have had the devil of a time hauling in the flying greys. He counted at least five as they flashed past, all in frieze and heavily muffled. The sound of stifled cursing dwindled behind them.
Dawlish muttered darkly, rummaging about re-stowing his pistols. “Stap me, but they even had a wagon backed up in them trees. Right confident of their haul they must be.”
Harry frowned.
The road curved ahead; he regathered the slack reins and checked the greys fractionally.
They rounded the curve—Harry’s eyes flew wide.
He hauled back on the reins with all his strength, slewing the greys across the road. They came to a snorting, stamping halt, their noses all but in the low hedge. The curricle rocked perilously, then settled back on its springs.
Curses turned the air about his ears blue.
Harry paid no attention; Dawlish was still up behind him, not in the ditch. Before him, on the other hand, was a scene of disaster.
A travelling carriage lay on its side, not in the ditch but blocking most of the road. It looked as if one of the back wheels had disintegrated; the ponderous contraption, top-heavy with luggage, had toppled sideways. The accident had only just occurred—the upper wheels of the carriage were still slowly rotating. Harry blinked. A young lad, a groom presumably, was struggling to haul a hysterical girl from the ditch. An older man, the coachman from his attire, was hovering anxiously over a thin grey-haired woman, laid out on the ground.
The coach team was in a flat panic.
Without a word, Harry and Dawlish leapt to the ground and ran to calm the horses.
It took a good five minutes to soothe the brutes, good, strong coach horses with the full stubbornness and dim wits of their breed. With the traces finally untangled, Harry left the team in Dawlish’s hands;
the young groom was still helplessly pleading with the tearful girl while the coachman dithered over the older woman, clearly caught between duty and a wish to lend succour, if he only knew how.
The woman groaned as Harry walked up. Her eyes were closed; she lay straight and rigid on the ground, her hands crossed over her flat chest.
“My ankle—!” A spasm of pain twisted her angular features, tight under an iron-grey bun. “Damn you, Joshua—when I get back on my feet I’ll have your hide for a footstool, I will.” She drew her breath in in a painful hiss. “If I ever get back on my feet.”
Harry blinked; the woman’s tones were startlingly reminiscent of Dawlish in complaining mode. He raised his brows as the coachman lumbered to his feet and touched his forehead. “Is there anyone in the carriage?”
The coachman’s face blanked in shock.
“Oh my God!” Her eyes snapping open, the woman sat bolt upright. “The mistress and Miss Heather!” Her startled gaze fell on the carriage. “Damn you, Joshua—what are you doing, mooning over me when the mistress is likely lying in a heap?” Frantically, she hit at the coachman’s legs, pushing him towards the carriage.
“Don’t panic.”
The injunction floated up out of the carriage, calm and assured.
“We’re perfectly all right—just a bit shaken.” The clear, very feminine voice paused before adding, a touch hesitantly, “But we can’t get out.”
With a muttered curse, Harry strode to the carriage, pausing only to shrug out of his greatcoat and fling it into the curricle. Reaching up to the back wheel, he hauled himself onto the body. Standing on the coach’s now horizontal side, he bent and, grasping the handle, hauled the door open.
Planting one booted foot on either side of the coach step, he looked down into the dimness within.
And blinked.
The sight that met his eyes was momentarily dazzling. A woman stood in the shaft of sunshine pouring through the doorway. Her face, upturned, was heart-shaped; a broad forehead was set beneath dark hair pulled severely back. Her features were well defined; a straight nose and full, well-curved lips above a delicate but determined chin.
Her skin was the palest ivory, the colour of priceless pearls; beyond his control, Harry’s gaze skimmed her cheeks and the graceful curve of her slender neck before coming to rest on the ripe swell of her breasts. Standing over her as he was, they were amply exposed to his sight even though her modish carriage dress was in no way indecorous.
Harry’s palms tingled.
Large blue eyes fringed with long black lashes blinked up at him.
For an instant, Lucinda Babbacombe was not entirely sure she hadn’t sustained a blow on the head—what else could excuse this vision, conjured from her deepest dreams?
Tall and lean, broad-shouldered, slim-hipped, he towered above her, long, sleekly muscled legs braced on either side of the door. Sunlight haloed his golden locks; with the light behind him she could not make out his features yet she sensed the tension that held him.
Lucinda blinked rapidly. A light blush tinged her cheeks; she looked away—but not before she registered the subdued elegance of his garments—the tightly-fitting grey coat, superbly cut, style in every line, worn over clinging ivory inexpressibles, which clearly revealed the long muscles of his thighs. His calves were encased in gleaming Hessians; his linen was crisp and white. There were, she noted, no fobs or seals hanging at his waist, only a single gold pin in his cravat.
Prevailing opinion suggested such severe attire should render a gentleman uninteresting. Unremarkable. Prevailing opinion was wrong.
He shifted—and a large, long-fingered, extremely elegant hand reached down to her.
“Take my hand—I’ll pull you up. One of the wheels is shattered—it’s impossible to right the carriage.”
His voice was deep, drawling, an undercurrent Lucinda couldn’t identify sliding beneath the silken tones. She glanced up through her lashes. He had moved to the side of the door and had gone down on one knee. The light now reached his face, illuminating features that seemed to harden as her gaze touched them. His hand moved impatiently; a black sapphire set in a gold signet glimmered darkly. He would need to be very strong to lift her out with one arm. Subduing the thought that her rescue might well prove a greater threat than her plight, Lucinda reached for his hand.
Their palms met; long fingers curled about her wrist. Lucinda brought her other hand up and clasped it about his—and she was airborne.
She drew in a swift breath—an arm of steel wrapped about her waist; her diaphragm seized. She blinked—and found herself on her knees, held fast in his embrace, locked breast to chest with her unnerving rescuer.
Her eyes were on a level with his lips. They were as severe as his clothes, chiselled and firm. His jaw was distinctly squared, the patrician line of his nose a testimony to his antecedents. The planes of his face were hard, as hard as the body steadying hers, holding her balanced on the edge of the carriage doorframe. He had released her hands; they had fallen to lie against his chest. One of her hips was pressed against his, the other against his muscled thigh. Lucinda forgot about breathing.
Cautiously, she lifted her eyes to his—and saw the sea,
