Page 12 of Lyon on the Loose

There was another jolt. Lissy’s former sweetheart might know how to hold a paintbrush, but he had no idea how to handle a set of reins or steer a carriage around holes in the road. Up ahead, Roland saw what appeared to be a reed-filled pond, edged by a wild straggle of trees.

There was another lurch, making Sutton spill the gin down his front. Red-faced, he leaped to his feet once more and yelled through the trap door, “Keep them steady, you imbecile, or I shall shoot you instead!”

He battered the wooden panel with the butt of the pistol to emphasize his point.

The moment had come. “Hold onto me,” Roland whispered to Lissy.

“Now?” she breathed. “Heaven help us!”

“Now.”

He seized her firmly about the waist, flung the door open, and tipped them both out of the coach. He felt a snap of cold air on his face and a moment of weightlessness as they fell. Then, with cruel inevitability, the agonizing pain of their landing lanced through his shoulder and left side. Immediately, he released Lissy, gave her a shove, then rolled the rest of the way down the slope and in amongst the reeds. He could hear yelling as the coach plunged on down the road, the horses bolting in fear. The animals could sense they were in the hands of an incompetent.

“Come quickly. We can’t afford to stay here.”

Lissy, dazed and pale, attempted to push her way through the brackish water and reeds toward the trees, but her skirts were soaked, threatening to pull her down. Cursing unrestrainedly, Roland lifted her up, ignoring the pain that shot through his shoulder, and carried his burden to the far edge of the pond. Then he set her down, took her hand, and pulled her at a run into the protective shadow of the trees. He refused to slow his pace until they were deep in the middle of the wood, by which time his lungs were aching fit to burst.

Before he could speak or consider their next move, there was a soft thump beside him.

He stared down in horror. Lissy had collapsed. She was white as a ghost, except for the thin trickle of blood running across her forehead and pooling in her hair.

He fell to his knees, dizziness blurring the edges of his vision. He hadn’t saved Miss Felicity Ashby at all! He had killed her!

Chapter Six

The first thing Lissy was aware of was a thumping headache. The second thing, far more importantly, was that she was still alive—although feeling decidedly battered and bruised. As the memory of her narrow escape returned, she began to tremble.

Immediately, she felt a comforting presence, hands helping her to her feet, strong arms wrapped around her, a sturdy chest to rest her cheek against. It felt good, and she closed her eyes for just a moment.

Then the memories came flooding back. This was Roland Chetwynd. This was most improper! She pushed away from him, only to encounter something rough and firm at her back, trapping her, and she could barely put a few inches between her body and his.

She still felt weak and giddy, and it was so dark that she wondered if her sight had been affected by her fall, but Roland’s outline gradually became clear, etched by gray light.

“Have I been in a faint?” Her voice was reedy, uncertain.

“Steady now, Miss Ashby. You were unconscious for only fifteen minutes or so, I think, but after that you fell asleep. I didn’t want to wake you until I felt sure you’d be well-recovered.”

She ran her fingers over the hard surface that surrounded her—rough and wet with slime. The smell of moss and damp earth filled her nostrils, and she noticed a few places in the cramped space where gray light filtered in, mostly through small holes. They must be inside an old hollow tree!

“We’re quite safe. How do you feel?”

She sucked in a series of shuddering breaths. “What a perilous, madcap thing to do, to leap from a moving carriage, even one that was going slowly!” She felt like hitting him for frightening her so badly.

“But my ploy worked, didn’t it?”

It had worked for now. But this was no time for congratulations. Groaning, she raised her hand to investigate her head and touched something sticky. “I appear to be injured.”

Roland caught her wrist and brought her hand down again. “Leave it alone until we can get it seen to properly. A cut on your head has bled freely, as head wounds tend to do. Don’t worry—in my experience, they usually look far worse than they are, and you’ll be fine as soon as we can get you bandaged up.”

“How did I get here?” She had no recollection of walking or of climbing inside a lightning-blasted oak tree. And how had she managed to fall asleep at a moment of such dire peril?

“I carried you.” There was a significant pause. “You see, some of those supposedly pointless sports we gentlemen waste our time on are useful in building strength. Enough to carry a young female in a water-logged gown half a mile or so.”

He must have continued to hold her—there wasn’t enough room to stretch out. How decidedly unnerving! “Then I suppose I must thank you, Mr. Chetwynd.” She kept her voice as formal as she could.

He cleared his throat, then said, “Roland, please. We’re well enough acquainted to be on first-name terms now.”

She couldn’t allow him the liberty of calling her Lissy. He might be clad in hero’s garb at this precise moment, but she knew gentlemen such as he were not to be trusted, and the illusion of heroism would not last.