Chapter 14 #3
Peter tied their mounts behind the coach, and then he and Howard climbed into the coach, shut the door, and pulled the curtains closed.
With no perceivable effort Arran lifted Mary to the top right front wheel, and from there she pulled herself up to the high, narrow seat.
He moved around the front, checking the horses’ traces, then hiked himself up easily onto the seat beside her.
“Can you drive a coach?” she whispered.
“Aye. Or a wagon, more like.” Arran gathered up the ribbons, released the brake lever, and clucked to the team. With a creak the coach lurched into motion. “When I imagined sweeping in to rescue ye,” he drawled, “this was nae what I had in mind.”
“You imagined rescuing me?”
“I’m here, nae?”
“But you imagined it first. How? What did you imagine?”
His jaw clenched, and for a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer. The MacLawrys were a strong, wild, manly set, after all. If they had romantic hearts, they likely didn’t make that known.
“It was more of a dream, I suppose,” he said finally, clear reluctance in his deep brogue.
“I rode up, stole ye from Calder while the priest and yer family stood with mouths agape, lifted ye up into the saddle in front of me, and we rode north faster than a flash of lightning. I found an abandoned castle overlooking a loch, and ye were mine and I was yers, and we lived happily ever after.”
“I like your dream.”
“So do I. We had naught to do with broken-down inns or badly sprung coaches, and our clans let us be.”
She leaned against his shoulder. “Perhaps other than the part with the inns and the coaches, it can still come true.”
Briefly he rested his cheek against her hair. “That’s why we’re here, isnae?”
“Yes, it is.” And that was why they had to find somewhere safe and hidden from both the MacLawrys and the Campbells. Neither clan could see beyond the lines they’d drawn on the ground, and so neither of them could be allowed to find her or Arran.
He must have been at least as exhausted as the two men presently snoring below them, but Arran showed no sign of it as he drove them along at the fastest pace the broken-down coach and horses could manage.
Even though her father at best was still hours behind them, Mary couldn’t help glancing over her shoulder every mile or two all through the lengthening shadows of the afternoon.
Once again that was all she could do. One of her cousins—George Gerdens-Daily, as she recalled—had once taught her to drive a curricle, but she’d only been ten or eleven at the time and had run it into a hedge.
So as much as she wanted to take the reins and tell Arran to try to get some rest, she knew quite well that that would likely lead to disaster.
The best she could do, then, was to help keep watch and talk to him.
“So your oldest brother is Ran, Munro is Bear, and Rowena is Winnie,” she said. “Why don’t you have a family nickname?”
“Fer a time Bear tried calling me Book, I suppose because I like to read. But I gave Winnie a button every time she refused to call me that, and eventually he gave it up.”
“You didn’t want to be called Book?”
Arran shrugged. “It’s nae a proper nickname if yer own bràthair takes a fortnight to decide what it should be. It either comes to ye naturally, or ye shouldnae be using it.”
“How many buttons did it cost you?”
“I cut ’em off Bear’s coats and trousers, so it didnae cost me anything.”
Mary laughed. “That makes me wish I had brothers and sisters.”
“I’d share mine with ye, if I could.” He looked down at his hands for a moment, then straightened again.
She wasn’t the only one giving up a life she’d otherwise been happy with. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.
Frowning, he glanced sideways at her. “Sorry? Fer what? Fer being witty and lovely and honest? Fer making me look at the world with wiser eyes? Dunnae apologize fer that, Mary. It’s what I love aboot ye.”
Her heart stopped beating, then thundered to life again.
Love. He’d said it so easily, as if it were something she should already have known.
In a sense she supposed she did; a man did not upend his own life, abandon his family and his clan, and put himself directly in harm’s way for a casual affair.
But now he’d said it aloud, and that meant something, too.
Had she actually done anything to deserve it, though?
She took a slow breath. “Arran, I—”
With a great crack the coach lurched out from under her.
