More wassailers appeared through the midst of snow.
"Oy!" Mr. Potter stood on the sleigh and waved at the wassailers. "Oy!"
The wassailers stopped.
"We're pursuing justice!" Mr. Potter's voice thundered through the wind. "We're going to find a rascal. We've got a lady who's with child and we're off to get her fleeing husband to make sure he stays to care for it."
Fiona cringed and wrapped her arms together.
The wassailers' faces darkened. "We'll help you. No lady should be in trouble on Christmas. This is supposed to be a joyful period. A time for families."
"Aye, aye!" Mr. Potter added emphatic nods to his declaration. "A pretty young woman shouldn't be experiencing Christmas in distress. That just won't do. Not in this ‘ere village. We'll bring ‘im back. Dead or alive, that's what I always say."
"Alive!" Fiona squeaked. "He mustn't be harmed! I mean-I've no use for him dead."
"There, there, don't you worry," Mr. Nicholas murmured in a tone likely meant to soothe her, but it did nothing to quell Fiona's surety that she'd never needed to worry more.
***
Snow fell with increased rapidity, and the horses' pace slowed. The snowflakes blurred together, and a sheet of white replaced the flurry of delicate shapes with pointed edges and intricate patterns.
"Blast." Percival gripped onto the reins. Wind struck his face, and white flecks clung to his attire.
This would not have happened in Sussex. Snow there was a rarity, just as it should be. An inch there would be deemed a disaster.
Percival surveyed the landscape before him. Definitely far more than an inch, and the snow showed no sign of ceasing its downward plummet. He tightened his fists. The coach wouldn't be able to make it through the snow for much longer.
The snow stung his skin, and he pulled his scarf more tightly around him. He'd been through worse in Russia.
Except then he didn't have a throbbing leg to contend with and wasn't stuck on a carriage that might collapse at any moment. Mail coaches were built sturdily, but this weather was battering this one.
At least he had the package. Percival patted the fold in his great coat.
He'd escaped. That was the important thing.
The woman, no matter how effective she'd been at capturing him by herself earlier, didn't have the benefit of her backup ruffians now. He'd left behind some coins, and she'd realize she should just keep the money, even if she did know exactly who he was.
The horses stumbled and stepped into a snow drift. They lurched, panicking, and it was all Percival could do to calm them. He tried to edge them back onto the road, but it was dark, the horses were scared, and his wooden leg wasn't helping matters. The last thing he needed was for the horses to gallop off without him once he inelegantly disembarked.
Lights flickered beside him, moving through the snow, and he swore and tried to urge the horses to the main road. Finally-finally he succeeded, and his heart slowed to a steadier, calmer beat, until-
"Sir!" A man's voice shouted, and a chill descended on Percival. "Halt."
Percival gritted his teeth. This was Yorkshire, and he didn't know a soul. No way in Hades would he stop.
"Sir!" The voice rivaled the sound of a cannon ball's roar, except now no firing muskets or storming cavalry competed with it.
Percival directed his gaze toward the ferocious man.
A group of men on a wide sled and a few on horseback gazed back at him, waving their arms.
A hefty man with a bushy beard rose and pointed a pistol at him. "If you don't halt now, you bloody bastard, we'll come over there and tear your bloody limbs apart!"
A woman shrieked, and a few men wrestled the weapon from the crazed man. Thick-accented curses soared through the wind.
Percival dropped his hands from the reins, and his heart sped. The sleigh moved in his direction.
"You'll go no farther," another man shouted.
"Why in Hades not?"
"None of your blasted arguing," the hefty man roared.
The ache in Percival's leg intensified, and he squirmed. "I've got urgent business in London to attend to."
"You forgot something," another man said.
Percival rubbed his hand through his hair.
"Please do not claim you've forgotten me." A clear, alto voice soared over the deep-voiced grumblings, and Percival blinked when a familiar face peeked from the throng of men.
"You're a witch." Percival's voice was hoarse.
That was the only explanation. Maybe all those people in the middle ages warning about ginger-haired demons had been onto something.
"I had help." The woman rose and gestured to the surrounding men.
"But-"
"You will take her with you," a man from the sled said.
"But-" Percival rubbed his hand over his hat.
"Now."
"I was so devastated when you abandoned me!" The woman's voice sounded mournful.
"Your wife is pregnant!" A white-headed fellow frowned. "You can't abandon her. I don't care how tired you are of your children."
"My children?" Percival gasped.
"She's told us everything. No lies."
"We're-we're not married," Percival stuttered.
"Take her with you now."
"I-"
"Are you planning on abandoning your pregnant wife to the snow?"
"Think of your four children!" another man shouted.
"I'm just happy my mother is taking care of them now!" The Scarlet Demon tossed her head, her voice still mournful. "How could you have abandoned me? I know it's hard . . ."
The men frowned. "We will not tolerate any man being unkind to his woman. Especially on Christmas."
"Christmas is a time for romance," one person on horseback added.
The white-headed man shook his head. "Just because you used to be a soldier doesn't mean you can put on fancy airs. Seducing women with your uniform. Marrying them. Leaving them when they're pregnant. For shame. You're not at war anymore. We won't tolerate these actions any longer."
"You've made a mistake. A terrible mistake." Percival sucked in a deep breath of air. "And I need to get to London."
"Get into the sleigh beside your wife now."
Percival glanced at the road. Snow swept over it rapidly. Anger seared him. He'd been so close to escaping. He'd even left the woman some money, for some ridiculous reason feeling sorry for her, only to find she'd managed to convince a whole tavern filled with people to capture him again.
He crossed his arms and scowled. "She's not my wife."
The men murmured.
He pointed at the Scarlet Demon. "This woman is a fraud and a liar. She's a highwaywoman who captured me."
Fear flickered over the woman's face, but she then had the indecency to dab her eyes with a handkerchief, as if he were the one lacking in reason. The woman was impossible.
"It's the truth, so help me God." Percival raised his hand to his chest.
A gasp sounded. "You shouldn't do that, lad! You shouldn't lie before our heavenly father."
He gritted his teeth. "This lady is a highwaywoman."
"Darling!" The Scarlet Demon let out an affronted shout.
"She stopped the coach I was in, threatening the driver and me with a knife."
"Where's the driver?" Someone shouted.
"He ran away." Percival flicked his hand. That part was irrelevant. "She demanded I let her take me somewhere."
"Where?"
"I don't know!" Percival shook his head. "But she had me drive the coach north, even though it is vital that I get to London soon."
"Do not believe him." The woman's voice trembled. Though it still had a rich alto sound to it, her manner had changed, as if she were a genteel woman, overwhelmed by the male-dominated surroundings.
She seemed more like a mouse than a fox.
"What say you to this?" one person asked her.
The woman frowned, and Percival didn't fail to notice the worry in her eyes. "I say he needs some rest."
"I don't think we should let you alone with him," the hefty man grumbled.
"But! I'm not the one who kidnapped somebody," Percival shouted. "I'm the one who was dragged miles out of my way. I'm not the person claiming to be someone I'm not. I'm not even married. I don't even have a wife."
"Then who are you?" The white-headed man asked.
He sighed. He hadn't wanted to reveal this, but he couldn't be taken for a criminal by this wild grouping of men. "My name is Percival Carmichael, and I am the Duke of Alfriston."
"That is an extraordinary claim!" The white-headed man frowned.
"No! There's nothing extraordinary about it at all. I'm the one being truthful. All of you are believing a madwoman."