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She jumped up and dropped a little curtsy. “I wanted to wish you good luck, miss,” she said, with a flicker of a glance at Coombe.
“Why, thank you, Mary.” Antoinette smiled, touched by the girl’s kindness. Ever the organized chatelaine, she had set aside some coins for the moment of her leaving, and somehow she’d remembered to bring them with her. Now she handed them out among the grateful Mary and the unwilling Wonicots.
“Thank you, I’m sure, miss,” Sally Wonicot sniffed, while he husband gave a quick nod of his head.
“I’m sorry my stay here wasn’t under happier circumstances,” Antoinette said, and then she turned and walked to the door to wait for Coombe. There were murmurs from the group behind her and a muffled sob from Mary. This seemed surprising—the girl had never shown any partiality for the groom—but again Antoinette didn’t have time to think too hard about it. A moment later Coombe was by her side, throwing open the door, and she was setting off for the stable, with him slouching along beside her in the darkness.
“Is Lord Appleby really on his way?” Antoinette turned to ask him. “How do you know?”
“I do know, miss. Trust me, we’ve no time to waste.”
“No, of course we don’t,” she murmured, and tried to shake off her doubts. Suddenly she smiled. “I was dreaming about you tonight, Coombe.”
He seemed startled. “About me, miss?”
“Yes.” She heard herself give a very uncharacteristic nervous giggle. “In the dream you saved my life. Perhaps it was an omen. What do you think?”
He was as silent as he was probably wishing she was.
“Anyway,” she went on, unable to stop herself—his lack of conversation seemed to cause her to want to talk twice as much, “I think it bodes well for our journey. I was running through the woods and…” Suddenly a thought occurred to her and she frowned. “Do you know about the witch who once lived in these woods, Coombe? Her name was Priscilla Langley. Did she have a son?”
“I don’t know nothing about no witch, miss,” he muttered in a tone that suggested she was losing her mind.
Perhaps he was right, but what if the highwayman was Priscilla’s boy? Something about the way he behaved, apart from his verbal hints, the familiarity he displayed with the manor and the cottage and the woods that surrounded them. As if he belonged here. If he was Priscilla’s son, then he would be a bastard with no real claim to the Wexmoor estate, but Appleby might use his hopes to force him to obey his orders. Get me the letter and I will give you Wexmoor. That sort of thing.
It was a stretch of the imagination, Antoinette thought, as she blew warm air into her gloved hands, and watched Coombe saddle the horses. She was trying to turn the highwayman into an angel, a good man who’d been forced to act out of character under difficult circumstances. Antoinette knew she’d feel far less guilty about their encounters if he was such a man.
But
did it really matter what motivated him? She was never going to see him again. And just as well! He’d end up hurting her, abandoning her, and leaving her heartbroken. Then he’d go off to this Marietta woman, and Antoinette would be left at the altar with Lord Appleby.
“Let me help you, miss.” Coombe reached for her arm. “Miss?”
She was still lost in her thoughts, but at his touch she found enough strength to give a brusque nod. Once she was in the saddle, she settled herself, waiting for him to finish attaching her carpetbag. As they rode from the yard, Antoinette glanced over her shoulder and saw a flickering light in one of the manor windows. A moment later it was extinguished, and the old house lay in complete darkness.
Antoinette turned her face resolutely forward, telling herself that whatever had happened to her here was finished, and now she must learn to forget.
Gabriel rode as fast as he dared. Fortunately Antoinette was a good horsewoman and could keep up, although she looked tired and pale, with lines of strain about her eyes and mouth. He had a sudden urge to take her in his arms and promise her he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to her, and whatever she was frightened of, she could tell him and trust him.
Of course he didn’t.
She’d probably scream and scratch his eyes out, or freeze him with one of her looks. He’d have to be very careful not to slip out of his Coombe character so she didn’t suspect anything until they reached their destination. When she was nice and safe with no chance of escaping, he’d reveal himself.
He was looking forward to it.
They had been riding for almost an hour, the dawn light beginning to envelop them with birdsong as the new day appeared, when ahead of them the growing rattle and trot of a horse-drawn vehicle announced someone approaching them at speed.
Before Antoinette could say a word, Coombe grabbed hold of her reins and dragged her off the road and into a field. There was a high stone wall, and they slipped off their mounts and crouched down behind it. Coombe seemed to expect her to protest, but she didn’t. They were barely in position when the vehicle came around the corner and rushed toward them. Four horses and a coach with lanterns still lit on either side; someone was in a hurry to reach his destination. And the only destination she knew of in that direction was Wexmoor Manor.
“Lord Appleby,” Antoinette whispered.
“Aye. He’s in a right hurry.”
“We only just left in time.” Her relief was obvious.
Coombe gave her a sharp sideways glance. “I thought you was His Lordship’s lady. Why don’t you want to meet up with him?”
Antoinette watched as the coach raced into the distance. “There are some things I’d rather he didn’t know,” she said. “If I come face-to-face with him, then I’d have to tell him.”