Shrieking, Mary grabbed for the seat to steady herself as they plunged sideways.
Abruptly strong arms swept around her, pulling her against a hard chest. They careened against a wheel as the coach flipped onto its side and slammed into the road.
She followed, curling against Arran as he thudded hard onto his back on the packed earth amid what seemed like an entire herd of screaming horses.
Mary rolled to her feet as luggage began falling around them. “Arran!” she shrieked, turning as she realized he hadn’t followed her upright.
He lay faceup in the road, a thin line of blood trickling from his forehead and past one ear. The plunging, squealing horses had torn one harness loose from the shaft and were bucking in their traces less than a foot from him, but he didn’t stir.
“Peter! Howard! Are you injured? I need help!” Dodging the horses, she grabbed for Arran’s right boot, slid free the long blade he kept there, and edged in to saw at the remaining fastening.
The noise nearly deafened her, but all she could think was that Arran was injured and if she couldn’t free the horses, he might be killed. The hard leather parted, and the horses, still harnessed together, stumbled forward and disappeared around a curve in the road.
She dropped the knife and flung herself onto her knees beside Arran.
Anything might have struck him—the coach, a horse, the falling luggage.
Whatever had injured him, he still hadn’t moved.
“Arran,” she said shakily, taking one of his hands and squeezing it tightly.
What was she supposed to do? What if he … No, no, no.
At the upturned side of the coach, the door flung open. More debris smacked into the ground around them. “Be careful! Arran’s hurt!”
With a curse Peter clambered out of the coach, then held down an arm to haul up the one-eyed driver. The footman jumped to the ground and knelt down beside her. “M’laird Arran?” he quavered, leaning over Arran’s still face and then slapping him lightly. “Lad? Can ye hear me?”
One light blue eye rolled open. “God’s sake, Peter Gilling,” Arran mumbled, “I didnae want to see yer ugly face looming over me.”
“Oh, thank God,” Mary stammered, and threw her arms around his chest.
Arran hugged her tightly before he released her again. “Are ye hurt, lass?”
“Just a few bumps and bruises, thanks to you.” She kissed him, only relenting when he winced.
That had been far too nearly a disaster.
The idea that she might have lost him felt like a black, screaming mass in her mind that she couldn’t penetrate.
The thoughts and images of what might have happened simply wouldn’t form, as if she would die if she thought about not having him in her life.
“Oh, my poor lady,” Howard wailed, laying his hands on the coach’s broken undercarriage. “What did they do to you?”
“Help me up,” Arran muttered, and Peter grabbed a hand and hauled him to his feet. “We didnae do anything,” he said, then bent over with his hands on his knees. “Ye can see it there fer yerself. The front axle and the reach snapped.”
“Aye,” Peter agreed, dividing his attention between Arran and Howard. “Looks like the reach dug into the road. We’re lucky we went over sideways and nae end over end.”
“It was fine when I gave it over to you.”
“Nonsense,” Mary snapped, furious that anyone would be arguing with a man who’d just nearly died. “It’s been creaking and groaning for the past thr—”
With a moan Arran went down on his knees and vomited up the remains of his breakfast. “Nae to alarm anyone, but I think I’m going to pass oot again.”
Peter caught him by the shoulders as he went limp. “Let’s get ’im off the road, lass. Howard! Get yer arse over here.”
The two men carried him to the grass at one side of the road and carefully set him down again. Mary sat where she could cradle his head in her lap. “Peter, see to Duffy and Juno, will you?”
“Aye. I can do that.”
“Howard, the team is still harnessed together. When I cut the traces they went up the road. See if you can find them. Take Juno if you need to.”
“I drive horses, my lady. I do not ride them.”
“I’ll look fer the team, Lady Mary,” Peter said, leading the skittish mounts to the side of the road and tying Juno off to a low-hanging branch. “I’ll take Duffy, though. I’ve ridden ’im before.”
She nodded. “Very well. Howard, please move the luggage off the road, and find a blanket for Arran. I don’t want him getting chilled.”
