full dark, so we can get back to Dovehouse unseen. Paynter has experience of dressing wounds in the field. He’ll sort me out.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she snapped. “Dovehouse is two miles away. The cottage is much closer. We’ll go there immediately, before you bleed to death.”
He shook his head. “You don’t understand the seriousness of this business. I cannot be caught or seen. Nor must either of you. The punishment will be dire if you’re thought to have assisted a highwayman. Think of your mother, your aunt. Will you bring such shame on them?”
She pressed her lips together stubbornly. “Then why are you a highwayman? Are any of the tales you’ve told me true?” He opened his mouth to reply but she waved him into silence. “Either way, there’s no way on God’s earth we’re staying here with you in this state. The longer we wait, the more time we’re giving Culverdale and his coachman to alert the authorities. Soon, the whole countryside will be in an uproar.”
“You cannot be seen in the company of a high toby.”
“Then you mustn’t look like one,” she said, exasperated. “We’ll hide your mask and hat in a bush, tie your coat about your waist to hide the bandage, and roll up your shirtsleeves. If Jenny and I untidy ourselves, we can all stagger back together as if we’ve just come from the alehouse and are making our drunken way home. No one will guess who you are.”
“You think to give me orders, Miss A— Aah!”
His groan of pain made her wince, but she said crisply, “Be ruled by me, just this once, sir. I’m sure my plan will work.”
“You read too many Gothic novels, Miss Allston, as I said before,” he muttered. “But perhaps, just this once, you are right.”
She breathed a sigh of relief. It would have been dreadful staying here in the cold and the damp, waiting for nightfall, and knowing with every minute Rafe was losing more blood, growing weaker and less able to walk.
“Well, we do smell of wine, thanks to Jenny’s quick thinking with that bottle,” she said. “Anyone who gets close enough will easily believe we’re all in our cups. Jenny and I will let our hair down and carry our bonnets. Jenny, could you loosen your lacing at the front?”
There was a gasp from the girl, followed by a throaty chuckle from Rafe—which made her feel a lot better. If he could still laugh, he wasn’t dying.
“Your maid is scandalized by your suggestion,” he said. “Evidently, she values her modesty more than you do your own.”
Possibly true. Concerning him, admittedly, she had very little modesty left—especially after that kiss the other day. But the less anyone knew about that, the better.
“If you’re ready, we’ll get moving,” she said quickly. “I’ll go first.”
It was good to feel the chill of the rain on her burning cheeks. How could she possibly be thinking about Rafe’s touch, his lips on her face and her breasts, at such a desperate time? Shaking her head to clear it, she gazed about, trying to get her bearings.
“There’s an old sheep path just through there,” Jenny said, and pointed toward the edge of the wood. “I’ve been through Fox Wood in late summer looking for blackberries and cobs. The best can be found along that path.”
The track was barely wide enough for three, but they made their way as best they could, shielding Rafe from brambles and twigs with their bodies. Charlotte, now missing her stockings, came off worst—her ankles stung from the vicious swipe of bramble thorns, and she regularly had to tear her skirts free. Both she and her gown would need serious attention when they arrived back home.
As the outskirts of the village came within view, she paused and listened for any sign of alarm or unusual activity. When all seemed still, she staggered boldly out onto the road, pulling Rafe and Jenny with her, and struck out for home, praying they would reach it unseen.
Because if they were caught by Culverdale’s men, there would be no mercy.
For any of them.