realized that they were hurtling straight toward the men who were firing upon them. She had a glimpse of dark shapes that resolved themselves into men and ponies. Suddenly a large man jumped out of the darkness, grabbing the door and swinging his feet up into the carriage. Camilla shrieked and scrambled away from him. As she did so, her flailing hand landed on her umbrella, lying there on the floor.
She picked it up and swung it hard at the man, cracking him on the shins. He let out a howl, and she gave him a hard poke in the stomach with the tip of the umbrella. He let out another cry of pain, and his fingers slipped on the door. He fell backward out of the carriage.
Camilla sat down on the seat, grasping the strap on the wall for purchase. With the other hand, she held her umbrella at the ready, keeping a sharp lookout for any other intruders. They tore along at a reckless speed, the door of the carriage swinging back and forth, the carriage jouncing wildly over the rutted track. Camilla was certain that they were going to overturn at any moment. It was raining in earnest now, too, and rain was slanting in through the open door.
She realized after a while that they were slowing down to a more sedate pace, and after a moment, she slid across the seat and grabbed the door as it swung back toward the carriage and pulled it firmly shut. She looked with distaste at the puddle of water that had formed on the floor, but there was little she could do about that. She could, however, remove her soaked mantle, the back of which, she discovered, was thoroughly smeared with mud from when the stranger had thrown her to the ground.
The stranger. Her eyes narrowed as her thoughts turned toward that man. Who was he, and what had he been up to out here in the wilds of the Dorset coast? He was up to no good, she was sure. Those men had been shooting at him, and, now that she thought about it, it was obvious that he had been hiding behind that tree—no doubt lying in wait for someone. It was no wonder he had looked at her with such fury when she called to him; she had broadcast his presence to the other men, giving them a chance to protect themselves. She wondered if he was a highwayman, or merely some ruffian looking to attack one of his enemies.
Of course, she mused, given where they were, it just might have something to do with “the gentlemen”—the name, uttered only in lowered voices, given to the men engaged in the age-old occupation of smuggling. Everyone knew about it, and, if truth be known, many an upstanding local citizen, even among the magistrates and judges, was known to turn a blind eye to the illegal trade. Indeed, many of them had a regular delivery of French brandy waiting on their back doorsteps in the early-morning light after a moonless night. There were those who, hating the duty laws, considered “the gentlemen” within their rights in evading the laws. The people of the outlying coastal areas were often known to resent the intrusion of the central government in what they considered their business. In the previous century, the smugglers had been so strong that there were even pitched battles between the Hawkridge gang and the soldiers. Though those lawless times had passed, the business of smuggling went on, especially now, with coveted French goods cut off from England by the war.
Camilla thought back to the man, remembering his face as he had loomed above her in the dark—the fierce upward slash of cheekbones and the hard mouth, the dark eyes beneath peaked black eyebrows, the dark, rough clothes. Yes, she decided, he had definitely looked as if he might be a smuggler, at odds with his fellows, or a highwayman looking to rob a traveler, or simply a ruffian seeking revenge upon someone. Whatever he was, she was certain that she was not in a safe position. She had seen him where he had not wanted to be seen, and she had been the unwitting cause of the other men shooting at him and chasing him. He had been furious with her earlier, and she had little doubt that he still was. This rough ride in the post chaise might be nothing compared to what happened when the vehicle stopped.
Which it was doing right now. Camilla could feel the chaise slowing down. In a moment, she knew, it would rock to a halt, and then he would jump down and come back here and open the door. He would pull her out and— Well, she was not sure what he would do, but she had no trouble imagining him doing anything from hitting her to strangling her, including the despoiling that old women always warned of in lowered voices to girls who were rash enough to go out unaccompanied.
Camilla took a firm grip on her umbrella. It had served well enough as a weapon before. Perhaps if she took him by surprise, she might disable him enough to get away.
As the carriage rolled to a halt, she crouched down beside the door and waited, the blood pounding in her ears, every nerve stretched, listening for his approach. She heard the thud as he jumped down, and the crunch of his boots upon pebbles as he strode to the door. The latch turned and the door swung outward. “Are you—”
Camilla erupted from her crouched position with a shriek, launching herself out of the chaise. She swung her umbrella with all her might at the man’s face, and the handle cracked satisfyingly against his cheek. The umbrella broke in two, and the man staggered back with a roared oath, his hand going to his cheek.
Camilla hit the ground running, screaming with all her might. She knew that they were probably too far away for anyone to hear her, but she had to try, just as she had to run. She lifted her skirts and flew across the ground, heading down the muddy road in front of the carriage. She didn’t even notice the rain falling on her, or the mud that pulled at her shoes.
He was after her in an instant. She could hear him behind her, but even though she ran so fast she thought her heart would burst, he caught up with her. His hand wrapped around one of her arms like an iron band and pulled her to a stop.
“Stop that caterwauling!” he snarled. “Dammit, woman, what is wrong with you? You’ll bring the whole countryside down upon us.”
Camilla did stop screaming, but only because she was out of breath. She sucked in a lungful of air as she whipped around and struck out at him with her doubled-up fist.
She hit only his chest, and it sent a dart of pain shooting up her arm. He let out a string of curses and grabbed for her wrist, but Camilla twisted and struggled, hitting out and kicking at him.
“Bloody hell, woman, would you stop it? Are you mad?”
They were both thoroughly soaked by the rain now, but neither of them noticed as they grappled in the dark. The man was far larger and taller than Camilla, and the conclusion was never in doubt, but she was fighting for her life, and she struggled wildly, connecting with several kicks and blows as he struggled to subdue her. He managed to wrap one arm around her and pull her off her feet, but Camilla twisted and reached for his face with her nails. He jerked back as her fingers scraped down his cheek, barely missing his eye, and he lost his balance and staggered backward.
They crashed to the ground, but their fall was softened by the mud into which they fell. The man received the brunt of the blow, and he loosened his grasp involuntarily. Camilla seized the opportunity to pull away from him, but before she could crawl to her feet, he had grabbed her arm, jerking her to a stop, and she fell face-first into the mud. She came up spluttering and enraged, lashing out at him. He grabbed for her arms, trying to pin them to her sides, but she was slippery with rain and mud, and he could not get a good hold on her. They rolled across the muddy ground, grappling.
Camilla squirmed and twisted, trying to get away, and he tried to wrap his arms around her to pin her arms to her sides. Once, as they struggled, she felt his hand slide across her breast, and she sucked in her breath sharply at the intimate touch. It startled and alarmed her, almost as much for the strange, sudden heat that shot through her body as for the effrontery of the contact.
He, too, seemed surprised at the touch, and he froze for an instant. She seized the opportunity to try to rise, but he grabbed at her arm to stop her, and the sodden material of her dress ripped, leaving the sleeve in his hand. She tore away, and he lunged after her. They went sprawling in the mud again, his weight bearing her down into the soft muck. He
