CHASING THE HEIRESS
The Muses' Salon #2
Rachael Miles
Released May 31st, 2016
Zebra Shout
Heiress
On The Run
Lady Arabella Lucia Fairborne has no
need of a husband. She has a fine inheritance for the taking, a perfectly
capable mind, and a resolve as tough as nails. But what she doesn't have is the
freedom to defy her cousin's will--and his will is to see her married
immediately to the husband of his choosing. So is it any wonder that she
dresses herself as a scullery maid and bolts into the night?
Colin Somerville's current mission
for the home office is going poorly. Who would have expected otherwise for a
rakish spy tasked with transporting a baby to the care of the royal palace. But
when, injured and out of ideas, Colin stumbles upon a beautiful maid who knows
her way around a sickroom, it seems salvation has arrived. Until he realizes
that though Lucy may be able to help him survive his expedition, he may not
escape this ordeal with his heart intact…
It had taken Colin two days to travel to Holywell, two days in
which he had steeled himself to smile and be charming. But ultimately the
princess had charmed him. Heiress to a mining magnate, Marietta had caught the
eye of a visiting (and impoverished) member of the Habsburg royal family.
Though she had been impeccably trained at the best finishing school in Paris,
when Colin arrived, he found her teaching the housekeeper’s parrot to curse in
five European languages. “Don’t call me Princess,” she whispered, casting a
grim eye to the housekeeper, hovering at the edge of the terrace. “Or she will
raise my rate.”
It had taken
three more days to separate Marietta’s pos-sessions into two groups: those
which the carriage could carry and those which would have to be shipped from
Liver-pool around the coast to London. Most difficult had been determining
exactly which clothes she could (and could not) do without for her first week
at court. Then, just when he had thought that they might set out, she had insisted
that his coachman, Fletcher, accompany her trunks across the inlet to ensure
they were well stowed for their London journey. All told, he had been gone from
London for more than a week before he bundled Marietta, her paints, her
embroidery, her knitting, her books, and a handful of magazines into the
carriage and set off on their trip. But somehow he had not minded. Marietta was
sweet, resilient, and companionable, anticipating the birth of her child with
real joy.
He shifted in his
seat, but his legs—outstretched on the backward-facing seat to give Marietta
more room—felt like leaden weights, long past numb from a lack of circulation.
He moved one foot down into the small space remaining between Marietta’s feet
and the carriage door. The blood began to move agonizingly into one set of
toes.
He unfolded his
map and began to recalculate their trip. Holywell to London was two hundred and
eight miles. Even a mail coach, traveling at seven miles an hour, could travel
the distance in thirty-two hours, and his brother’s third-best carriage was
able to clip along at ten. But the princess needed substantive food, frequent
stops, a real bed at night, and opportunities to shop at any tempting village
store they passed. Their first day, they travelled only to Wrexham. Twenty-six
miles in six hours. Their second day would measure little more. He had already
promised she could spend the night—and morning—in Shrewsbury. Using his
fore-finger as a measure, he counted off the miles from Shrews-bury to London.
The return would take a sennight, if he were lucky.
Marietta moaned
and tried to shift her weight. Why— he berated himself for the fiftieth
time—hadn’t he borrowed a better carriage? One with ample seats, thick
comfortable bolsters, and better springs. If he were to play escort to a
pregnant princess, why hadn’t the Home Office informed him? Had they
intentionally withheld the information? Or had they not known?
He forced his
attention back to the map. If Marietta gave birth on the road with only him and
Fletcher for midwives, he would kill someone in the Home Office. He wasn’t yet
sure who. Perhaps the lot of them, but he would begin by strangling Harrison
Walgrave.
The carriage
began to slow, the springs creaking into a new rhythm. Colin waited for
Fletcher to offer the usual signals: two slow taps for an inn, a fast
double-tap for a crossroads, and a heavy heel-kick for danger. But no taps,
kicks, yells, or pistol shots alarmed him, except perhaps the nagging absence
of any warnings.
Colin tapped on
the roof and waited. No response. His senses grew more alert, listening, but he
heard nothing beyond the normal sounds of a country road.
Even so, he
shifted his second foot—still numb—from the opposite seat to the floor and slid
several inches towards the middle of the bench. There, Colin moved a cushion
aside to reveal a built-in pistol cabinet that had been added by his brother,
the Duke of Forster.
His movement
wakened Marietta, and she began to speak, but he held up his finger before his
lips, then touched his ear. Be quiet: I’m listening. Her green eyes, always
expressive, widened, and she nodded understanding. She pulled the thick feather
comforter up over her belly, as if to hide.
