Chapter Eighteen #3
With another glance over his shoulder at the coach, he wheeled the horse around and set a steady canter toward the bridge.
He could just make out the gaunt outline of Bones sitting sentinel on the box where he had left him.
As Adrian could barely see through the smoky mist, he preferred to believe that Emma had not borne witness to what her husband had just done.
It seemed too much to hope, however, that she and Hermia had not been tempted to watch through the window, despite his request otherwise.
He dismounted at the bridge and saw two riderless horses tethered to the lower branches of a tree.
The criminals to whom the animals belonged had vanished.
He tightened his grip on his pistol and detected a weak if angry groan from beneath the bridge.
The coachman lay on his side on the riverbank, half-hidden behind a screen of reeds.
“They’ve gone to the carriage, my lord,” he called in a disgruntled voice. “The footman’s tied up to a tree, but he’s alive. They said they’d gone to look for you.”
For him?
He ran past the horse. Another shot echoed in the mist. He kicked a fallen branch from his path and cursed. His heart pounded in panic. Why had he left the coach? That damned ostentatious coach, a lure for brigands on a lonely road.
The bridge was not far from the estate. Several miles at the most. Who had been shot? Not his wife. Not Emma. He had told her to stay with the others.
Two figures on foot materialized from the drizzling gloom and fled into the trees. He raised his gun, thought better of wasting his time, and circled around the coach. Another man sprang from beneath the underbelly of the vehicle.
“Lord Jesus, it’s you!” Bones exclaimed, lowering his own gun abruptly. “One of them took a shot at me and missed. Stupid bastards.”
Adrian stepped over the cloaked body that lay slumped against the rear wheel.
Bones had made a decent attempt to cover the body of the man Adrian had felled.
One shot meant for Bones that had missed.
That was what Adrian had heard. And yet he had to ask, needing reassurance, “My wife, and Lady Dalrymple?”
Before Bones could manage an answer, Adrian practically unhinged the carriage door to check for himself. Three pistols rose in unison from the dark interior. He lifted his free hand in feigned surrender, at the mercy of an amateur infantry comprised of his wife, Lady Dalrymple, and Odham.
He would have laughed if he’d been able to breathe properly. His relief at finding Emma unharmed had made him feel embarrassingly faint-headed.
As an irregular soldier, he had witnessed the horrific acts that unprincipled men could inflict upon the innocent.
In truth, he’d defended a village of women from such abuses.
But if anyone had dared to defile his elegant wife—he shook his head then and did laugh.
His elegant wife who had just leveled a pistol between his eyes as skillfully as she wielded a lace fan.
“Oh, Adrian,” she whispered, her regard dark with relief. She launched herself upon him in a belated release of emotion that matched his own. “We were all sick with worry.”
He held the bloodied scimitar behind his back until Bones, recovering his own wits, covertly removed it from his master’s possession and restored it safely amid the luggage.
His hand thus freed, Adrian slid it around Emma’s waist and contented himself with holding her closely, all the while noticing that Hermia had not lowered her weapon.
He buried his face in his wife’s warm neck. “A pistol—in your hands, Emma?” He carefully lifted the gun from her grasp. “A very nice pistol, too. It’s a Manton flintlock.” He glanced up at her in surprise. “I hope Heath didn’t ask you to use it against me.”
She hesitated, smiling. “No. It came from Julia, with no specific instructions as to whom I should shoot, only that I should use it if needed. I don’t need it, do I?”
“No, Emma.”
“What about our footman and driver?” Hermia asked worriedly.
Adrian smoothed his hand down Emma’s shoulder, knowing he would do anything to keep her safe. He had hoped she would never understand what kind of man he’d been. That there were some things about him that he couldn’t change.
“That’s them coming now,” he said quietly.
“One of the pair is limping,” Hermia exclaimed.
Adrian disengaged himself from Emma with regret. “Stay here just in case.”
She released her breath as he hurried through the rain with Bones a few steps ahead. The two men who walked toward her looked bedraggled but not afflicted with any mortal injuries that she could discern. The footman appeared, on closer inspection, to be supporting the coachman against his shoulder.
Odham sent her a puzzled smile. “Why didn’t you tell him what you saw?”
“He didn’t want me to see,” she murmured.
“Ah.” He nodded, his mood lifting. “I think that you two valiant ladies could do with a bracing pot of tea.”
She turned from the window, color returning to her cheeks. “Oh, to hell with tea, Odham. I think we deserve a bottle of porter each.”
Hermia laughed in approval. “Well said, my dear. In fact, I think that is the first piece of advice of yours I am tempted to take.”