Page 93 of The Redemption of the Shrew

But an abductee doesn’t climb willingly into her abductor’s coach. “And because he hates me for preventing him last time.” Philippe took a deep breath. He couldn’t afford emotion, or doubt, or anything that got in the way of cool resolution. He set the Book of Hours on the table beside his bed. Then he took out the powder and shot and loaded both pistols.

“You are going to kill him?” Sophie gasped.

“If necessary.” If that cur had harmed Gloriana . . . He shut the thought from his mind.

“You need a neckerchief to disguise yourself.” Sophie scurried into her bedchamber and brought out two large squares of indigo fabric. She passed one to Philippe. “Just like the old days,” she said in a shaky voice. “Bring her safely back.”

“I shall, chérie.” With that, Philippe was gone.

~ ~ ~

Sophie gave the other neckerchief to Eric. Suddenly, all hesitation was gone. What did she care about legalities and foolish what-ifs when she might lose him forever?

“I’ll get my gun and our nag from the mews behind the school,” he said. “Hythwick can’t have got far.”

She put her arms around him and hugged him tight. “I shall marry you anytime and any way you like. Only please, please come home safely tonight!”

Eric kissed her hard, then clattered down the stairs and hastened into the darkness. Whispering a prayer, she shut the door behind him.

~ ~ ~

Gloriana pondered her chances of escape. Judging by what he’d said, the earl didn’t intend to assault her there in the coach. If he did, the problem would be solved—she would shoot him, and the consequences be damned. But she didn’t want to flee the country or remain to be hanged for killing a man who deserved to be dead, so she stared out the window as they rolled through Islington—past the street where Sophie and the school were located, then past the Angel Inn. At the tollgate, they stopped. She sighed, for there was no help here. The gatekeeper wouldn’t come to her aid.

“Very wise,” said Hythwick.

Pettishly, she turned away, hoping it would lead him to believe she’d resigned herself. She remained silent as they continued through the darkness to Highgate Village and emerged onto Finchley Common, which was notorious for highwaymen.

“This is a bad stretch.” The earl retrieved the strongbox and its contents from the floor, closed it, and felt in his pocket for the key. He locked it and stowed it under the bench.

“I was robbed here once,” she said conversationally. They were horrid, rough fellows, but what she wouldn’t give for a highwayman now!

“As was I, but never again.” He was fingering his gun. “The Runners have been advised to set up a patrol here, and it’s about time. In the meantime, travelers are obliged to fend for themselves.”

The blast of a yard of tin assailed them, followed by galloping hooves. “Nobody passes my coach. Damn their eyes!” He banged on the roof of the carriage. “Spring them!”

The coach picked up speed, but the galloping horses came closer. The coached bumped and swayed. A horse and rider surged past, swift and dark in the night. There was a shout, and then another. The coach slowed and rolled to a halt.

“Why did those fools stop?” Hythwick put the window down. “What the devil is going on?”

“Drop your weapons,” a gruff voice said, followed by one thud and then another.

“Get out of the coach,” said another voice.

From where she sat, Gloriana couldn’t see the rider, but a dazzling hope lit her heart.

And terror, too. “Watch out!” she shrieked. “He has a gun!”

“Of course he has, you fool. He’s a highwayman!” The earl cocked his pistol.

Gloriana snatched her reticule, grabbed the muzzle of the pistol through the fabric, and brought the handle of the gun down hard on Hythwick’s skull. He slumped, and his gun fell to the floor. She reached behind her, opened the door, and tumbled onto the verge. She scrambled up, pulling out her pistol, but Hythwick hadn’t moved. She leaned into the coach, grabbed his gun as well, and hurried around the vehicle.

Both highwaymen were masked. One had pulled open the coach door while the other had his pistol trained on the coachman and groom, whose weapons lay on the road.

“He’s unconscious,” Philippe said. He had disguised his voice, speaking with a low accent, but she would know him anywhere. He tugged Hythwick through the door and dropped him onto the roadway. He aimed his gun at the helpless earl.

“Don’t shoot him!” she cried.

“Why not?” He sounded so enraged she hardly recognized his voice.