not have worried. Having been apprised of the situation, he seated himself on the sofa beside his unexpected guest, regarding her keenly.
‘My sister has told me everything, Miss Davenport. I confess I am deeply shocked to learn of the reason for your coming here, but can in no way blame you for leaving. To force a young woman into marriage must be in every way repugnant to civilised thinking.’ He smiled. ‘You are welcome to remain here as long as you wish.’
‘Thank you. May I also ask that my reason for being here remains a secret?’
‘You may rely on it. Neither my sister nor I will divulge it to a soul.’
Claire’s eyes filled with tears and a lump formed in her throat.
‘Indeed, sir, you are very good.’
To her horror tears spilled over and ran down her face and she dashed them away with a trembling hand. Seeing it his face registered instant concern.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘You’re safe here.’
Claire drew in a shuddering breath and fumbled for a handkerchief. Before she could find it he produced his own.
‘Here, try this. I prescribe it for the relief of tears.’
It drew a wan smile and he nodded approvingly. ‘That’s it. Now dry your eyes and let us have no more of this. I absolutely forbid you to be sad here.’
Ellen rose and rang the bell to summon the maid.
‘Shall we have some more tea?’
Her brother looked up and grinned. ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
Chapter Two
Gleams of moonlight shone through flying rags of cloud, its pale glow illuminating the moor and the winding road along which the wagon made its steady progress. Drawn by four great draught horses it lumbered on, its load a dark mass concealed beneath a heavy tarpaulin. Apart from the driver and his companion on the box, six others accompanied the wagon, big men chosen for their physical strength. Two walked in front with lighted torches; the others rode on either side of the vehicle. All were armed with clubs and pistols. Conversation was kept to a minimum. The only sounds were the wind and the muffled rumbling of iron-rimmed wheels over the track. For it was more track than road, an ancient drovers’ trail that crossed the hills above Helmshaw. As they walked the men kept a sharp look out, their eyes scanning the roadway ahead and the pooled shadows to either side. No other sound or movement revealed any more human presences. The little convoy might have been the last living things upon the face of the earth.
‘All quiet so far,’ muttered the driver, ‘but I’ll not be sorry to see journey’s end.’
His companion merely grunted assent.
‘If it weren’t for t’money you’d not catch me out here with this lot,’ the other continued. ‘I thought long and hard about it I can tell thee. A man should be at his fireside of an evening, not wandering t’moors to be prey to scum.’
Another grunt greeted this. Seeing his companion wasn’t in a responsive mood, Jethro Timms gave up the attempt at conversation. From time to time he eyed the other man. A taciturn cove, he thought, and no mistake. However, what he lacked in amiability he made up for in sheer physical presence for he was tall and well made with a lean, athletic figure that had about it something of a military bearing, though nothing about his clothing suggested it. Coat, breeches and boots, though strong and serviceable, had seen better days. Still, the driver reflected, that was not surprising. Since Napoleon went to Elba there were lots of ex-soldiers roaming the land looking for work, though heaven knew it was in short supply. If a man was desperate enough he might volunteer to ride guard on a wagon in the middle of the night.
He gave his companion another sideways glance, but the other seemed unaware of it, his gaze on the way ahead. Dark hair was partly concealed under a hat which shadowed the strong lines of brow and jaw. Down one cheek the faint line of a scar was just visible. It might have been a sabre slash, but the driver didn’t care to ask. Something about those steel-grey eyes forbade it. Nevertheless, he thought, Eden was a comforting presence tonight, not least for the blunderbuss he held across his knee and the brace of pistols thrust into his belt.
Timms made no further attempt to break the silence and the wagon lumbered on. Gradually the scenery began to change, the open heath giving way to more rugged terrain as the track passed through a deep valley. On either hand the dark mass of the hillsides was just visible against the paler cloud above, but to one side the ground fell away in a steep drop to the stream. As it passed through the declivity the track narrowed. Suddenly Eden sat up, his expression intent.
Timms swallowed hard. ‘What is it?’
‘I thought I heard something. Stones sliding.’
‘I can’t hear owt.’
For a moment or two they listened, but the only sounds were the wind through the heather and the chuckling water below.
‘Tha must have imagined…’
The driver’s words were lost as the darkness erupted in a flash of fire and the sharp report of a pistol. A linkman cried out and fell, his torch lying unheeded on the path. As though at a signal a dozen dark shapes rose from the concealing heather and rushed forwards. Cursing, Timms reined in his startled team as a masked attacker reached up to drag him from his seat. Beside him the blunderbuss roared and a man screamed, falling back into the darkness. On the other side of the wagon two others launched themselves at Eden. He swung the blunderbuss hard and felt it connect with bone. His attacker staggered and fell. The other came on. Eden kicked out at the masked face and heard cartilage crunch beneath the sole of his boot. A muffled curse followed and the would-be assailant reeled away, clutching his ruined nose. Eden drew the pistols from his belt as his gaze took in the chaos of struggling shadowy forms in the roadway. As another masked face loomed out of the dark he loosed off a shot. The ball took the man between the eyes and he fell without a sound. Several others swarmed toward the wagon.
Timms, struggling to control the restive horses, cried a warning as hands reached up to drag him from the box. Eden heard it and, turning, fired the second pistol. He heard a yelp of pain and saw a man go down, but almost immediately another shot rang out and Timms swore, clutching his arm. A moment later he was dragged from the box and lost to view. Other hands caught hold of Eden. Instead of resisting them he threw himself forwards, diving off the wagon to land on top of his assailants in the road. Fists and feet connected with flesh amid muffled cries and oaths. Then he was free. Leaping to his feet, he spun round to find himself staring at the mouth of a pistol. Pale moonlight afforded a swift impression of cold eyes glinting above a mask, and below it a soiled green neckcloth. For one split second something stirred in Eden’s memory. Then there was a burst of flame and a loud report. Hot lead tore into flesh and he staggered, clutching his shoulder. Blood welled beneath his fingers and then vicious pain exploded in a burst of light behind his eyeballs and he fell.
He lay in the dirt for some moments, aware only of the pain that seemed to have replaced all other sensation. The sounds of fighting receded. With an effort of will he forced back the threatening faintness and became aware of a voice issuing instructions. Moonlight revealed dark figures round the wagon, some unhitching the horses, others loosening the ropes that held the load, flinging back the tarpaulin to reveal the crate beneath. Eden’s jaw tightened as the figures swarmed aboard and levered it off the wagon. As in slow motion it crashed onto the road and rolled forwards down the slope,
