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Dazed, Phoebe lay in the soft mulch, staring at the star-studded sky for a critical couple of seconds before she heard shouting from the first floor. She was alive.
However, she’d not take much comfort in that if Wentworth caught up with her. Scrambling to her feet, she had the presence of mind to cast about for her shawl, which had caught on a tree branch, before spying Wentworth’s carriage on the driveway. To her surprise, the coachman was on the box with, she saw, Jimmy, one of the grooms. She could hear them discussing the merits of the handsome equipage.
Dashing across the stretch of damp grass, she hauled open the door and climbed in, rapping on the roof as she shouted. “It’s a mercy you’re here. Make haste for we must
fetch the doctor! His Lordship’s condition is critical.”
Thank the Lord the coachman was an unquestioning servant and had not caught sight of her blood-stained chemise, for he obediently and with all due haste, dismissed his appreciative audience and cracked the whip over the horses.
The carriage rolled over the ruts and headed onto the drive through the park with an impressive show of speed, though Phoebe knew it wouldn’t be too long before Wentworth saddled up a horse and overtook her.
For the moment, however, this was her best chance. If they could reach an obscure turn-off about half a mile distant she might lose him.
“Take the left!” she shouted when they were nearly upon it. She leaned out of the window to add, “The doctor’s attending Mrs Proctor.”
Mrs Proctor was a widow who lived another mile down the rutted road. If Phoebe could slip away when the coachman halted and make for another cottage down the slope whose occupants may be sympathetic, it was the best she could hope for.
Obediently, the coachman eased the horses into the narrow laneway while Phoebe put her head out of the window, straining for sight or sound of anyone following. In the far distance, twinkling through the trees, she could see Blinley Manor, but the coach was going at such a speed it was quickly obscured by the rise of the wooded hill. She allowed hope to blossom just a little more. Wentworth might disregard this road and continue on the main thoroughfare toward the town. He’d think she’d make for her closest friend, Ellen Cosgrove, who lived in the village.
It was not a road well suited to a sprung carriage. Frustrated, Phoebe watched her surroundings pass by at a snail’s pace as the coachman carefully navigated the ruts.
The large, waxing moon did not favor her for it lit up the small valley with its sweeping vistas, making them a clear target to anyone in pursuit. If they could only make it to the thick woods on the other side of the clearing where the road was swallowed up by overhanging trees, she may yet have a chance. The widow lived just on the other side.
They were nearly there when she heard the harsh, guttural command terrifyingly close to her window before the carriage lurched to a halt, and the horses whinnied in terror.
“Stop, or I’ll shoot!”
Phoebe was flung forward, covering her face with her hands as she hunched in fright. Dear Lord, Wentworth must have come up the back way and cornered her, realizing all along this was what she had intended.
Though her breath came hard and fast, she knew there was only one thing she could do. And that was run.
Tugging open the door, she leaped to the ground, dragging her shawl behind her. Perhaps it was that which held her up for the crucial second, for suddenly his voice was only a yard away.
“Stop! I swear I’ll shoot!”
She had no doubt that he would. It was worth it to Wentworth to see her dead. He had to see her dead after what she’d witnessed. Oh God, and for all that she’d resisted, the truth was that she’d been a party to it.
She covered the wide, open expanse as fast as her bare legs could carry her, but mercifully made it to the thicker part of the woods before she heard him galloping hard, just behind her. Hurling herself into the sanctuary of a copse of trees, she began her scramble toward a dip through which ran a small stream. The terrain would be too rough and difficult for a horse.
Self-preservation was one thing, but there was also her dignity to safeguard. She’d spent long enough being the servant or plaything to men she did not love. Or respect. She’d not be slave or worse now, even if her only survival were to eke out the most pitiful existence. Life beat strongly in her. She wanted to live. She’d do whatever was required to live—as long as she could do so without being subjugated by a tyrant. Not Wentworth, and not in a prison cell waiting for the noose.
“Stop, I say!” Clearly, Wentworth had too much to gain by her death, but Phoebe did not intend giving up now. He’d dismounted and got a bearing on her, leaping through the undergrowth in pursuit a short distance behind her. She could hear the crackle of small snapping twigs, his labored breath, the squelch of mud under boots. “Stop!”
Only then did she realize the voice was not Wentworth’s. The realization provided a measure of relief, though not for long.
Another villain who would do her harm? So he really was a highwayman, holding up Wentworth’s fine carriage in the hopes of rich booty.
Well, that was just as much reason to flee.
Her lack of clothing made her surprisingly agile. She couldn’t imagine achieving such speed in all the layers she was required to wear in her daily life, even though the fashions of the day offered so much more freedom than those worn by the previous generation.
But to be wearing only a chemise was to be all but naked. If her pursuer saw her as a serving girl so scantily dressed he’d think he could do anything he liked with her. A highwayman was beyond the law, a desperate man without honor, who’d capitalize on such an opportunity since the jewels of the carriage occupant he’d expected were not forthcoming.
Holding her aching side, Phoebe clung to an overhanging branch as she tried to gauge how far away he was. She couldn’t see him, but his labored breathing was audible; and then she glimpsed his bulk just a few yards behind her, clambering over a large fallen log.
His head was bent, the lower part of his face obscured by a black handkerchief; a low-crowned felt hat pulled down over his brow. She could see the bulge of a pistol tucked into his waistband, and suspected he’d have no compunction either in killing or raping her. Well, she’d rather be dead in both instances—although how different was rape considering how she’d submitted with such reluctance so many nights since her forced marriage?
