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Chapter Four
‘Whereabouts in Dartmouth are you headed, Miss Chapman?’
Having stretched Fiona’s cloak over two staves to aid its drying, Luke had strolled closer to her to ask his question.
After a slight hesitation Fiona told him. She realised there was no reason not to. Mr Wolfson didn’t seem a person given to gossiping. Besides, they would never meet one another again after today so it was unlikely that any confidence she bestowed would be of note to him. Even were it to be repeated, who would care—apart from a few people dear to her—that Fiona Chapman, spinster, had left home, so unpleasant had her life become, to take up employment as a governess.
She had heard her chosen profession could be quite wretched and lonely. A governess was not quite a servant, yet neither was she a member of her charges’ family. Her position fell somewhere in between, and she risked being resented by her inferiors and despised by an employer who’d deem her presence an irritating necessity. And the children might be horrors, too...but Fiona was confident she was a capable, resilient sort, content with her own company if no other were to be had.
‘Are you travelling on business or pleasure?’ Luke asked, turning Mrs Jackson’s coat so the lining faced towards the fire.
‘Business...’ Realising she was staring, Fiona dragged her gaze from where his linen shirt, dampened by drizzle, clung to the muscled contours of his ribs. The buttons at the throat were undone and his swarthy skin gave him a dangerously foreign air. Yet he was a refined Englishman, of that she was sure, although he’d disclosed nothing about himself.
Luke turned to glance at her with an elevated eyebrow, wordlessly requesting more information about her plans.
Again Fiona was tempted to tell him and that was odd for she was normally an extremely private person. In one way she found this gentleman’s virility daunting, yet his confident, capable manner was soothing too. The dark, romantic atmosphere of flame-daubed shrubbery and the sound and scent of spitting kindling was having a peculiar effect on her, she realised. She felt enchanted, bound to this good-looking stranger’s side, and willing to confess her life’s secrets until he chose to draw a halt to their conversation.
‘I’m on my way to take up a position as a children’s governess,’ Fiona said.
‘You’re brave, then, as well as...foolish...’ At the last moment Luke had substituted something truthful yet unflattering for the compliment that had almost rolled off his tongue. He’d astonished himself by being uncharacteristically familiar with a genteel woman he barely knew. Fiona Chapman wasn’t beautiful... She wasn’t even conventionally pretty despite the sweet halo of fawn curls fluffing about her heart-shaped face as the glow of the fire dried her off. Earlier, when her hair had been sleek with rain Luke had thought her a brunette and her features, though small and regular, were nothing much out of the ordinary. Yet something about her was undeniably attractive to him...and he’d almost told her so.
The spell had been broken; Fiona shot to her feet from her makeshift stool, wondering if he was being sarcastic. She was sure he’d been on the point of calling her beautiful and she knew she was nothing of the sort. Fiona came to the depressing conclusion that Mr Wolfson, despite his worthy practical skills, had a shallow side and it was hardly the time or place for insincere flattery.
‘Foolish?’ she echoed coolly, hoping to convey she wasn’t impressed and wasn’t playing his game. ‘Pray, why do you think that of me, sir, when we barely know one another?’ No doubt he believed she’d be better served seeking a husband to care for than children to tutor.
‘You’re travelling alone, aren’t you?’
‘I am,’ Fiona crisply owned up.
‘Then I’ll amend what I said and call you extremely foolish. These are dangerous roads stalked by violent criminals, as I’m sure your coachman or Mr Jackson must have told you by now.’
‘Even could I afford her, how might a lady’s maid protect me from such as highwaymen?’ Fiona snapped. ‘A female dependant would be a burden, not a comfort, to me for I would fret constantly for her safety as well as my own.’ Fiona spun away, ready to march off after her parting shot. She’d taken just two steps when hard fingers clamped on her wrist, arresting her.
‘And who will you burden with your safety, Miss Chapman? A middle-aged coachman, or a youth unable to handle a gun correctly? A farmer who has his wife to attend to? Me...?’
Fiona twisted her arm free, glaring at him with tawny eyes that held a feral spark. ‘I expect no one to look after me, sir. Least of all you. I can care for myself.’
‘Can you indeed?’
The murmured words held a soft mockery that brought high spots of angry colour to Fiona’s cheekbones. ‘Yes...I can,’ she vowed sturdily.
He gave a slow nod, accepting what she’d said, but Fiona knew he was still laughing at her even if he had dipped his head to prevent her seeing the expression beneath his long black lashes.
‘Are you going to castigate the Beresford ladies for travelling without a servant?’ Fiona demanded. ‘Or is it just me you wish to condemn as a nuisance for having the temerity to do so?’
‘Just you...’
‘And why is that?’
‘You are younger and more comely than the other ladies, as I’m sure you’re aware. If your coach were held up, you would draw the attention of felons who might want to take more than just material valuables from the women they rob.’
That took the wind out of Fiona’s sails and put a deeper blush in her cheeks. She swallowed, said hoarsely, ‘You seem to know a worrying amount about it, Mr Wolfson.’
