them under control, Martin leapt from his perch and ran to their heads. He caught hold of their bits just in time to prevent them rearing as a second scream sliced through the night. No doubt about it, a woman’s scream, coming from the woods just ahead. Swiftly, Martin tied the team securely to a nearby gate and, grabbing the pair of loaded pistols from beneath the seat, made for the trees. Once in their shadow, he took care to move silently, thanking the years of his misspent youth, when he had often gone poaching on his father’s preserves with young Johnny Hobbs from the village.
Some distance into the wood, he froze. Before him lay a small clearing, a track leading into it from the opposite direction. Sounds of a struggle came from an ill-assorted trio, waltzing in the shadows in the centre.
‘Keep still, you little…!’
‘Ow! Gawd! She bit my finger, the doxy!’
As one man pulled away, the group resolved into two burly men dressed in unkempt frieze and a lady, unquestionably a lady, in a silk gown which shimmered in the twilight. The larger of the men succeeded in grabbing the woman from behind, trapping her arms by her sides. Despite her efforts to kick him, he managed to hold her.
‘Listen, missus. The master said to hold you ’ere and not to harm a single hair of your head. Now how’s we to do that if’n you don’t stop still?’
The exasperation in the man’s voice brought a sympathetic smile to Martin’s face. The clearing was too large to allow him to creep up on them. Quietly, he worked his way around so that the man holding the woman would have his back to him.
‘You fools!’ The woman and her captor teetered perilously. ‘Don’t you know the price for kidnapping? If you let me go, I’ll pay you double what your master will!’
Martin’s brows rose. The woman’s voice was unexpectedly mature. Clearly, she had not lost her head.
‘Maybe so, lady,’ growled the man nursing his finger. ‘But the master’s gentry and they’re mean when crossed. No—I don’t rightly see as how we can oblige.’
Holding both pistols fully cocked, Martin stepped from the trees. ‘Dear me. Haven’t you been taught to always oblige a lady?’
The man holding the woman let her go and swung to face Martin. In the same moment, Martin saw the second man draw a knife. He had a clear shot and took it, the ball passing into the man’s elbow. The man dropped the knife and howled. His comrade turned to the source of the sound and so missed the pretty sight of ex-Major Martin Willesden, soldier of fortune and experienced man at arms, being laid low by a right to the jaw, delivered by a very small fist. Martin, his attention on the man he had shot, did not see the blow coming. His head jerked back from the contact and struck a low branch. Stunned, he crumpled slowly to the ground.
Helen Walford stared at the long form stretched somnolent at her feet. God in heaven! It wasn’t Hedley Swayne after all! The discharged pistol, still smoking, was clutched in the man’s left hand. His right hand held a second pistol, cocked and ready. She darted forward and grabbed it. Catching her skirts in one hand, she leapt over the sprawled form and swung to train the pistol on her captor, hampered in his efforts to reach her by the body between. ‘Keep your distance!’ she warned. ‘I know how to use this.’
Noting the steadiness of the pistol pointed at his chest, the man who had held her decided to accept her word. He glanced back at his accomplice, now on his knees, moaning in pain. He threw Helen a malevolent glance. ‘Blast!’
He eyed her menacingly, then turned and stumped over to his mate. Helping him up, he growled, ‘Let’s get out of this. The master’s bound to be along shortly. To my mind, he can sort this lot out hisself.’
His words carried to Helen. Her eyes widened in shock. ‘You mean this man isn’t your master?’ She spared a glance for the still form at her feet. Heavens! What had she done?
The men looked at the crumpled figure. ‘That swell? Never set eyes on him afore, missus.’
‘Whoever he be, he’s goin’ to be none too pleased with you when he wakes up,’ added the second man with relish.
Helen swallowed and gestured with the gun. Grumbling, the two rogues made their way to the edge of the clearing where stood a disreputable gig pulled by a single broken-down nag. They clambered aboard and, whistling up the horse, departed down the rough track.
Left alone in the gloom with her unconscious rescuer, Helen stood and stared at the recumbent form. ‘Oh, lord!’
Thus far, her day had been a resounding disaster. Kidnapped in the small hours, bundled up in a distinctly odoriferous blanket, bustled from one carriage to another until the sounds of London had been left far behind, she had spent the day being battered and jostled, tied and gagged, trussed and trapped in a worn-out chaise. Her head was still pounding. And now she had been rescued, only to lay her rescuer low.
With a groan, Helen pressed a hand to her temple.
Fate was having a field day.
Chapter Two
The back of his head hurt. Martin’s first thought on regaining consciousness convinced him he was still alive. But, when his lids fluttered open, he realised his error. He had to be dead. There was an angel hanging over him, her golden hair lit by an unearthly radiance. A sudden twinge forced his eyes shut.
He could not be dead. His head hurt too much, even though it was cradled in the softest lap imaginable. A delicate hand brushed his brow. He trapped it in one of his. No spectre, his angel, but flesh and blood.
‘What happened?’ He winced, pain stabbing behind his eyes.
Helen, bending over him, winced in sympathy. ‘I’m dreadfully afraid that I hit you. On the jaw. You stumbled back and hit a branch.’
When a spasm of pain—or was it irritation?—passed over her rescuer’s strong features, Helen’s guilt increased. As soon as the rattle of the gig had receded, she had fallen on her knees beside her victim. Quelling all maidenly hesitation— she was hardly a maiden, after all—she had bent her mind to ministering to the injuries she had caused. His shoulders were abominably heavy, but, eventually, she had managed to lift his head on to her lap, gently stroking back the raven locks that had fallen across his brow.
Martin held on to her hand, reluctant to let his anchor to reality slip. It was a small hand, the bones delicate between his fingers. Gradually, the pounding in his head subsided, leaving a dull ache. He put up his free hand to feel the bruise on his chin. Just in time, he remembered not to try and feel the bump on his head. It was, after all, resting on her lap and she sounded like a lady.
‘Do you always attack your rescuers?’ Martin struggled to sit up.
Helen helped him, then sat back on her heels to look at him, open concern in her eyes. ‘I really must apologise. I thought you were Hedley Swayne.’
Gingerly, Martin examined the lump rising on the back of his skull. Her voice, if nothing else, confirmed his angel’s station. The soft, rounded tones slid into his consciousness like warmed honey. He frowned. ‘Who’s Hedley Swayne? The master who arranged your abduction?’
Helen nodded. ‘So I believe.’ She should have guessed this man wasn’t Hedley—his
