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Samuel took off running. Out of the corner of his eye, he sensed movement at his left. Increasing his speed, he dove for the highwayman. They both went down. A bullet hit the tree trunk beside them. Samuel rolled again, his fingers tangled in the highwayman’s cloak. With a grunt, the larger man shoved him back, and suddenly, another highwayman was above them, gun in hand.

“Stay where ya are!” he ordered.

Samuel froze.

The man he’d tackled to the ground pulled his cloak free and staggered to his feet. “Shoot ’im!” he yelled before bolting for the gap in the trees.

The second highwayman cocked his pistol. A shot rang out, and the man’s knees buckled. Forcing himself to take a breath, Samuel scrambled upright as his assailant fell to the ground beside him.

Clarke, his arm extended and poised to take another shot, was almost upon them. “Get the young woman into the carriage, and find out where she lives!” he yelled. “She needs a medic.”

“But the gang leader. I can catch him still!”

The thunder of hooves reached them from beyond the line of trees.

“Not anymore,” Clarke panted, dropping to his knees beside the downed highwayman and sliding the man’s wrists into a pair of handcuffs. “He must have come upon one of the horses Stephenson released.” Frustration shone in his eyes. “But with the villain escaped, the worst thing that can happen going forward is for that young lady to die on this hill.” He hauled the injured highwayman to his feet. “Go,” he urged Samuel. “Stephenson, Saunders, and I can manage the remaining rogues. There’s no time to fetch the maid at the hackney. We shall see that she’s returned to her place of work as soon as it’s feasible, but the lady needs to be taken home and seen by a physician straightway.”

Chapter 9

Hannah swiped at the tears pouring down her face. This was all her fault. If she had not insisted upon being the one to deliver her father’s letter to the wharf, if she had not asked Prescott to avoid Tyburn Gallows, none of this would have happened. Pressing her hand to the wound beneath her chin, she took two deep, gulping breaths. The gunshots and shouting had stopped. Somehow, she must find the strength to come to her feet and locate Prescott and Fanny.

She averted her eyes from the highwayman lying not more than ten yards from her. He had not moved since he fell. She thought it likely that he was dead. Two more highwaymen sat near a tall tree, their hands behind their backs, a fair-haired man standing over them with a pistol in hand. Farther from the carriage, the runner who had come to her aid was leaving the side of another one. A fifth highwayman lay on the ground beside him. But it was not the one who had taken her brooch. A sob escaped her. She had lost her mother’s brooch.

“Miss Dennington! Are you injured?”

Prescott! She swung her head toward the carriage. Her vision blurred further. She blinked, willing her sight to return. Her driver rounded the vehicle. He had one hand pressed against the carriage, as if to steady himself. But he was standing!

“Prescott! I am so glad to see you!”

“And I you, miss. But we must get you away from here.” He took an unsteady step toward her.

“You are injured!”

“A hard hit to the head is all, miss. Nothin’ you need t’—” His words failed, and shock filled his expression. “Miss Dennington! You’re bleeding!”

“Yes.” Hannah groped for some of her silver buttons in the grass. She picked them up with a bloodstained, gloved hand and dropped them into her upturned bonnet on the ground beside her. She’d never seen so much blood. It covered both her gloves and the ribbons on her bonnet. It had dripped onto her gown, and unless her poorly focusing eyes were deceiving her, it was smeared across the grass also. “Rather badly, it would seem.”

Taking up her bonnet of buttons in one hand, Hannah attempted to rise, but her foot was tangled in her wide skirts, and the ground kept tilting.

“One moment.” A strong hand took her elbow to steady her.

The runner had returned. He crouched down beside her and studied her neck. “Have you ascertained where the cut is located?” he asked, loosening his cravat and tugging it free.

“I believe it’s just below my jaw,” she said. Why did her voice sound so far away? “That was where I felt the prick of his knife.”

The runner grimaced. “Better that than the neck itself, but you have obviously lost a significant amount of blood.” He raised his cravat. “Are you able to tie this around your neck? The surgeon aboard my ship maintained that constant pressure was the best way to stem blood flow.”

His ship? Hannah battled her fuzzy thoughts. When he’d first appeared, she’d thought he was the sailor she’d seen at the wharf, but that could not be right. He was a Bow Street man.

“Here.” He pressed the fabric into her hand.

She stared at it. What was she supposed to do with it? It seemed like she should know, but . . . “I do not . . .” She swallowed, only now aware of the pain associated with the action.

He cleared his throat uneasily. “It seems that shock is setting in. May I assist you?”

“Y-yes. I think that might be best.”

He took the fabric and leaned forward. Carefully, he began winding the cloth around her neck. Hannah breathed in the smell of him. The sea. The sun. And some kind of spice. He was so close. She did not think he was supposed to be this close, but she was powerless to do anything about it. It was as though the pain radiating from beneath her jaw had rendered every other portion of her body immobile. Her gaze slowly moved from the shadow of dark stubble on his chin to his parted lips, then across his cheekbone to his gray eyes.