Jemima was still lost in thought as she stood beside the old cart. A fresh horse was already strapped to the traces, waiting patiently. She almost groaned only for her curious gaze to be caught by Peter who appeared at the other side of the cart. He opened the bag, picked out the two pillows, unrolled them and put them on the bench seat, shooting her a smug smile at his cleverness.
“Climb aboard,” he ordered softly, clambering up onto the narrow strip of wood and purloining one of the cushions for himself. He sighed aloud at the blissful comfort and waited for Jemima to climb up beside him. He wanted to go around and assist her, as any gentleman would, but knew that people of their class wouldn’t do that, and ladies were more often than not expected to climb aboard conveyances by themselves.
Jemima sighed as she sat on the luxurious comfort of the pillow, wincing as her bruised flesh protested at being sat on again. She briefly wondered if she should just stand up in the back but knew that, if anything did, that would certainly draw attention. Although she couldn’t countenance theft of any kind, she knew he had left enough coins to cover the cost of replacing the pillows, and the benefits far outweighed the risks. Suddenly the day before them didn’t seem so bad.
While Hugo had proven to be exceedingly efficient, Peter knew they couldn’t be lulled into a false sense of security. He had seen enough of Scraggan’s men chasing Eliza to know just how determined, and ruthless they could be, and he had no intention of being caught out, alone, with Jemima’s life at stake.
Jemima lapsed into silence, and frowned when she picked up on his tension. She wondered what he wasn’t telling her. If Scraggan was nearby, surely she had the right to know, didn’t she? Clearly, whatever Hugo had seen had been enough of a threat for him to feel she and Peter would be safer elsewhere.
Despite their proximity on the thin wooden bench, Jemima felt a distance form between them, and wasn’t sure what to do about it. She wanted to push him further, but something kept her quiet. Lost in her thoughts, she eased back against the seat and lapsed into silence.
They remained that way for the majority of the day, until Peter wondered if he should pull the cart over to the side of the road and give her a shake. His attempts at conversation had been rebuffed, allowing a stilted and slightly awkward silence to grow between them. He noted this time that she made no attempt to snuggle against him as she had done the previous day, and felt a pang of loss for their easy camaraderie.
“Tired?” he asked her, when he couldn’t stand the silence any more.
Jemima shook her head, stu
dying the road ahead. Over the past few miles the road had become increasingly rough, with most of the cart track covered in potholes. She had taken to holding on to the edge of the seat beneath her to keep herself from bouncing off the cart altogether. It made their progress incredibly slow and, with no other passing vehicles, boredom had begun to set in.
The wind had increased over the course of the day, doing its best to snatch the last vestiges of warmth from her flesh. Turning around, she retrieved her cloak from the back of the cart, tucking it around her carefully and snuggling into its warmth. Luckily, it was an old cloak of Isobel’s and was thick and warm, rather than a cheap, thinner version a servant would be more likely to wear.
Although it was only early evening, the sun had already given way to dark clouds, which hung over them menacingly, threatening a deluge at any moment.
Jemima studied the clouds and turned to ask Peter how long it would be before they got to the next village, when a loud crack broke the silence.
The wheel next to her abruptly broke away from the cart which promptly began to tip over.
The horse squealed as the traces tugged painfully against him. Immediately he began to panic.
Peter struggled to keep control of the reins and, despite his anxiety, murmured soothingly to the startled beast, to little effect. Instead, the horse began to gallop, trying to free himself from the cause of the pain the only way he could.
The cart, minus a wheel, lurched and jolted against the ruts in the road as it ploughed its way down the track, digging deeper into the soil until it could go no further and flipped over, throwing both Peter and Jemima into the air.
Jemima screamed as she was pitched out of her seat. Pain shot up her shoulder as she landed heavily on the unforgiving ground.
She had no sooner hit the ground than she rolled over, screaming again at the sight of the wooden planks of the back of the cart heading straight for her. Frantically clambering forward, she slipped and slid toward the safety of the hedgerow, gasping in fright at Peter’s frantic shout from the other side of the cart. Cowering under the thick foliage of the thorn bush, she watched the cart crash to the ground, upside down, the three remaining wheels whirling wildly far too close for comfort.
The horse, still tethered, began to scream and thrash as he was dragged down on to his side, the traces biting into his flesh painfully.
Peter cursed, knowing the horse would kill himself if he didn’t stop thrashing. He saw Jemima hiding under the meagre protection of the hedgerow. Relieved that she at least appeared unharmed, he quickly removed the knife from his belt and cut the harness to release the horse. Although the last thing they needed was for him to run off, if he remained tethered he would harm himself and be useless anyway. Peter had been around horses enough to know that if he tried to get to his head and soothe him, the beast would just run him over; and that was the very last thing he needed. He knew he was taking a risk, but had no option.
He cut the harness and lifted the highest trace enough for the horse to lunge to his feet. Sensing freedom, the animal broke into a full gallop.
“Peter!” Jemima shouted, watching in horror as the animal disappeared down the road.
“We have no choice,” Peter replied, dropping the trace he was holding and heading toward her. “I hope he won’t run too far. Are you all right?”
Jemima tried to stand up and winced at the pain down her back. Although she ached, there was no overt pain, indicating that nothing substantial was broken. Still trembling, she accepted his embrace as he swept her into his arms.
“Just shaken,” Jemima gasped. “Are you all right?”
Peter nodded, hoping to God he never again saw anything as horrific as Jemima lying helpless as a cart fell almost on top of her. “I’m sure I will have a nightmare or two myself, but otherwise am unharmed.”
They stood clinging to each other by the side of the road for several minutes. Peter placed random kisses around her face as he murmured soothing endearments to her, clearly still shaken by the near miss that could have ended so badly for Jemima. She couldn’t have moved if her life depended on it. Her knees trembled so badly that she wondered how they managed to carry her weight. If Peter released her, she would fall into a heap on the floor.
Holding her tight against him, Peter frowned at the cart. He had checked the wheels himself that morning before they had left the inn. Although the main body of the cart was worn, the wheels and bearings were in excellent condition, having been replaced only a few months ago. Peter was positive that the wheel had been intact, with no sign of wear and tear, or cracking. Although the track was rutted, the holes weren’t deep enough to damage a wheel sufficiently to make it fall off.
The longer he stared at the protruding metalwork, the deeper his frown grew.