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 thick compress.
‘I told Bert to lay down the blunderbuss as soon as I saw ’em flanking us.’ Toby shot a baleful glance over a shoulder at the robbers. ‘I knew we was done for and no use making it worse than need be,’ he added plaintively. ‘But the dunderhead loosed off a shot in a panic. Bert never could hit a barn door—now what am I to tell his mother about all this?’
‘He will be all right...I’m sure.’ Fiona whispered, hoping that Bert, if conscious, would not be depressed by a doubtful inflection in her voice. The boy had his eyes closed and his deathly pale complexion was dreadfully worrying. As his uncle stuffed the linen inside Bert’s bloodstained shirt, binding his injury, Fiona tore again at her petticoat to provide a fresh bandage should it be needed.
‘You...come here!’ the older highwayman barked at Fiona.
Fiona glanced over a shoulder to see that the younger man had dismounted and joined his comrade on foot. They were both levelling pistols, swinging them threateningly between their victims.
The youth suddenly whispered something in his senior’s ear and Fiona had an uneasy suspicion that what was said concerned her as two pairs of eyes narrowed on her.
‘Come here, you defiant wench!’
The felon strode to Fiona, jerking her upright by the elbow. He propelled her towards the youth who stared at her over the top of his mask.
‘That’s her, right enough,’ the lad said. He turned to whisper in his cohort’s ear, ‘Running off to be wed.’
‘Leave her be, or you’ll have me to answer to,’ Peter Jackson bellowed. He beckoned frantically to Fiona to come to him, but his efforts to protect her were rewarded with a clubbing from the villainous youth’s pistol butt.
Mrs Jackson dropped to her knees beside her prone husband, her wail rending the night air, while the two Beresford ladies began whimpering behind their fingers.
‘Let me go!’ Fiona wrenched her arm to and fro, attempting to liberate it from a painful grip. ‘What is it you want? Money? Here, take it.’ With her free hand she pulled from her pocket a pouch containing her coins.
That gesture brought a chortling sound from behind a neckerchief. ‘Why, thank you...’ the older highwayman said sarcastically, jingling the little bag of money in front of his colleague’s face. ‘Not enough in there, I’ll warrant, to keep us happy.’ But despite his contempt for Fiona’s worldly goods, he pocketed it before making a lunge for her. ‘Whereas you, my dear, are treasure to somebody I know.’ Grabbing her behind the knees, he swung her up and over his shoulder.
If he’d not been a military man Luke might have mistaken the muffled boom of the blunderbuss for the bark of a deer. As it was he reined in sharp with an oath exploding between his teeth. Another bullet was let loose far in the distance and this time he recognised the retort of a pistol.
The stallion had also heard the sounds and, attuned to his master’s need for speed at such signals, required little prodding in turning and flying back the way they’d come over black, muddy fields.
When thirty minutes later Luke reined in his mount its flanks were foamy with sweat. He approached the road cautiously, then, slipping from the saddle, covered the last hundred yards on foot, guided by the stationary coach lamps. Immediately he feared the worst as he heard the sound of groaning and women weeping being carried on the still night air.
His fingers tightened on the duck-foot pistols and his jaw clenched as he glimpsed through the undergrowth the spectacle before him. Having ascertained that the thieves had left the vicinity, he loped onwards, calling out to announce his presence in case a bullet was fired at him.
The Misses Beresford were the first to spot Luke. They scrambled from the coach where they’d been sheltering and rushed to cling to his arms, garbling a version of events.
Peter Jackson was sitting on the ground, a hand pressed to a crust of blood on the back of his head. His wife continued dabbing frantically at his throbbing brow with a rain-dampened hanky and howled curses at the vile cowards who’d caused this mayhem.
But it was the unmoving boy sprawled on the mud with his uncle fussing over him who drew Luke’s concerned gaze, but only momentarily. He suddenly realised that the person he most wanted to see was absent. Freeing himself from the spinsters’ clutches, he strode to the coach and looked inside.
‘Where’s Miss Chapman?’ Luke demanded, a surge of furious emotion suddenly overtaking him.
‘They’ve taken her.’ Peter Jackson shook his head, tears rolling down his face. ‘I couldn’t stop them, sir—they knocked me down when I tried to...’
‘Who was it?’ Luke snapped, coming closer, restraining an urge to grab the man’s lapels to hurry his answer.
Peter raised his eyes to a flinty black stare. ‘There were two of them. They wore masks, but I’m sure that Collins is behind it. The evil blackguard!’
Luke spun towards the driver; Williams was, after all, in charge of his customers’ safety, yet he’d offered no explanation or apology for Miss Chapman’s kidnap. But the man was distraught and Luke bit back the ferocious accusation he’d been about to let fly.
‘I think he’s dying,’ Toby gurgled, patting Bert’s face with increasing strength in an attempt to bring the youth round.
‘Get in the coach...all of you...apart from you!’ he ordered Toby. ‘Help me lift the lad—we’ll lay him on a seat and the others will have to squash together on the opposite side. Come, quickly now!’ he snapped at Toby in the hope of penetrating the man’s shock and galvanising him into action. ‘The Pig and Whistle is a few miles away and you can get help for your nephew there. Pray to God we’re in time for him...’
The ladies tottered aboard the coach once more, followed by Mr Jackson. Luke and Toby gently lifted the invalid, then settled Bert on the worn upholstery. Although Toby winced on hearing the lad moaning, Luke was gladdened by the sound.
‘He has not fallen too far into unconsciousness,’ he reassured the driver. Pulling Toby away from fussing over
