A Warriner to Protect Her
Author
Virginia Heath
Reads
15.0K
Chapters
24
HarlequinChapter One
1st December 1813. One month, three days andapproximately eighteen hours remaining...
The thin cord dug into her wrists painfully. Letty ignored it to focus on the practicalities. She barely opened one eye and peeked through her lashes. The Earl of Bainbridge’s crinkly, grey head was lolling sideways, swaying slightly with the motion of the carriage—eyes closed, mouth slack—and she experienced a moment of relief to know he had finally nodded off. She risked opening her eyes properly for the first time in the better part of an hour, raising her head carefully from the seat to look out of the small strip of window still visible between the dark curtains which hid her from the world.
It was black as pitch outside.
A good sign.
It meant they were deep in the countryside, miles from any life, and the fact she could not even see the stars suggested this part of the Great North Road was edged with sheltering trees. Bainbridge’s tatty coach was also flying along at speed, another indicator that they were a long way from the next inn or village. So far, each time the driver had approached one, the wheels had slowed and he had rapped loudly on the roof. Then the Earl had violently restrained her, his gnarled hand clamping tightly over Letty’s already gagged mouth, the point of his boot knife pressed ominously against her throat as they had either passed through or the horses were quickly changed.
As he dozed, that very knife was still resting on his knee, his fingers loosely clasping it. Just in case. There seemed little point in trying to wrestle it from him when her main priority was escape. The last time she had showed any signs of struggle, Bainbridge had swept the back of his hand maliciously across her cheek with such force, his signet ring had sliced through the soft skin on her lip, leaving it now swollen and painful around the gag. For protection, she had pretended the blow had rendered her unconscious and had not moved a muscle since. If it had achieved nothing else, it had given Letty time to think.
As stealthily as she could, she rose to sit up and silently edged her bottom incrementally towards the door. If she could reach the handle, she could throw herself on to the road. After that, if she survived, she really had no idea what she was going to do. It was not really much of a plan, but as she had no desire to go to Gretna Green and she would much rather be dead than married to Bainbridge, it was better than nothing.
The Earl began to snore. But it was erratic on account of his upright position, the sort of snoring which woke a person up. There was no time to lose. Letty stretched out her bound hands and lunged at the handle desperately and, by some miraculous twist of fate, she managed to do this as the carriage veered slightly towards that side. She crashed into the door, wrestled with the handle and it flew open, taking her with it and tossing her sideways.
Instinct made her curl into a ball before she hit the ground, to protect her head and her limbs. Still the impact was sheer agony, pushing all of the air out of her lungs and blinding her with pain. Sharp stones embedded themselves in her skin as she rolled; muddy water shot up her nose and seeped through her closed eyelids, stinging them mercilessly. Almost as a blur in the distance, Letty heard a shout go up from the carriage, now further ahead, then the squeal from wheels when the brake was suddenly applied.
She rose to her knees, forced her bruised and battered body to move, practically dragging herself into the dark and silent trees. Then she ran. There was no thought as to direction. Just as long as it was away from the road, it didn’t matter where she was going. She ignored the way the tangled branches seemed to reach out and grab at her clothing, nor did it matter that the deeper she plunged into these woods, the darker and more terrifying they appeared. Nothing could be as terrifying as being caught again by that dreadful man.
In the distance, she could still hear their angry voices, yet with every yard, those voices became fainter and fainter, spurring her to put even more distance between them as she ploughed recklessly forward. Until her lungs burned and her muscles screamed and she could run no further.
* * *
What Jack should have done was go straight home. But hindsight, in his experience, was overrated. It only served to bring about regrets, and frankly, Jack Warriner had quite enough of those already. So what if he was now drenched to the skin and frozen to the bone? The inn had been warm, the ale good and the company, for once, friendly. He had meant to stay for just the one drink. Just to clear the dust of the road from his throat and to enjoy a few minutes of respite from all of the responsibilities which stifled him before he wound his way down the last three miles to home. But one drink had soon turned into three. And three became six. Then the innkeeper had brought out the whisky and someone else had produced a fiddle, and before he realised it, he had been singing loudly with the rest of the patrons, stamping his feet, clapping his hands and behaving like a young man without the entire oppressive weight of the world on his shoulders.
