‘I wish Mr Wolfson had stayed and ridden alongside us. I felt safe in his company. Will you not fetch him back, sir?’ She tugged on Toby’s sleeve.
‘I think he turned south,’ Bert piped up helpfully.
‘Never mind him. He’s gone,’ Toby said shortly, miffed that a passing stranger had thrown his own role as saviour into the shade. ‘We should rest the night at the inn and leave the horses we’ve no need of. Then start off fresh in the morning in good light and better weather.’
‘Mr Williams has a valid point,’ Fiona ventured an opinion. ‘We do not want to end up sliding into a ditch in the dark and again be stranded out in the open.’
‘We will not be so lucky next time to be saved by such as Mr Wolfson,’ Ruth interjected, wringing her hands. She seemed to have given up on craving an adventure and looked as heartsick as her older sister following their misfortune.
‘I say we hurry up in getting home!’ Mr Jackson loudly insisted as his wife obligingly started to hack and slap herself on the chest. ‘The Pig and Whistle is not so far in front of us and we can leave there the nags we don’t need.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘At a strong pace we might reach the inn by half past midnight and will lose no time at all in ending this infernal journey.’
‘Very well...be it on your own heads.’ With no more ado Toby climbed angrily on to his perch, signalling for his nephew to join him.
* * *
Fiona awoke about a mile into their renewed journey, feeling unrefreshed and rubbing her gritty eyes. Although she’d been wretchedly uncomfortable, squashed in the corner of the seat, she’d managed to doze fitfully. Ruth Beresford was snoring beside her, her head drooping on Fiona’s shoulder. Rather than wake her and ask her to shift along a bit to give her more room, Fiona chose to put up with her cramped position. The mood in the coach as they’d set off had not been happy and Fiona would sooner suffer sore muscles than more moaning.
At first, her companions had agitatedly watched passing scenery to spot lurking dangers until, one by one, they’d settled back into the squabs. Mr Jackson had been last to succumb to the rocking of the coach and to close his eyes. They were making steady progress towards the Pig and Whistle. Fiona was glad, even if none of the others seemed to have been, that Toby Williams was sensibly taking a slow and easy pace along the perilous road, slick with mud.
When they’d started out Peter had loudly commented that Toby Williams was deliberately dawdling to annoy them all. He had hammered on the roof of the coach in protest. Thankfully, the driver had ignored the command to increase speed and they continued to go along at a sedate pace.
Pinned against the window as she was, Fiona had little choice but to gaze into the darkness dappled by the flickering coach lamps. Patches of vegetation loomed into shape, adopting a yellow gloss before returning to an inky outline as the vehicle lumbered past. Fiona shivered, unable to stop imagining that behind the dense bushes unfriendly eyes were watching them.
For all her proud boast to Luke Wolfson that she could look after herself, Fiona knew she couldn’t. She was a fish out of water in this rural environment and wished as dearly as did the others that Mr Wolfson had accompanied them on this dark and lonely road. For some reason that she refused to attribute to simple conceit, she sensed that had she asked him to stay with them, he would have agreed to do so. But they’d parted coolly and now he would be miles distant and close to his destination if not already arrived at it.
He’d said he was going to Lowerton, but she doubted he was a local and lived permanently in a Devon village. Fiona imagined he was, like her, from London and wondered if she’d ever passed Luke Wolfson on a city street. Perhaps, without realising it, she might have bumped into him while out shopping, or when socialising with her sister and their friends at the pleasure gardens. She pondered for a moment on the likelihood, but doubted a meeting had occurred; she would have noticed him even if he’d overlooked her.
And he would have done so. Her younger sister Verity had always drawn the gentlemen’s attention and their friends, Elise and Beatrice Dewey, were both blonde beauties, now married to eminent millionaires.
Fiona had been the oldest of their group, but when all the others settled down she had never felt miffed that, being plain-faced, she’d been passed over. Until now. The thought of Luke Wolfson flirting with her sister or her friends irked her and she knew it was ridiculous to feel that way. How could she possibly be jealous of something that hadn’t occurred and concerned a gentleman she scarcely knew?
Irritated with the direction of her thoughts, Fiona sighed beneath her breath. She squeezed shut her eyes, hoping to block Mr Wolfson’s rugged features and husky baritone from her mind. On opening them again a gasp of shock abraded her throat. She quickly blinked and craned her neck, but the shadowy silhouette she’d glimpsed was lost to her as the coach rumbled on. She tensed, wondering whether to alert Mr Jackson or the driver to what she thought she’d seen, but then if she were mistaken, and there was nothing out there but a deer, she’d just cause more bad feeling. But...it might have been Luke Wolfson who’d felt conscience bound, as he had once before, to help them on their way, her inner voice argued.
Before Fiona could find a solution to her dilemma the coach juddered as the driver reined in and the silence of a moment ago was shattered by shouts from within and without the vehicle.
Peter Jackson fell almost into Ruth Beresford’s lap while his wife, who’d been resting on his shoulder, rolled sideways on to the empty seat. Only Fiona, primed to something afoot, had not tipped from her perch at the abrupt halt.
The sound of a gunshot brought in its wake an eerie silence. Then there was another bang and Mr Jackson flung open the coach door and leapt out, flailing his arms for balance.
The sight that met their eyes was shocking enough to make Valerie Beresford swoon against her sister’s breast and Mrs Jackson squeak in fright before shouting for her husband.
Only Fiona and Ruth remained quiet, although Fiona imagined that Ruth Beresford was as terrified as she was at the sight of the grinning felon pointing a weapon at them.
She knew he was smiling from the crinkling about his eyes; the lower half of his face was concealed behind a neckerchief.
‘Out you come, then, ladies, let’s take a look at you,’ the ruffian jovially ordered in a voice muffled by cotton.
‘You will not lay a finger on these ladies!’ Peter Jackson roared, shaking a fist at the fellow, although visibly perspiring in fear.
Once disembarked, Fiona could see that the highwayman was not alone; his associate was astride a horse a yard or two away. His features were also partially concealed, nevertheless he seemed vaguely familiar to her. And then her eyes fell on a sight that made her groan in dismay. Toby Williams had been unusually quiet following the hold up because he was occupied tending his wounded nephew. Young Bert was lying on the ground and his uncle was crouching beside his still figure, trying to staunch his bleeding.
Ignoring the highwayman’s demand that she stay where she was, Fiona spontaneously rushed to help the invalid if she could.
‘Is he badly hurt?’ she breathed, watching as Toby tried to dry Bert’s wound with a handkerchief. But as fast as the fellow turned the wad to find a clean spot, it again became scarlet with blood.
Crouching close to the floor to protect her modesty, Fiona lifted her skirt a few inches and ripped a length of lawn from her petticoat hem. She handed it to Toby who gave her a grateful smile and proceeded to fold it into a