The door handle
moved slightly as someone tried to open the door. Luckily Colin had bolted it
from the inside. Their highwayman grew frustrated, pulling against the door
handle several times.
Reacting
viscerally, Colin wrenched the pistol cabinet door open. But before he could
withdraw the pistols, the window glass shattered inward. Marietta recoiled and
tried to push herself up as the curtains were torn away, wrenched outward.
Colin moved to protect Marietta, trying to place himself between the princess
and the broken window. But his feet found no solid purchase, just a river of down
shifting beneath his weight. Losing his balance, he fell back hard onto the
seat.
Two hands in long
leather gloves, each holding a pistol, reached through the window frame into
the carriage.
As in battle,
everything slowed. Both pistols pointed at a spot in the middle of his chest.
At this range, he had no hope of surviving. And he felt more relief than fear.
Colin held out
his hands to show he was unarmed. He could see nothing of the highwayman. Only
a dark duster and a mask.
The guns didn’t
fire.
One pistol
shifted to the opposite seat. But Marietta wasn’t there. Seeing her on the
floor, the highwayman repositioned his sights.
Realizing in an
instant this was no robbery, Colin flung himself between Marietta and the
barrel. He heard the cock of the trigger, saw the flash of fire, and felt the
hit of the ball in his side. Black powder burned his flesh.
Dark smoke filled
the cabin, and he choked, coughing.
His ears rung
from the boom of the gunshot, but he saw the flash of the second pistol firing
along with a shower of sparks from the side and barrel of the gun. He felt
Marietta’s scream. He pulled himself up, half standing, one hand against the
carriage roof to steady himself. His side stabbed with pain at each expansion
of his lungs.
Marietta tried to
rise behind him, choking as well. She pulled against the clothes on his back,
but he brushed her hands away. When the smoke cleared, his body would stand
between Marietta and their assailant. He would die. But after Belgium, he felt
dead already—what would be the difference?
Marietta beat the
backs of his legs. Small burning embers burned on Marietta’s pallet. Some of
the lit sparks from the pistols had fallen onto the down-filled bed. He
assessed the dangers automatically. Once the embers ate past the woolen cover
and fire caught the feathers, the danger would spread quickly.
Still on the
floor, Marietta pushed herself backwards toward the opposite door, kicking the
smoldering bolsters and pallet away from her. With each kick, she further
entangled his feet. He couldn’t reach her, at least not easily. And he couldn’t
reach and load a gun without stepping from his defensive position in front of
her. Thick smoke burned his eyes.
With neither
sound nor sight to help him, he had to choose: the dangers of the fire, growing
with each second, or those of the highwaymen who could be waiting outside.
Tensing, he unbolted the door, pushed it open, and leapt out. His leg hitting
wrong, he fell and rolled into the ditch beside the road. He raised himself cautiously.
The highwaymen were gone, having attacked, then left. Not robbers then.
He pulled himself
to standing. He should worry about Fletcher and the postboy, Bobby, but there
was no time. Smoke from the feather-stuffed pallet billowed from the coach. He
could see Marietta’s legs, vigorously kicking the smoldering bed away from her.
She was alive, but trapped against the locked door on the opposite side of the
carriage.
Ignoring the pain
below his ribs, he pulled hard on the pallet, dragging a portion through the
coach door. Already, the smoldering feathers were breaking through the wool in
patches of open flame. He heaved again, releasing all but a third from the
coach. Flames began to dance across the pallet.
If the pallet
broke apart before he could remove it, he’d have to sacrifice the carriage, and
then he could offer little protection to Marietta. He pulled hard once more,
and the pallet fell onto the green verge next to the road. Then, to protect
neighboring crops and livestock, he dragged the pallet, flames licking at his
hands, into the middle of the road, where it could burn without harm. Once
carriage and countryside were out of danger, he hunched over, hands on his
knees, and tried to breathe without expanding his lower rib cage.
After a few minutes
to recover his breath, Colin looked up at the carriage. Fletcher remained at
his post, his body slumped forward.
Colin climbed the
side of the coach, gritting his teeth against the pain. Blood oozed through the
hair at the back of the coachman’s head. Pressing his fingers to the older
man’s neck, Colin felt the beat of the artery. Alive.
Listening and
watching for trouble, Colin weighed his options.
They needed to
move, to get off the open road. But for that, he needed Fletcher conscious. At
least he wouldn’t have to explain to Cook how her man had been killed on a
quiet English road after surviving a dozen campaigns against Boney.
