Chapter Twenty-Two #3
As she ate, she continued to study the room and its occupants.
Murphy kept glancing toward the courtyard, clearly nervous about potential pursuit.
Briggs seemed more relaxed, but his hand never strayed far from his pistol.
And Lockwood… There was something brittle about his confidence now, a crack in his composure that hadn’t been there in London.
His bravado was waning. He probably knew Lucien would be fast approaching.
“Horses are ready, gov’nor,” came a call from the courtyard.
Lockwood stood immediately, his relief evident. “Excellent. Come, my dear. Time to continue our romantic journey.”
They moved back through the inn’s common area, past travelers settling in for the night or preparing for their own departures. Courtney found herself cataloguing faces, hoping desperately that someone might remember them if questioned later.
In the courtyard, the carriage with fresh horses awaited with four horses rather than two. Clearly, Lockwood was serious about making up time.
As they approached the carriage, Courtney made her decision. The stable was perhaps thirty yards away, the straw pile clearly visible in the flickering torchlight. If she could break free for just a few seconds…
“I need a moment,” she said suddenly, stopping dead in her tracks. “Private business.”
Lockwood’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “What sort of business?”
Courtney felt heat rise in her cheeks, though this time it was genuine embarrassment rather than performance. “The sort that requires…privacy. Surely you understand.”
For a moment, she thought he might refuse. Then he gestured impatiently toward a small building that clearly served as the inn’s necessary. “Briggs will escort you. And be quick about it.”
The scarred man moved to her side, his grip firm on her arm as they walked toward the small structure. Murphy remained by the carriage while Lockwood supervised the loading of their luggage.
Once she’d relieved herself, she looked around. This was her chance. Her only chance.
On the way back to the conveyance, Courtney pretended to stumble again, this time falling heavily against Briggs. The man cursed and loosened his grip to steady himself, and in that instant, she broke free.
She ran.
Not toward the inn’s entrance where people might help—Lockwood’s threats against innocent bystanders were too real to ignore. Instead, she bolted toward the back of the stables, her skirts hampering her stride but adrenaline lending her speed.
“Bloody hell!” Briggs shouted behind her. “She’s running!”
Courtney saw a hole in the back stable wall and crawled through it just as shouts erupted behind her.
Without hesitation, she dove into the pile of fresh straw, burrowing deep into its scratchy embrace.
The sweet smell of hay filled her nostrils as she pulled armfuls of the stuff over herself, trying to become invisible.
She heard the men reach the corner of the stable. “Where did she go?” Lockwood’s voice, sharp with fury. “It’s so hard to see in the dark. Grab some lanterns,” he bellowed.
“She might have run for the woods just beyond the house up there,” Briggs replied, breathing heavily from his pursuit.
“Then find her, you fool! She can’t have gone far with her hands bound.”
Footsteps pounded past her hiding place as the men spread out to search. Courtney pressed herself deeper into the straw, trying to control her breathing despite the way her heart hammered against her ribs.
“Women. Flighty aren’t they. What did you do?” He laughed. “Probably ran off into the fields,” one of the ostlers suggested. “Seen it before with nervous young ladies. They come to their senses quick enough when they realize they’re alone in the dark.”
“The fields,” Lockwood mused. “Yes, that makes sense. She’d want to get as far from here as possible.”
More footsteps, moving away from the stables and toward the open countryside beyond the inn. Courtney allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction. Every minute they spent searching for her in the wrong place was a minute closer to potential rescue.
She’d hidden for perhaps twenty minutes, forcing herself to breathe slowly despite the way her heart hammered against her ribs. The sweet scent of hay filled her nostrils, and every rustle made her freeze, certain discovery was imminent.
Through the gaps in her makeshift shelter, she could hear Lockwood’s increasingly frustrated shouts growing more distant. Good. Let them search the fields and woods while she hid in plain sight.
But hiding wouldn’t get her back to London. Wouldn’t get her back to Lucien.
Courtney’s mind raced as she assessed her situation with the cold logic her brother had taught her during their childhood war games.
Assets: she was free, unguarded, and her captors were searching in the wrong direction.
Liabilities: her hands were still bound, she was miles from help, and once they realized their error, they would search more systematically.
She needed transportation. A horse would be fastest, but the ostlers were still about their business, and a lady attempting to steal a mount would certainly be noticed and stopped. Unless…
The sound of approaching hoofbeats made her burrow deeper into the straw. Through a gap, she watched a well-dressed gentleman dismount from a fine bay gelding. The man was clearly a patron of the inn—his clothes spoke of quality, his manner suggested someone accustomed to good service.