Luke’s mouth quirked. ‘Over the years I’ve learned lots of things.’
‘I’m sure...and have you now learned not to stop and help stranded travellers, lest they irritate you?’
‘I confess I was tempted to keep going.’
Fiona found that admission rather shocking, given that he’d helped enormously, keeping them safe and sound by lighting a fire and drying their clothes. ‘It’s good to know that your conscience got the better of you in the end, sir,’ she said faintly.
Fiona backed off a step, then swung about. A moment later she realised she still had on his coat. Whipping it from her shoulders, she handed it over with a stilted ‘Thank you, I’ve no further need of it.’
This time he let her go and Fiona walked swiftly to where the others were congregated, discussing animatedly how long Toby had been away and when they might expect his return. It was obvious to Fiona that Mr and Mrs Jackson had worked themselves up into quite a tizzy about the calamity, blaming the coachman for all their ills.
As though in answer to Mrs Jackson’s prayer—chanted between coughing fits—the sound of hooves and rattling wheels was heard.
Bert leapt up from where he’d been squatting by the fireside. He picked up the blunderbuss and looked fearfully in Luke’s direction for a signal as to how to proceed.
Luke had already removed a pair of duck-foot pistols from his saddlebag and his fists were curled about the weapons in the pockets of the leather coat he’d donned.
A moment later Bert was grinning and rushing towards the road as he recognised his uncle’s voice booming out his name.
‘I’ll bid you farewell now your driver is back,’ Luke interjected when there was a break in the frantic conversation batting between Toby Williams and an irate Peter Jackson.
‘Our gratitude goes with you, sir,’ Peter announced. ‘You’ve done us all a great service.’ He held out his hand and vigorously pumped Luke’s fingers. ‘This fellow has been a godsend in your absence,’ he told Toby Williams accusingly.
‘I take it you’ll overnight at the Fallow Buck?’ Luke addressed the remark to the driver.
Toby Williams gave a nod, ignoring the glare he got from Mr Jackson. ‘I must thank you, too, for your assistance, Mr Wolfson.’ He held out his hand.
Having shaken it Luke bowed to the Beresford sisters, who fluttered about him and offered him their fingers to hold. Mrs Jackson went so far as to give him a motherly pat on the cheek to display her appreciation.
Then he turned to Fiona. ‘Miss Chapman...’ He gave a slight bow and received a dip of the head in return.
‘I hope you reach your destination safely,’ he said quietly.
‘And I return you that wish, sir,’ Fiona replied.
‘The name of the family who has employed you is...?’
Fiona no longer felt swayed to tell him anything about herself. She answered him with a concise farewell and a frosty smile before following her fellow travellers towards their replacement vehicle.
But she was acutely aware of every sound behind as a horse snickered on being mounted. When the slow clop of hooves told her he was negotiating a path away from them through the woods she felt a peculiar lump form in her throat. It was nothing more than anxiety over the loss of him guarding them, she told herself crossly.
Once the luggage and the spare horses had been transferred to the new coach, a confab began with the driver.
‘In my opinion it’s best that we return to the Fallow Buck,’ Toby Williams argued with Peter Jackson, who’d said he wanted none of it. ‘It’s a treacherous night. After all that rain the road will have washed away and it’s not a good idea to travel in the dark in any case, what with villains about.’ He’d lowered his voice for the last bit so as not to alarm the ladies.
‘And I say we carry on,’ Peter Jackson declared. ‘We have lost enough time already and my wife needs to be home in her own bed. She’s caught a devil of a cold and might need a physician.’
‘Yes... I...might...’ Mrs Jackson stressed.
‘I want to get home, too!’ Valerie Beresford wailed. ‘I wish Mr Wolfson had stayed and ridden alongside us. I felt safe in his company. Will you not fetch him back, sir?’ She tugged on Toby’s sleeve.
‘I think he turned south,’ Bert piped up helpfully.
‘Never mind him. He’s gone,’ Toby said shortly, miffed that a passing stranger had thrown his own role as saviour into the shade. ‘We should rest the night at the inn and leave the horses we’ve no need of. Then start off fresh in the morning in good light and better weather.’
‘Mr Williams has a valid point,’ Fiona ventured an opinion. ‘We do not want to end up sliding into a ditch in the dark and again be stranded out in the open.’
‘We will not be so lucky next time to be saved by such as Mr Wolfson,’ Ruth interjected, wringing her hands. She seemed to have given up on craving an adventure and looked as heartsick as her older sister following their misfortune.
‘I say we hurry up in getting home!’ Mr Jackson loudly insisted as his wife obligingly started to hack and slap herself on the chest. ‘The Pig and Whistle is not so far in front of us and we can leave there the nags we don’t need.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘At a strong pace we might reach the inn by half past midnight and will lose no time at all in ending this infernal journey.’
‘Very well...be it on your own heads.’ With no more ado Toby climbed angrily on to his perch, signalling for his nephew to join him.
