Page 13 of Lyon on the Loose

“You may call me Felicity. But preferably not in public.” In public? That suggested they might meet again once their unwelcome adventure was over. Her cheeks flushed. She’d prefer to avoid him and forget any of it had ever happened. She’d been an absolute fool, and Mama would be totally justified in ringing a peal over her.

“What do we do now? Do you think they’ll find us?”

A sharp breeze thrust its way through the hollow tree, and Roland turned, peering out into the growing dusk. A sliver of fear crawled down Lissy’s neck.

“I haven’t heard a sound since we got here, so I’m assuming we’re safe. But we must move—you need warmth, dry clothes, and a roof over your head. There should be a farmhouse nearby—somebody manages that pond full of thatching reeds. And I spied a field of cows in the distance.”

“We’d better go soon, then.” The idea of leaving this haven, where she was protected by the solid wall of his body, was distressing. But he was right—they couldn’t stay here.

He stepped out of the crack in the tree, then turned and helped her out. But when he moved to scoop her up into his arms, she backed away. It was one thing to be unconscious in the grasp of an attractive gentleman, quite another to be wide awake and aware of every step.

“We’ll go faster if I walk. But how will we find the farmhouse?”

“If we skirt along the hedgerows and head for the cow pasture, we ought to be able to find some kind of track that the cows use when they go to be milked—assuming we haven’t already seen the farmhouse by the time we get to the field.”

“Wait a moment.”

She sniffed at the air. Wood smoke! Even though the light was beginning to fade, she could just make out a chimney in the distance, with a faint light emanating from beneath it. Excited, she pointed. “Over there! We can make directly for it!”

“I am pleasantly surprised to discover what a worthy companion you are in a crisis, Miss Ashby. Felicity. But there is one thing I would ask of you before we go.”

He shuffled his feet awkwardly, which puzzled her. He was normally so self-assured.

“I think it best we present ourselves henceforth as husband and wife, under an assumed name. I have no concern for my reputation, obviously, but yours has already had a knock and is in jeopardy now that your former sweetheart is in league with a scoundrel. I’m traveling under the assumed name of Mr. Cowley, so you shall be Mrs. Cowley.”

“Is that absolutely necessary?” Her reluctance was tempered with the tiniest hint of anticipation, and she glanced at him covertly, hoping he wouldn’t notice the flush on her cheeks.

The corners of his mouth were tilted, almost as if he were enjoying their adventure. Well—she wasn’t, not one little bit. All the same, she’d rather have a savior who expected a positive outcome than one who always anticipated the worst. Someone like Oscar, for example. Just occasionally, she’d wondered if Oscar’s “tortured artist” characteristics were just an act, part of a ploy to draw her in, to wind himself around her heart and make her his willing captive. Now, she’d seen a completely different side to him, one she could never have imagined.

It all proved that she was a terrible judge of character and would be wise never to trust a gentleman again. Not even the charming, resourceful, devastatingly handsome Mr. Roland Chetwynd.

Chapter Seven

Farmer Metson and his wife were gullible but kind. They had immediately accepted that Roland and Lissy were married and assumed—from Lissy’s comparatively young age—that they must be newly wed. News that a coach had been attacked locally had already reached the farmhouse and had been the subject of conversation for the whole family at the very same moment Roland had knocked on the door.

“Sit you there by the fire, Mrs. Cowley,” said Mrs. Metson. “If you don’t mind me saying so, you could spread your skirts out a little, so they dry. Get something reviving inside you, and then we’ll work out what to do next. My girls will help, while I get supper prepared.”

“You are most kind.” Lissy relaxed in the high-backed wooden chair and allowed the leaping flames in the hearth to soothe her shattered nerves. Roland was ensconced with Farmer Metson at the other end of the long farmhouse table, discussing recent events. He looked tousled and tired, repeatedly rubbing at one shoulder, but each time he returned her gaze, he treated her to his lopsided grin, and she felt reassured.

“Everyone thought it was very strange that a coach on the Chelmsford road should be stolen, then just tipped over and abandoned like that. At least the horses had been cut loose—they’d have threshed themselves to bits otherwise, poor creatures. I hear they were wandering around in the hedge and drinking from the ditch when the alarm was raised.”

Metson chuckled and took a swig from his tankard of ale before he continued. “They’re not like country workhorses, you know. Very highly strung. I heard the baggage was off the top of the vehicle and in the road when the constable got there. It was a mystery where the passengers and the coachman had gone to, or that the vehicle should have gone in the ditch in the first place when there was nothing wrong with it.”

So, Oscar had crashed the coach, had he? Well, she’d tried to warn Mr. Sutton, but would he listen? No. Why would a villain like him listen to sense?

Lissy chewed on her lip. Despite Oscar’s betrayal, she couldn’t help but fear he’d been injured in the accident—she already knew how dangerous it was jumping from the door of a moving coach. How much worse must it be to topple off the roof of one? It might explain why he and Sutton had fled after the accident—they needed a physician’s services.

“I don’t suppose you know what happened to the luggage?” Roland queried. “We’d like our belongings back.”

“Taken to the Sun at Feering, most likely. The landlord will keep them there for the time being, until somebody claims them—Fisher’s a reliable fellow.”

“How far is this inn? I’d better claim our baggage before someone else does.”

“Oh, no, sir—you need to rest. No man is made of iron, you know, and even the sturdiest fellow needs time to recover from an incident like that. Besides,” Metson added, lowering his voice, “your lady would fret if you were to leave her now amongst us heathens.”

Roland laughed. “My lady would do nothing of the kind. She’s the most stalwart companion a man could wish for!”

Lissy flushed with pleasure, then realized he was only saying this to keep up the impression that they were a dewy-eyed newly wed couple.