Chapter 56
Lucy’s stomach dropped as she saw the mercenary ahead review the scene.
Dashwood was a perfect target, still trying to right himself on the horse.
The mercenary seemed to come to the same conclusion.
He raised his rifle, bracing himself, lining up the shot.
There had to be a way. Something she could do.
Drawing back, she tied the reins off roughly, leaning over to one side.
The hidden compartment opened and she pulled out the coach rifle.
Intent on his prey, the mercenary had not seen her, but he had found his shot. There was no time for her to brace or aim and she fired blind, the recoil knocking her back on the seat.
Her shot went high above the mercenary, but succeeded in drawing his attention.
Caught by surprise, he shifted aim and swiftly fired at what he saw to be the more dangerous target.
The frantic shot and the fact Lucy was on her side caused it to go low, hitting the coach with a clang of metal.
Suddenly the running of the coach sounded different, her mind racing to identify it.
To her dismay she saw the quick-release mechanism impacted by the shot, as it gave way and executed its function, disconnecting the horses from Lucy’s coach.
The mercenary grinned, knowing she had no chance of keeping pace now. With cool efficiency he began to reload, Dashwood once again in his sights.
Lucy ignored the reins, instantly dismissing executing the bold move that had saved Captain Dashwood.
She had only two options. She could pull the brake and hope the momentum of the coach would bleed off before the road curve threw it over the cliff face.
It was her best hope for survival, but it would guarantee that the other coach would escape.
She pulled the second lever instead.
The coil-spring boost rapidly expending itself and the coach beyond her control, Lucy turned and pulled herself up onto the roof.
She felt the kick of momentum, the two coaches drawing directly alongside each other.
There was no time to delay or overthink.
She threw herself towards the roof of the fleeing coach.
With the coaches close and matching speed, the jump was easy enough.
But only a few seconds after she landed, the St Martins’ coach drew around a sharp corner and she was forced flat, gripping onto a spar.
It was a most perilous position to find herself in, but remained preferable to the alternative.
With neither horses nor driver, the coach that she and Dashwood had so diligently restored, customised and raced flew one last time, out over the edge of the road, flipping forward so that it was completely upside down when it impacted with the rocks below, showering into the ocean.
No amount of salvage and repair would be enough for it to be roadworthy this time.
Lucy desperately tried to find purchase with her boots, her only relief being that the mercenary seemed too intent on his rear target to notice his new passenger. Straining herself she drew up her feet, laying flat on the roof, facing back along the road.
She was amazed that Dashwood had managed to draw himself onto the back of his horse, holding tight without saddle or stirrups.
She saw him fumble at his side, then draw a pistol, which swayed wildly.
At this range, on a charging horse, he was unlikely to make such a shot.
The mercenary was already lining him up and with limited control of the horse he would be unable to avoid it.
Another few seconds and he might be able to gauge the shot, but the mercenary would get there first.
The man raised the rifle to fire. Lucy reached over the roof and yanked his aim upwards. So surprising was the movement that she found herself in sole possession of the rifle.
Even as he turned, she pulled it alongside her, out of his reach.
She herself, however, was still in range and he lashed out, gripping the canvas fabric of her collar.
She had no leverage in this position and she felt that it would only be a few moments’ work for him to drag her off the roof and into the path of the oncoming horses.
But before he could do anything, a shot rang out. The odds, it seemed, had fallen in Dashwood’s favour after all, and the mercenary lost his grip on Lucy’s collar and fell back onto the road, the horses galloping over him.
The falling body was the last straw for the wagon horses, and they both came to a sharp halt, Dashwood lurching forward but managing not to be thrown. Lucy watched his shocked gaze as he melted into the darkness behind the speeding coach.
For a moment she was still then a noise drew her attention.
She swung around onto one knee, raising the rifle at the same moment as another mercenary drew a pistol, crouched in a similar fashion.
They both froze, aware of the deadlock. Then Lucy heard a click, her eyes darting to the right.
George St Martin stood, leaning over the roof, another pistol aimed directly at her.