More importantly, he left his horse saddled.
“See to it that he’s watered and ready,” the gentleman instructed one of the ostlers, tossing a coin that glinted in the torchlight. “I’ll not be long. Just enough time for a proper meal and perhaps a bottle of that excellent burgundy you keep in your private stores.”
The ostler grinned and pocketed the coin. “Aye, sir. An hour or two then?”
“At least,” the gentleman confirmed, already striding toward the inn’s welcoming lights. “No rush at all.”
Courtney’s pulse quickened. An hour. More than enough time to put significant distance between herself and her captors, assuming she could manage to mount with her hands bound.
She waited, counting slowly to one hundred, then two hundred, until she was certain the gentleman was well settled inside. The bay stood patiently near the mounting block, occasionally stamping or tossing his head, but showing none of the nervous energy that would make him difficult to manage.
Carefully, she began to extricate herself from the straw pile, moving with the patience her brother Julian had drilled into her during their childhood games of hide-and-seek. Every movement was deliberate, calculated to minimize noise.
A piece of straw caught in her hair made her freeze as it scratched against the pile. In the distance, she could hear Lockwood’s voice, closer now than it had been moments before.
“She can’t have gone far,” he was saying, and the fury in his tone made her blood run cold. “The stupid chit has her hands bound. She’s probably cowering behind some tree, waiting for rescue that will never come.” He made his way into the darkness behind the barn.”
If only he knew how wrong he was.
Courtney emerged from the straw pile like a ghost, her yellow dress now thoroughly stained with dirt and bits of hay. The bay turned his head toward her, ears pricked with curiosity but showing no alarm. Good—a calm temperament would be essential for what she was about to attempt.
Moving as quietly as possible, she approached the horse, speaking in the soft, low tones her father had taught her years ago. “Easy, boy. We’re going to help each other, aren’t we?”
The bay snorted softly but didn’t shy away as she led him toward the mounting block. With her hands bound behind her back, conventional mounting was impossible, but years of unconventional riding lessons with Lucien had taught her alternative methods.
Using the mounting block for leverage, she managed to get her left foot into the stirrup.
The angle was awkward, painful, making her shoulder scream in protest as she twisted to accommodate her bound hands.
For a terrifying moment, she thought she might not have the strength, that she would fall and alert everyone to her presence.
Then she thought of Lucien—of his face when he discovered she was gone, of the self-recrimination that would consume him, of Ava-Marie losing another mother figure to violence. The images gave her strength she didn’t know she possessed.
With a combination of momentum, desperation, and pure determination, she hauled herself into the saddle. The bay danced nervously beneath her, sensing her tension, but she managed to get herself seated securely.
Now for the most dangerous part. Taking the reins in her teeth—an undignified but necessary expedient—she managed to work them around until she could grasp them awkwardly behind her back. Not ideal, but workable.
“Good boy,” she whispered, patting the bay’s neck with her bound hands. “Now let’s see how fast you can run. I hope you’re not too tired.”
She dug her heels into the horse’s sides, and he responded immediately, leaping forward with an eagerness that suggested he was as ready to leave this place as she was. They burst from behind the stables at a full gallop, hooves striking sparks from the cobblestones.
Shouts erupted from every direction as stable hands and patrons scattered from the path of the charging horse. She heard Lockwood’s voice rise above the commotion, finally realizing that his quarry had outmaneuvered him completely.
“Stop her! She’s stolen a horse! Twenty pounds to the man who brings her back!”
But Courtney was already through the inn’s gates, the bay’s powerful stride eating up the ground as they raced back down the Great North Road toward London—toward Lucien—toward safety.
The wind whipped her hair free of its remaining pins, and tears streamed from her eyes at the exhilarating speed of their flight. Behind her, she could hear the frantic sounds of men scrambling to mount pursuit, but she had precious minutes of lead time.
More importantly, she was riding toward help, while they would have to follow her route exactly. Every moment they spent organizing pursuit was another moment closer to potential rescue.
Hold on, she told herself as the bay’s hooves drummed against the packed earth of the road. Hold on and ride like your life depends on it.
Because it did. And for the first time since Lockwood had smashed through her father’s terrace doors, Lady Courtney Montague felt truly, gloriously alive.