Now he was paying for his rare moment of weakness. The rain was impressive, even by December’s standards, and would have been coming down in heavy, vertical lines had it not been for the wind. But to compound Jack’s current misery, as he fought the inevitable after-effects of far too much alcohol in too short a period of time, the relentless north-easterly was forcing the fat rain drops almost horizontal. Right into his face.
Thank goodness there was only a half a mile or so left. Soon he would be home. Safe in the house which ate money for breakfast, luncheon and dinner. His grand stately pile, the opulent legacy of his lofty title, a leaking, creaking, millstone around his neck. The place where all hopes and dreams were mercilessly crushed under the hobnail boot of responsibility, while Jack sunk deeper and deeper into debt with every passing year. Just thinking about it made him lethargic.
And slightly nauseous.
Or perhaps that was merely the whisky and the ale. Jack wiped his dripping face with the back of his sleeve and almost lost his seat when his horse suddenly reared noisily. He struggled with the reins to bring the beast under control and that was when he saw her. Almost like a ghost, the woman appeared out of the trees. Her skin eerily pale in the flimsy moonlight, hair and thin dress plastered to her body, eyes as wide as saucers as she stared back at him. Then she fled, wet skirts and a pronounced limp hampering her progress.
It took several seconds for his alcohol-impaired mind to register what else he had seen. A vicious gag. Bound hands. Sheer terror.
She was stumbling ahead of him along the narrow, rutted lane which led to his house as if her very life depended on it. Judging by the state of her, it probably was. Jack’s wits finally overpowered his inebriation and he swiftly directed his horse after her.
‘Miss! Wait! I mean you no harm.’ The wind carried away his words.
As he came alongside her, Jack bent low in the saddle and grabbed her arm. She spun around and tried to extricate herself from his grip, fighting like a cornered fox to escape him.
‘I mean you no harm!’
He could tell by the way she struggled that she was exhausted. Shouting at her was not going to calm her.
‘Let me help you.’ He said this quietly and he saw her blink as she heard him. To prove it, he released the grip he had on her upper arm and held up his gloved hands as if in surrender. Automatically, she went to bolt and he forced himself not to try to stop her. It was the right thing to do. She hesitated. Turned back. Her wide eyes locked on to his and she simply gazed at him, as if she were searching the depths of them to the man he was inside, to see if he could be trusted. Then, almost as if all her strength and determination was gone, she began to slip to the ground.
Jack managed to grab her arm again before she crumpled into a heap and used all of his formidable strength to pull her now deadweight body on to his saddle. He cradled her in his lap; her damp flesh was like ice and it made him wonder how long she had been out here, exposed to the winter elements. She felt so very delicate in his arms. Precious.
He tried to work the gag free. It refused to move. Rainwater had sealed the knot tight and whoever had tied it had done it so harshly, he could not move it. This close, he could just about make out the bruising on her face. Her lip was badly cut and swollen, suggesting she had been beaten as well as bound. And the very fact he had discovered her stumbling blindly along a deserted lane, past midnight and wearing what appeared to be only a bedraggled, sleeveless silk gown meant she had probably managed to escape. Only then did it suddenly dawn on him that her captors might be searching for her. Whoever had bound and beaten this delicate woman was not going to be the sort of person to listen to reason. If she had escaped, it went without saying they would stop at nothing to get her back. Whoever she was, she needed his help.
Without thinking, Jack kicked the horse into a gallop, holding the reins tightly with one hand while the other held his unconscious passenger close to his body to keep her safe. He ignored the sting of the wind and rain on his face. Nothing else mattered but getting her home and to safety. Markham Manor might well be in dire need of a new roof, but at least his troublesome ancestors had had the good sense to surround it with a twenty-foot wall and an archaic pair of similarly proportioned gates which weighed a ton. He had a feeling tonight, for the first time in over two hundred years, the Warriners might actually need them.
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