struggled to speak so he could reassure her that all was well—at least better than it had been a few moments ago. But his flying tackle of the highwayman had both winded and stunned him. Unable to coax out any words louder than a whisper, he scrambled up from the floor, intent on comforting Felicity in his embrace, instead.
As he reached for her, she screamed again, loud enough to make his ears ring. At the same time, her heeled slipper came into violent contact with his midriff. Thorn doubled over with a grunt of pain.
He lurched backward, only to trip over the unconscious highwayman and crumple onto the seat opposite Felicity. Before he could catch his breath or collect his wits, she fell on him, scratching, slapping, pummelling like a wild creature. Thorn fell back before the onslaught, his hands raised to fend off the worst of it.
“Felicity!” he gasped.
Her attack did not abate. If anything, it gathered speed and force, each blow punctuated by a squeal or high-pitched grunt.
“Felicity, it’s Thorn.” He caught her deceptively fragile wrists in his hands to stay her assault and gave her a good hard shake to bring her to her senses. “You’re safe, now.”
She froze for a moment. “Thorn? Is it really you?”
Some overwound spring inside him fell blissfully slack. “Do you know anyone else daft enough to chase you halfway across the county at this hour of the night?”
“Thorn.” She choked out his name again. Then, with all the power and passion she had thrown into fighting him, Felicity hurled herself into his arms, weeping in great gusty sobs.
“Hush, now, hush.” Thorn gathered her close, stroking his side whiskers against her hair and fighting a fast-rising tide of desire that threatened to drown his self-control.
First, the headlong race to overtake her, spurred by his fears for her safety. Then, confronting the worst of those fears, only to have Felicity launch her furious assault upon him. It had fired his blood as hot as any love play—the physical contact, the heightened passions, the pounding hearts and panting breath.
And now, cradling Felicity in his arms as she unleashed a torrent of tears on his topcoat, her backside warm against his thighs, with only a flimsy barrier of muslin and broadcloth between his flesh and hers.
At that moment, Thorn would have bartered everything he owned for them to be back in Felicity’s bedchamber, rather than on the open road in a cold carriage with a dazed highwayman beginning to stir at their feet.
“M-Mister Greenwood?” a tremulous young voice inquired from beyond the open carriage door. “Is that you, sir? What happened?”
“Has Lady Lyte come to any harm, sir?” asked a second, deeper voice.
“Apart from a nasty shock, I believe she’s well enough.” Chilling thoughts of what might have befallen Felicity sharpened Thorn’s tone. “No thanks to the pair of you.”
“He did have a gun, sir,” the young footman protested.
The driver offered no excuse, but his voice sounded thoroughly chastened. “Is there aught we can do, now, Mr. Greenwood?”
The highwayman groaned and tried to sit up. Thorn applied some weight to his right foot, which rested between the fellow’s shoulder blades, forcing him back down.
To the driver and footmen who hovered outside, Thorn ordered, “Find a bit of rope to truss this black-guard up.”
“Very good, Mr. Greenwood, sir.”
“Tie him to his horse if you can find it, or to mine if you can’t,” Thorn added. “Then tether it to the carriage. We can turn this fellow over to the proper authorities at the first town we reach. For now, I believe we’d better continue on our way as quickly as possible, in case others of his ilk might be lurking about.”
Perhaps goaded by that warning, Lady Lyte’s driver and footman wasted no time finding some material with which to bind the highwayman, who sounded too befuddled to put up much resistance.
By the time the carriage had recommenced its journey northward, Felicity’s weeping had quieted to a volley of sniffles. Still, she made no effort to distance herself from Thorn. Greedily, he drank in the touch and scent of her, all too conscious of how much he had missed her in the short time they’d been apart.
Might the trouble he’d taken to ride to her rescue have changed her mind about terminating their liaison prematurely? he wondered as he cradled Felicity in his arms.
Hard as Thorn tried not to be enticed by that will-o’-the-wisp of false hope, he failed.
She ought to push Thorn away, order him out of the carriage or, at the very least, rail at him for frightening her half to death. But as her carriage sped on toward Newport, Felicity found herself unable to take any of the actions she ought.
There would be many long years ahead for her to manage without the warm, steadfast comfort of Thorn Greenwood’s embrace. For the present, she needed it more desperately than she had needed anything in a great while. And Lady Felicity Lyte was not accustomed to denying herself anything she needed.
She could not remember ever being so badly frightened. Her heart kept up its rapid flutter in her bosom, and despite a good warm wrap, she began to tremble.
“There, there.” Thorn stroked her arm.
Was it her imagination, or did he press a fleeting kiss on the top of her head?
“Are you all right, Felicity? Or did I speak too soon when I told your servants you were unharmed?” The tender concern that radiated from Thorn’s tone and touch soaked into her heart like warm ointment.
Pride would not allow her to accept comfort for the most grievous wounds life had inflicted upon her. No matter how she might crave it.
“You spoke aright, I suffered nothing worse than a nasty shock.” She sniffled. “Have you a handkerchief I can ruin?”
She would have hated anyone else who’d witnessed her break down into hysterical tears. Perhaps she would hate Thorn for it in the cool light of day when she could see how the betrayal of weakness had diminished her in his eyes. But for this sweet, dark moment she would allow herself the dangerous luxury of relying on a man.
“A handkerchief?” Thorn shifted her a little so he could pry his coat open and rummage in the pocket of his waistcoat. “I believe I have.”
He pressed the folded square of linen into her hand. “There. Do your worst. That’s what laundry’s for.”
“Thank you,” Felicity managed to squeak. The gentle fumbling brush of Thorn’s hands had set her flesh atingle.
She wiped the last residue of moisture from her eyes, thankful that by the time Thorn could see her clearly, the worst ravages of her silly tears would have faded.
If that was vanity, well, so be it. She could not abide having an attractive man see her at less than her best.
As she blew her nose, masked by the forgiving darkness, a thought struck her. “Are you all right, Thorn? After bringing down that awful man…then the way I went at you. I am so sorry. I can’t imagine what got