Beyond him she caught sight of her horses, released and now speeding ahead into the darkness.
At least they were safe. She herself was in far less secure circumstances.
‘I should have known you wouldn’t let it go.’ George laughed.
He was more in control than his father had been, but she recognised some of that wild energy.
She had never equated George’s carefree nature with callousness, but she saw it now.
He was enjoying the adventure of the moment, barely concerned with the fact that his father had just died in a violent fashion.
‘That certainly is an element of my character,’ she replied, still holding up the rifle.
‘You’ve lost, Lucy. Put the gun down and you might get out of this alive.’
He was lying. Even she could read that as plain as day. As soon as she lowered the rifle he would shoot her. She’d caused him more trouble than he could forgive.
But what other choice was there?
Even if she jumped, the road would likely kill her at this pace, let alone the rocks below. And if she let them go, it could mean the doom of everyone she held dear. She had one shot and two targets. Neither would solve her problem and the other would shoot immediately.
There was no answer. There was no time.
She felt panic flare in her and immediately instinct kicked in.
Underwood. Thornbrook. Rawleigh. Pemberley Cross.
A thought flashed through her mind.
‘Pemberley Cross,’ she said quietly.
‘Pardon?’ George asked with a smirk.
‘Your coach,’ she replied. ‘It’s a Pemberley Cross.’
She lowered the rifle to her side.
And fired.
Lucy Elliot was a very good shot so long as the target was less than ten feet away and not moving.
The shot shattered through the link pin and the axle of the front right wheel. It immediately jammed and, already weakened, splintered away, the front right side of the coach driving directly into the ground.
Propelled by the force, the entire coach catapulted forward, just as the rival coach had done during her first race.
Lucy, at the rear of the coach, was as ready as she could be for such sudden force, kicking out with all the power her legs could muster.
Suddenly she was flying, the salt air whipping past her, the dark sea far below.
Her upwards motion complete, she began to fall, still moving forwards, but now down towards the water and rocks.
Her dress billowed, catching the air as she went, slowing her ever so slightly.
If she hit the rocks it would make no difference at all. But her gambit had paid off.
With a jarring shock she hit the water. It was still cold in early summer, but the force had thrown her far enough to clear the sea edge.
Spluttering she turned, drawn to the only other light she could see, the twisted remains of the coach, upside down and driven by momentum as it overran the cliff face and plummeted to the rocks below.
As this happened, she thought she saw a figure drawn behind the remains of the coach and she heard a panicked howl, as George St Martin, caught in the reins, was dragged after it.
There was a splintering of wood and metal. Then silence and darkness.
Lucy did her best to paddle, though she already felt the cold water draining the life from her.
The canvas of her dress had created several pockets of air, serving her better than any other of her garments might in such circumstances.
But Mrs Calloway had constructed it for durability, not flotation.
Lucy kicked and flailed and decided that, if she survived, learning to swim would be a good idea.
Floating in the darkness was disorienting and she was unsure of which way she was facing. Even if she could kick off her boots and swim, she had no idea which way to go.
The dress was losing buoyancy faster now, the waterline rising. It was a shame. Had the dress been waterproofed it should have functioned much better. Waterproofed and sealed. Perhaps some kind of inflatable floatation device.
The water was up to her neck now, but at least the initial sting of the cold was gone, replaced with a dull chill. An inflatable system would have the benefit of greatly reduced storage at sea, but it would still need a means to inflate it, and a consistent body.
She tilted her head back, trying to keep water out of her nose. A loop structure would have strength, but also allow someone to hold onto it where a ball would not. But an inflatable loop might have other purposes too.
She kicked frantically to gulp down a breath of air. There simply wasn’t time to solve the problem at that moment. Not while she was drowning.
She kicked again, but this time the surface refused to appear. The canvas was weighing her down, the air pockets altogether gone.
She held her breath. There was no other option.
She continued to sink.
Underwood.
Thornbrook.
Rawleigh.
Pemberley Cross.
Norfolk.
She hoped Margaret and Oliver would be happy.