ever done. But after all, how many innocent women had been burned at stakes through history?
The Royal Society believes you must be removed, he’d said coolly. He’d stroked her cheek, and she’d been too horrified to pull away from his touch. You’ll never know when it will happen, love. But I promise it will hurt. Then he’d slipped away and disappeared in the crowd of the ton that filled the park. Simon and Caroline had caught up with her, and though she’d lied about what happened, she knew they’d sensed her terror.
The Royal Society wanted her dead. She couldn’t put her family at risk. And by staying, she was putting Aunt Eugenia in danger.
Lord Blackthorne was the only one she could turn to. He’d told her—in letters—that he was falling in love with her. She prayed it was true. She prayed that she could go to him and find safety. And through his power and wealth, she could also protect her family.
“Hold hard!”
The coachman was shouting. That was no dream; his furious shout was real. Suddenly, the carriage skidded on the road and the horses screamed in terror.
“What is it?” Miranda cried, clinging to the seat. But over the clatter of the traces, the frightening creaking of the carriage, she did not think anyone would hear.
The wheels seemed to catch in the road and tipped to the right, then swung back over to the left. Men—the coachman, the outriders who thought they were escorting her on her brother’s orders—shouted and hollered. A lot of colorful cursing filled the air. But they were going to overturn…
There was no way to stop it. Miranda grabbed the seat, but the force of the spill threw her. The other side of the carriage slammed her back and she tumbled around as the carriage went over. Her face hit the frame of the window, stunning her. Had she lost all her teeth? Broken her cheek? Pain shot through her and her stomach churned.
The side of the carriage scraped across the rutted ground as the horses tried to run, dragging the heavy carriage behind them.
Then it stopped.
Miranda let her head fall to rest against the wall. Oh dear God.
She wanted to be sick.
Women were supposed to swoon over far less. But she was going to stay conscious, even if it killed her. Her lower lip stung and she wiped her hand across it. Of course, blood instantly streaked her white muslin glove. She tasted the coppery tang on her tongue.
Someone wrenched open the door that was now above her. Brilliant sunlight and cool air poured in.
“Miss? Are you all right, miss?”
“Yes.” And she was. Though she was lying on her back and her feet stuck up in the air. Her skirts had tangled around her legs, her pelisse had wrapped itself around her arms. It was a most undignified situation, and her head ached like blazes.
The coachman flushed red. “Would you allow me to help you out, Miss Bond?”
“I don’t see how else I’ll get out.” Blasted clothes. “What happened?”
His hand came down—he tried to grasp her wrist without actually looking at her. Apparently, he didn’t want to be accused of behaving improperly. She sighed, then grasped his hand.
“The horses went mad,” he said. “And then, out of nowhere, some sort of creature appeared in front of us. We tried to rein in, but the horses were wild with fear. Then the carriage went over.”
“A creature? Do you mean a wolf? A wild dog?”
“No, my lady, it wasn’t that.” He pulled her upward, and she struggled to gain purchase against a wall or the seat, something to lift her out.
This was certainly an adventure. When had she ever had to hike up her skirts to climb out of an upturned carriage, then slide off the wall, which was now up in the air like the roof?
Her brother’s coachman looked mortally embarrassed as he helped her scramble through the door opening. He was a handsome man with coal black hair and flashing eyes, but he was not supposed to be clasping arms around a lady’s waist to set her on the ground.
“Thank you,” she breathed, to let him know that she didn’t care one whit about propriety in the situation.
She and the coachman shared an awkward moment while he gruffly acknowledged her appreciation. The sunlight promised a beautiful day, but the air she sucked in was crisp with the newness of spring, and her shoes were sinking into the muddy road. Fading gold light picked out a scene of madness: of the poor horses, one was on its side and screaming, and the other was fighting the constraint of the traces. Outriders were struggling to free them. The carriage was a battered wreck.
She was lucky to have survived.
That made her more determined to know what had happened. “If it wasn’t a wolf or a dog, what was it?”
“It was a massive beast with fangs,” the coachman said at the same instant one of the outriders shouted, “It was a vampire!”
“Oh, surely not,” she discounted. Had the servants been drinking? She hoped not. And they had not stopped long enough at an inn for the men to have a drink.
It would be expected that she would say such a thing was a foolish superstition. But she knew there really were creatures with fangs that drank human blood and who hunted the English countryside. When she had been very little and Aunt Eugenia told her vampire stories, she had not believed such monsters were real. She’d loved Aunt Eugenia but always had thought her eccentric. She’d thought her aunt just liked to scare her.
Now she knew monsters and demons existed.
“It was a man,” one of the outriders insisted. “A giant of a man, with fangs.”
“Blow it,” growled the coachman. “I doubt we can set this thing to rights. What are we to do?”
Miranda wrapped her arms around herself. A cold wind cut through her pelisse, and she still throbbed with pain all over.
“The village of Little Darkling is yonder.” Her coachman pointed. Through the budding trees of a small forest she could see muddy fields, a few stone farmhouses and stables, then a huddle of buildings. Sunlight glinted on paned windows and smoke curled from chimneys—the little cottages looked rather enticing.
“Let us walk, then,” she suggested. It would be a slog in the mud and would take hours. Clouds rolled swiftly over the sun. A few snowflakes wafted down, and the dampness seemed to rush through her skin. Her beautiful day was vanishing. But what choice did the have?
Before any of the men could answer, a low growl rolled out of the stretch of dark woods that separated them from the warm, inviting homes. Branches cracked, leaves twitched, but Miranda could not see a thing. Snowflakes thickened and swirled in wild spirals. Miranda gasped as the coachman drew out his pistol. “Get back, my lady,” he cried.
A silvery shape exploded out of the shadows—a wolf with dark fur and long legs that swallowed up the ground as he tore toward them. The animal’s jaws parted. Arm rock steady, the coachman took aim, but Miranda cried, “No!”
Like a streak of lightning, the wolf shot past.
