Page 148 of A Perilous Passion

Chapter Twenty

These ominous words, dreaded by every traveler, struck a quite different chord with Charlotte.

Oh great, good heavens!

It sounded like Rafe.

It must be Rafe. The mask she’d seen at Dovehouse Farm confirmed he was a highwayman.

The highwayman.

Culverdale pulled down the sash and peered cautiously out the window, his pistol upright against his cheek. The instant she saw his hand tense to point the weapon, she knew she must act at once.

She threw herself at him, catching him unawares, and dragged his arm down.

Alas! Not soon enough. An ear-splitting blast from the gun was followed by the sound of splintering wood as the ball cracked through the side of the carriage.

A bellow of pain assaulted her ears.

No!

Rafe had been hit!

Culverdale, his hat awry and his thin face twisted in fury, turned to wrestle with her. He kicked the door open, struggling to throw her out of the carriage. Just as she was about to lose her balance, he let go abruptly and collapsed across her, the gun clattering to the floor.

She quickly extracted and righted herself. Blood was soaking through Culverdale’s wig, running down his neck and over the ruffled front of his shirt. She looked up, and there was Jenny, a broken wine bottle quivering in her hands.

“God in Heaven, I’ve killed him!” squeaked her maid.

Culverdale groaned.

Not dead, thank God.

When Charlotte got over her shock enough to examine him, she realized what she’d thought blood was actually claret from the bottle.

“Whatever made you do that?” she asked, hugely impressed.

“I saw the bottle in a pocket in the door when we climbed up. When his lordship pulled out a pistol and you tried to stop him shooting the desperate creature outside in cold blood, I knew I must help.”

“Well, thank you. But we can’t leave him like this. Let’s sit him up. Then work out what to do.”

Just as they succeeded in getting the insensible peer back onto the seat, the carriage doorway darkened and a masked face appeared.

Jenny’s robust shriek brought Charlotte’s headache back with a vengeance.

The highwayman took in the scene inside. With a groan, he pressed a hand to his forehead. “Miss Charlotte Allston. I might have known our paths would cross again in such dramatic fashion.”

Rafe—for it was indeed he—reversed back down the steps and clung awkwardly to the door as she and Jenny tumbled out of the carriage. As soon as they’d gained the ground, the vehicle lurched forward a few yards.

Charlotte looked up in alarm. The coachman, presumably struck down by Rafe when he jumped from his tree onto the carriage roof, was slumped forward over the reins. The horses stamped and rolled their eyes, threatening at any moment to hurtle off, dragging the coach and its two unconscious occupants with them.

Rafe limped across to grasp the leader’s harness, and she ran to help him. “Are you hurt?”

“Damned ball caught me in the thigh. I’ll need patching up, but not until I’ve searched Culverdale’s pockets for documents. Can you calm this animal while I do so?”

She nodded and took hold of the leathers. There was another groan from the carriage, and a frightened gasp from Jenny.

“He’s waking up,” she cried. “What shall I do? He’ll be so angry with us!”