The two men did as she asked. Trying to gather her thoughts back in, she brushed the hair from Arran’s temple. The cut there was deep and still bleeding freely. Mary pulled a kerchief from her pocket, folded it, and carefully pressed it against the wound.
She knew Arran would say that they should hire another vehicle and resume the journey north as soon as possible. She also knew that he desperately needed a good night’s sleep and a day or two of not being jarred about in a coach or on horseback. What they didn’t have was the time for any of that.
At this moment her father and Charles Calder could be as close as six or seven hours behind them. With every moment they weren’t moving, her clan drew closer. And she did not want them any nearer than they already were.
Except for a few cottages scattered here and there, they hadn’t passed any place where they could take shelter.
The smelly fellow from this morning had said there was another inn just south of Manchester, but they’d turned farther west to avoid the town altogether.
When she’d mentioned that she had relations close by, Arran hadn’t wanted to risk her being recognized on the very slight chance that their pursuers didn’t know precisely which road they were on.
She had relations nearby. Including an aunt who was as unpopular with the rest of the Campbells as she was likely to be if they survived this. An aunt she’d never met.
“Now this is a view I can tolerate,” Arran said groggily, looking up at her with slightly crossed eyes.
“Hush,” she said gently, and pressed down on his shoulder when he would have sat up again. “And stay still.”
“We cannae stay here by the side of the road, Mary.”
“Peter’s tracking down the team.”
He reached up and grabbed her arm. “Ye have to be safe, my lass. Take Peter and go find an inn where ye can hire another coach.” With his free hand he dug into a pocket of his coat.
“Have ’em send the bill here,” he instructed, giving her a piece of paper as she tried to overlook the dismaying way his hand shook.
“If ye cannae get a coach, purchase a seat on the mail stage. Keep traveling north. Peter will help ye get to yer seanair.”
She stroked his forehead. “I believe it was just yesterday that we decided we were staying together, no matter what.”
“That was before a coach fell on my head. Mary, dunnae—”
“You’ll just have to trust me, Arran,” she said, more sharply than she meant to. “I seem to be in command of this little expedition now.”
From his expression he wanted to say something about that, but instead he closed his eyes and nodded. “I do trust ye, lass. Just keep yerself safe.”
She would keep all of them safe. How, she had no idea, but nothing would keep her from a future with Arran. Nothing.
“Howard, do you have a map?” she asked.
The driver straightened from dragging the last of the trunks over beside her. “That, I do,” he said, producing one from his pocket. “I’ve never been outside London until this past week.”
Mary unfolded it across Arran’s chest. “Where are we, precisely?”
“Dunnae be sticking pins in me,” Arran rumbled, but kept his eyes closed.
“Precisely, I ain’t certain. I was asleep when his lordship rolled us over, if you’ll recall.”
“It wasn’t Arran’s fault,” she insisted. “Now show me where you think we are.”
Grumbling under his breath, he squatted down beside her. “Here,” he said after a moment, jabbing a finger into the map.
The road they traveled was so faint she could barely follow it even with her eyes.
If Howard’s estimation was correct, they were west and just north of Manchester.
Trying to remember every half-heard mention of her aunt and the Sasannach banker she’d married, Mary traced her finger along a narrow country lane to where it dead-ended.
“We need to go here,” she said.
Howard squinted his one eye. “In the coach that would take us an hour. On foot, two hours. Dragging Lord Arran, past sunset. If at all.”
“I can walk,” Arran said. “But unless that’s an inn ye’re aiming for, this isnae a wise idea. Ye need to keep heading north.”
“Hush,” she said again, putting her fingers gently across his sensuous mouth. “You’re delirious. It’s my turn to rescue you.”
Hopefully she sounded confident. Inside she shook like a leaf on a windy day. But he’d saved her, and she was not about to let her family—her clan—hurt him or separate them. So she supposed she was about to discover just what it was she was capable of.