her skin lapped by waves of warmth, her mind suborned to sensation. She felt her lips soften, felt herself lean into him—and blinked wildly.
A tremor shook her. The muscles surrounding her twitched, then stilled.
She felt him draw breath.
“Careful,” was all he said as he slowly rose, drawing her up with him, holding her steady until her feet could find purchase on the carriage.
Lucinda wondered just what danger he was warning her against.
Forcing his arms from her, Harry struggled to shackle his impulses, straining at their leash. “I’ll have to lower you to the ground.”
Peering over the carriage side, Lucinda could only nod. The drop was six feet and more. She felt him shift behind her; she jumped as his hands slipped beneath her arms.
“Don’t wriggle or try to jump. I’ll let go when your coachman has hold of you.”
Joshua was waiting below. Lucinda nodded; speech was beyond her.
Harry gripped her firmly and swung her over the edge. The coachman quickly grasped her legs; Harry let go—but could not prevent his fingers from brushing the soft sides of her breasts. He clenched his jaw and tried to eradicate the memory but his fingertips burned.
Once on terra firma, Lucinda was pleased to discover her wits once more at her command. Whatever curious influence had befuddled her faculties was, thank Heaven, purely transitory.
A quick glance upwards confirmed that her rescuer had turned back to render a like service to her stepdaughter. Reflecting that at barely seventeen Heather’s susceptibility to his particular brand of wizardry was probably a good deal less than her own, Lucinda left him to it.
After one comprehensive glance about the scene, she marched across to the ditch, leaned over and dealt Amy, the tweeny, a sharp slap. “Enough,” she declared, as if she was speaking of nothing more than kneading dough. “Now come and help with Agatha.”
Amy’s tear-drenched eyes opened wide, then blinked. “Yes, mum.” She sniffed—then shot a watery smile at Sim, the groom, and struggled up out of the thankfully dry ditch.
Lucinda was already on her way to Agatha, prone in the road. “Sim—help with the horses. Oh—and do get these stones out of the road.” She pointed a toe at the collection of large, jagged rocks littering the highway. “I dare say it was one of these that caused our wheel to break. And I expect you’d better start unloading the carriage.”
“Aye, mum.”
Halting by Agatha’s side, Lucinda bent to look down at her. “What is it and how bad?”
Lips compressed, Agatha opened iron-grey eyes and squinted up at her. “It’s just my ankle—it’ll be better directly.”
“Indeed,” Lucinda remarked, getting down on her knees to examine the injured limb. “That’s no doubt why you’re white as a sheet.”
“Nonsense—oooh!” Agatha sucked in a quick breath and closed her eyes.
“Stop fussing and let me bind it.”
Lucinda bade Amy tear strips from her petticoat, then proceeded to bind Agatha’s ankle, ignoring the maid’s grumbles. All the while, Agatha shot suspicious glances past her.
“You’d best stay by me, mistress. And keep the young miss by you. That gentleman may be a gentleman, but he’s a one to watch, I don’t doubt.”
Lucinda didn’t doubt either but she refused to hide behind her maid’s skirts. “Nonsense. He rescued us in a positively gentlemanly manner—I’ll thank him appropriately. Stop fussing.”
“Fussing!” Agatha hissed as Lucinda drew her skirts down to her ankles. “You didn’t see him move.”
“Move?” Frowning, Lucinda stood and dusted her hands, then her gown. She turned to discover Heather hurrying up, hazel eyes bright with excitement, clearly none the worse for their ordeal.
Behind her came their rescuer. All six feet and more of him, with a lean and graceful stride that conjured the immediate image of a hunting cat.
A big, powerful predator.
Agatha’s comment was instantly explained. Lucinda concentrated on resisting the urge to flee. He reached for her hand—she must have extended it—and bowed elegantly.
“Permit me to introduce myself, ma’am. Harry Lester—at your service.”
He straightened, a polite smile softening his features.
Fascinated, Lucinda noted how his lips curved upwards just at the ends. Then her eyes met his. She blinked and glanced away. “I most sincerely thank you, Mr Lester, for your assistance—yours and your groom’s.” She beamed a grateful smile at his groom, unhitching the horses from the coach with Sim’s help. “It was immensely lucky you happened by.”
Harry frowned, the memory of the footpads lurking in the trees beyond the curve intruding. He shook the thought aside. “I beg you’ll permit me to drive you and your…” Brows lifting, he glanced from the younger girl’s bright face to that of his siren’s.
She smiled. “Allow me to introduce my stepdaughter, Miss Heather Babbacombe.”
Heather bobbed a quick curtsy; Harry responded with a slight bow.
“As I was saying, Mrs Babbacombe.” Smoothly Harry turned back and captured the lady’s wide gaze with his. Her eyes were a soft blue, partly grey—a misty colour. Her carriage gown of lavender blue served to emphasise the shade. “I hope you’ll permit me to drive you to your destination. You were headed for…?”
“Newmarket,” Lucinda supplied. “Thank you—but I must make arrangements for my people.”
Harry wasn’t sure which statement more surprised him. “Naturally,” he conceded, wondering how many other ladies of his acquaintance, in like circumstances, would so concern themselves over their servants. “But my groom can handle the details for you. He’s familiar with these parts.”
“He is? How fortunate.”
Before he could blink, the soft blue gaze had left him for Dawlish—his siren followed, descending upon his servitor like a galleon in full sail. Intrigued, Harry followed. She summoned her coachman with an imperious gesture. By the time Harry joined them, she was busily issuing the orders he had thought to give.
Dawlish shot him a startled, distinctly reproachful glance.
“Will that be any trouble, do you think?” Lucinda asked, sensing the groom’s distraction.
“Oh—no, ma’am.” Dawlish bobbed his head respectfully. “No trouble at all. I knows the folks at the Barbican right well. We’ll get all seen to.”
“Good.” Harry made a determined bid to regain control of the situation. “If that’s settled, I suspect we should get on, Mrs Babbacombe.” At the back of his mind lurked a vision of five frieze-coated men. He offered her his arm; an intent little frown wrinkling her brows, she placed her hand upon it.