* * *
Fiona awoke about a mile into their renewed journey, feeling unrefreshed and rubbing her gritty eyes. Although she’d been wretchedly uncomfortable, squashed in the corner of the seat, she’d managed to doze fitfully. Ruth Beresford was snoring beside her, her head drooping on Fiona’s shoulder. Rather than wake her and ask her to shift along a bit to give her more room, Fiona chose to put up with her cramped position. The mood in the coach as they’d set off had not been happy and Fiona would sooner suffer sore muscles than more moaning.
At first, her companions had agitatedly watched passing scenery to spot lurking dangers until, one by one, they’d settled back into the squabs. Mr Jackson had been last to succumb to the rocking of the coach and to close his eyes. They were making steady progress towards the Pig and Whistle. Fiona was glad, even if none of the others seemed to have been, that Toby Williams was sensibly taking a slow and easy pace along the perilous road, slick with mud.
When they’d started out Peter had loudly commented that Toby Williams was deliberately dawdling to annoy them all. He had hammered on the roof of the coach in protest. Thankfully, the driver had ignored the command to increase speed and they continued to go along at a sedate pace.
Pinned against the window as she was, Fiona had little choice but to gaze into the darkness dappled by the flickering coach lamps. Patches of vegetation loomed into shape, adopting a yellow gloss before returning to an inky outline as the vehicle lumbered past. Fiona shivered, unable to stop imagining that behind the dense bushes unfriendly eyes were watching them.
For all her proud boast to Luke Wolfson that she could look after herself, Fiona knew she couldn’t. She was a fish out of water in this rural environment and wished as dearly as did the others that Mr Wolfson had accompanied them on this dark and lonely road. For some reason that she refused to attribute to simple conceit, she sensed that had she asked him to stay with them, he would have agreed to do so. But they’d parted coolly and now he would be miles distant and close to his destination if not already arrived at it.
He’d said he was going to Lowerton, but she doubted he was a local and lived permanently in a Devon village. Fiona imagined he was, like her, from London and wondered if she’d ever passed Luke Wolfson on a city street. Perhaps, without realising it, she might have bumped into him while out shopping, or when socialising with her sister and their friends at the pleasure gardens. She pondered for a moment on the likelihood, but doubted a meeting had occurred; she would have noticed him even if he’d overlooked her.
And he would have done so. Her younger sister Verity had always drawn the gentlemen’s attention and their friends, Elise and Beatrice Dewey, were both blonde beauties, now married to eminent millionaires.
Fiona had been the oldest of their group, but when all the others settled down she had never felt miffed that, being plain-faced, she’d been passed over. Until now. The thought of Luke Wolfson flirting with her sister or her friends irked her and she knew it was ridiculous to feel that way. How could she possibly be jealous of something that hadn’t occurred and concerned a gentleman she scarcely knew?
Irritated with the direction of her thoughts, Fiona sighed beneath her breath. She squeezed shut her eyes, hoping to block Mr Wolfson’s rugged features and husky baritone from her mind. On opening them again a gasp of shock abraded her throat. She quickly blinked and craned her neck, but the shadowy silhouette she’d glimpsed was lost to her as the coach rumbled on. She tensed, wondering whether to alert Mr Jackson or the driver to what she thought she’d seen, but then if she were mistaken, and there was nothing out there but a deer, she’d just cause more bad feeling. But...it might have been Luke Wolfson who’d felt conscience bound, as he had once before, to help them on their way, her inner voice argued.
Before Fiona could find a solution to her dilemma the coach juddered as the driver reined in and the silence of a moment ago was shattered by shouts from within and without the vehicle.
Peter Jackson fell almost into Ruth Beresford’s lap while his wife, who’d been resting on his shoulder, rolled sideways on to the empty seat. Only Fiona, primed to something afoot, had not tipped from her perch at the abrupt halt.
The sound of a gunshot brought in its wake an eerie silence. Then there was another bang and Mr Jackson flung open the coach door and leapt out, flailing his arms for balance.
The sight that met their eyes was shocking enough to make Valerie Beresford swoon against her sister’s breast and Mrs Jackson squeak in fright before shouting for her husband.
Only Fiona and Ruth remained quiet, although Fiona imagined that Ruth Beresford was as terrified as she was at the sight of the grinning felon pointing a weapon at them.
She knew he was smiling from the crinkling about his eyes; the lower half of his face was concealed behind a neckerchief.
‘Out you come, then, ladies, let’s take a look at you,’ the ruffian jovially ordered in a voice muffled by cotton.
‘You will not lay a finger on these ladies!’ Peter Jackson roared, shaking 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.
Chapter Five
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 the boy, he slammed shut the door. Once up on the driver’s perch Luke took the reins firmly; he didn’t want Toby Williams turning them over in a ditch in his agitated state.
‘Should you not tie your horse to the back of the coach, Mr Wolfson?’ Toby attempted to calm himself and be of assistance.
‘No need to worry about him—Star will follow.’ Following his concise reply about his finely trained stallion, Luke set the team to a trot. They’d soon cleared the woods and he put the horses to a faster pace, his eyes narrowed and straining to see through the darkness for hazardous obstacles littering the terrain in order to avoid them in good time.