How to Capture a Duke(4)

She moved Ned into a trot toward the site. Shots fired sporadically in  the distance, accompanying the sound of Ned's steady trot. The peasants  wanted Christmas dinner, and it seemed everyone had seen the threatening  clouds that hovered over the horizon.

The narrow lane sliced through the forest, and Fiona tightened her grip  on the reins, careful not to disturb Ned. The days were too short at  this time of year, and though it was not yet dark-she wouldn't have been  riding had it been-the light was dimmer and duller than she would have  favored.

If Fiona were prone to swearing, she would be cursing like a sailor.

For the first time Fiona wished she were not in Yorkshire. Heavens, she  would adore to be in London right now. Were she in the capital, swarming  as it was with men, she might just possibly find someone desperate  enough to pose as a fiancé. Perhaps she might find success by standing  outside gaming halls. Or simply by throwing Grandfather's remaining  money up in the air.

Few men resided in this section of Yorkshire, and she wagered she  wouldn't even be able to find a stable hand willing to play the strong,  silent type. Perhaps if she invented some sort of condition that  explained why he couldn't speak . . . Goodness, it was hopeless.

If word circulated she'd attempted to convince a servant to pretend to  be her fiancé, she would be barred from ever reentering society.

The trees cast shadows over the dirt path, and she glanced upward. In  the springtime the branches of the trees touched and created a net of  pale green leaves and pastel blossoms. Now gaps existed between the  stout branches and revealed the gray sky, and the even darker clouds  that sailed over it.

This is an ideal day for an accident.

Fiona shivered and forced the image of a coach careening into a boulder  from her mind. But it was hard to be successful in doing that, when all  she could envision were wheels collapsing and a steel frame bending and  twisting, clutching the less flexible figures of its inhabitants.

She inhaled and urged the horse forward. She avoided coaches when she could. No closed, dark rides for her.                       
       
           



       

And then she saw it.

A tree, long and thick, had fallen across the road, its position just as  precariously placed as in all her dreams. Pine needles covered its  branches, but Fiona knew that underneath the pleasant scent hid imminent  danger. A sharp curve lay immediately after the tree, the type of curve  a coach driver coming from the opposite direction should slow for, but  which he might not necessarily do. She didn't want to imagine the horses  trying too late to stop.

She turned her head in the direction of the apple orchard. She didn't  have time for this. This might be her last chance to do any digging, and  she wanted to see Rosamund afterward.

But the impediment was so large, and the potential destruction so severe.

Fiona slowed Ned down and examined the sturdy trunk and the jagged  branches. She slid from the horse, tied him to a tree, and then returned  to examine the obstruction. The horizon had narrowed to a thin sliver,  and she pressed her lips together.

If only she'd brought a shawl that she could have used as a warning.

She exhaled. Maybe she could remove the offending tree, so even the most  unobservant driver could safely barrel down the road. She grasped a  branch of the tree and attempted to drag it.

The tree did not budge.

She removed her knife. She sawed off some of the smaller branches and  shoved them to the side of the road. The trunk was still too heavy for  her.

She sighed. She would need to return to Cloudbridge Castle. She would  send some of the male servants back to complete the job of clearing the  road, hoping that they could get to it in time.

She pressed her lips together and tried not to think about whether any  passer-by had spotted the tree that her parents' carriage had collided  with and had decided not to move it.

Trotting hooves and jostling wheels interrupted her thoughts. She swung  her head toward the sound that was coming from farther down the road.

She scurried forward, accidentally sweeping her skirt and cloak through a  puddle. No matter. Right now the only thing of any importance was to  warn the driver.

A post horn sounded.

She hastened around the corner.

A dark coach pulled by four horses sped along the road, and Fiona  hollered at the driver to stop. She picked up her skirts and marched  over the lane. The wind blew against her, and her hair spilled from her  hat. Mud coated the edges of her cloak. The knife was still clutched in  her hand, and she waved it.





Chapter Three




Percival Carmichael, seventh Duke of Alfriston, was hurled from his seat.

He landed on the wooden floor with a thump, reflecting that some pieces  of advice his former governess had been prone to bestowing had an  irritating propensity to be correct. The advice that soared most  prominently in his mind was her warning not to drink in a moving  carriage.

His governess had been referring to apple juice, his preferred beverage  at the time of his pre-Harrow education, but he contemplated that the  advice still held true when imbibing a wider variety of drinks-in this  case, brandy.

His cravat displayed distinct tawny spots now, an addition his valet  would be most disapproving of. He also would criticize the alcoholic  smell that now infused the velvet cushioned seats, the maple floor, and  particularly Percival's attire.

Blast. Yorkshire was every bit as horrid as the ton claimed.

He would have enough scrutiny tomorrow without appearing with a stained cravat.

He pulled himself back onto the seat. Speed was of importance, and the  driver knew it. Percival had expressly promised him a significant tip if  they reached London before tomorrow evening. The driver should be aware  that a significant tip from a man who possessed a vast amount of wealth  was nothing trivial.

Percival patted the package and pushed away the uneasy thoughts that  consistently forced their way through his mind when he devoted too much  attention to his impending engagement.

The driver said something, and the horses restarted their trot. Thank  goodness. Percival stretched out his leg, and his Wellington struck the  opposite seat. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Soon he would  be in London, ensconced in a life everyone would envy, until they  learned about the accident.

"Halt." An alto voice cut through the sound of whinnying horses. The  voice was commanding, different from the high-pitched murmurings and  giggles of the debutantes and young widows with whom he tended to  consort.

The coach continued on.

"Halt!" The voice called out again, and this time the carriage wheels  screeched. The horses snorted and stomped their feet, and the driver  uttered an ungentlemanly word.

Percival swept the curtain back.

A tall woman in a cape stood beside the road. She clutched a knife,  directing it at the coach. The woman's eyes were narrowed, and red hair  swirled in the wind. Mud crusted the bottom of her dress, and pine  needles cleaved her cloak. The blade of her weapon glinted underneath  the flickering lanterns of the coach, and her expression was solemn.                       
       
           



       

By Zeus, we're being attacked.

He stuffed the package into a fold of his great coat. This was  everything the dowager had worried about, and everything he'd sworn he  wouldn't allow to happen.

No one was supposed to know he was here. How in Hades had this person found him?

Blast.

The driver hardly resembled the brave type. Mail coaches lauded their  tendency to employ former soldiers, but Graeme must have been a veteran  from the war with the colonies, if the color of his whiskers was any  indication.

Percival pulled his knife from his boot. So much for conquering Napoleon  at Waterloo-now he had to suffer the indignity of being attacked at  home. He should have stayed in London. Even the most tiresome balls  didn't involve weapons.

It would be a blasted pain if this ended up in the newspapers.  Cartoonists were eager enough to chronicle his brother's misdeeds, now  that there was less reason to draw unflattering depictions of France's  onetime emperor, now safely imprisoned on St. Helena.

The woman hadn't lowered her knife. He hoped she was not gifted at knife throwing.

Something sounded outside, and the woman's red lips parted, her eyes  appearing wider than before. "You're pointing a weapon at me?"

"You bet your pretty face I am," the driver said.

She blinked.

"Anybody with you?" The driver's voice was firm, and Percival almost cheered. Maybe he wouldn't even need to be heroic.



***



Fiona stared into the barrel of a musket. The experience proved as  horrid as she would have imagined. The wind seemed to cease its frantic  swirl, the leaves paused from rustling, and all she could focus on was  the long blunderbuss fixed directly on her.