Still unable to
hear, Colin retrieved a water flask from under the coachman’s seat. Tenderly
cradling the older man’s head, Colin washed the blood away. The wound was a
long gash, slantways from the back of Fletcher’s ear toward the back of his
head. He pressed his fingers against the gash. Long but not deep and worst at
the curve of Fletcher’s head where the weapon bit hardest through the skin.
Fletcher moaned.
Colin lifted
Fletcher’s chin. “Pistol shot. Can’t hear.” Colin picked up the fallen reins
and held them out. “Can you drive?”
Fletcher took the
reins in one hand. Then, raising his eyes to Colin’s, Fletcher held out his
other hand, palm down, as one does when indicating a person’s height.
“Bobby?” Colin looked around for the
postilion. Fletcher’s nephew had grown up on the ducal estate. The loss of
Fletcher or Bobby would devastate the household.
Fletcher nodded
yes, then scowled. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and
supported his head with his hands.
“I’ll find him.
Stay with Marietta.” Colin took the rifle and the cartridge bag from beneath
the coachman’s seat, loaded the gun, then placed both on the bench. Fletcher
put his hand on the gun.
Colin leapt from
the coach, gritting his teeth against the pain as his feet hit the ground.
Then, walking back along the road, Colin began looking for the boy, searching
through the overgrown verges and dreading what he might find. A child’s body
bleeding and broken after a fall from the carriage. Let him be alive . . . and,
if wounded, with wounds that can heal.
Colin turned at
the curve.
About a tenth of
a mile beyond, he saw the boy’s body at the verge of the road. Colin ran to the
boy and knelt beside him, checking his wounds. No gunshots. Colin felt his
relief like cool water on a parched tongue. Bobby’s arm was twisted before his
chest, as if he had been flung from the coach-top or dragged down from it. But
Bobby was alive. Fletcher, Bobby, Marietta, all alive. At least their deaths
wouldn’t weigh heavy on his conscience.
The boy struggled
to lift himself up and began to speak.
But Colin shook
his head, pointing to his ears. “Can’t hear.”
Bobby pointed to
his ankle. Colin felt it. No obvious broken bones. “Can you stand?”
The boy shrugged
and held out his uninjured arm for help. Ignoring the arm, Colin lifted the boy
to his feet. Luckily Bobby was still small and lithe, not the strapping youth
he would be in another year. Colin supported Bobby’s weight gently as the boy
tested his ankle, gingerly at first, then with more pressure. When Bobby tried
to step fully on the ankle, he recoiled in pain.
“Let me help.”
Colin wrapped his arm around Bobby’s waist, avoiding his injured arm. The two
walked slowly back to the carriage. There, Fletcher and Colin helped the boy to
the seat next to Fletcher, and Bobby took up the pistols.
When Bobby was
settled, Colin motioned for Fletcher’s attention. “Where’s the other one? The
one the stable master insisted would care for the horses?”
Hit me, Fletcher
mouthed, demonstrating a blow to the back of his head.
Colin’s strength
suddenly faded. “How far to the next inn?”
Fletcher held up
two fingers, then three. Two to three miles.
Colin moved
slowly to the open carriage door, calling out in case Marietta’s ears had
recovered from the pistol shots. “Marietta, there’s an inn within the hour.”
He stepped in
front of the open door. Marietta was seated on the floor, leaning against the
backward-facing seat riser, her legs bent at odd angles. Her eyes closed, she
held one hand to her chest, the other cradled her belly. At her shoulder, blood
seeped through her fingers, covering her hand and staining the front of her chemise.
Blood pooled on the floor below her.
Colin’s chest
clenched. He swung himself into the carriage, yelling “Fletcher! Drive!” as he
pulled the door shut behind him.
He pulled off his
cravat and tore it into strips to make a bandage, then crawled beside her.
To stage an
attack and steal nothing . . . not robbery. Murder. He needed to think. But
first he needed to slow Marietta’s bleeding.
The carriage
began to move, first slowly, then faster, and faster still.
BUY NOW
Rachael
Miles has always loved a good romance, especially one with a bit of
suspense and preferably a ghost. She is also a professor of book history and
nineteenth-century literature whose students frequently find themselves reading
the novels of Ann Radcliffe and other gothic tales. Rachael lives in her home
state of Texas with her indulgent husband, three rescued dogs, and an ancient
cat.
Enter to Win a Print copy of CHASING THE HEIRESS
2 comments:
Thank you for hosting CHASING THE HEIRESS today!
Crystal, Tasty Book Tours
Thanks for hosting Chasing the Heiress!!
Post a Comment