Sir Freddie met her eyes; his lips twisted as, nodding, he looked down. “Of course.” After a fractional pause, he added, “You have my word.”
She had lived with three males long enough to instantly detect prevarication. Lips thinning, she narrowed her eyes, then tersely asked, “You haven’t really got him, have you? There is no second carriage.”
She’d wondered, but hadn’t dared call his bluff or even question him while trapped in the carriage.
He looked up, raised his brows. Faintly shrugged. “I saw no reason to bother with your brother. I knew the threat alone would be enough to get you to behave.”
The relief that surged through her nearly brought her to her knees. The weight on her shoulders evaporated. She was free—free to deal with Sir Freddie as she wished, with only her own life at stake. A life she was willing to risk to secure her future—what choice did she have? She fought to keep any hint of her upwelling resolve from her face. She glared at Sir Freddie, then swung on her heel and walked on.
Trusting to his overweening confidence to keep him from wondering at her continued acquiescence for just a few steps more…
From behind, she heard a faint chuckle, then his footsteps as he followed. Up ahead to her right lay the wooden spar. Just a little farther; she needed the greater steepness, the change in their relative heights…
Again she stopped dead, swung to face him.
At the last second let her contempt show. “You bastard!”
She slapped him. With the full force of her arm as she delivered the blow, with him lower than she, his face at the right height to take the full brunt of her momentum.
He had no chance to duck; the blow landed perfectly. Her palm stung; he staggered.
She didn’t pause but turned and raced, scrambling up the few steps to the spar. She heard him swear foully, heard his boots scrabble on the path. Bending, she locked both hands on the spar, hefted it, and swung around. Driven by resolution laced with very real fear, she put every ounce of strength she possessed behind her swing.
He didn’t see it coming.
She wielded the spar like a rounders bat. He was still lower on the path than she; the spar hit him across the side of the head.
The spar cracked, broke, fell from her hands.
He slumped to his knees, groggy, dazed, but not unconscious. He weaved. Desperate, she glanced around.
There were no other spars.
She grabbed up her skirts, stepped around him, and ran. Fled like a fury down the path, leaping down from the workings and streaking across the moor to plunge into the dark wood.
Chest heaving, she forced herself to slow. The roots were treacherous; she couldn’t afford to fall. If she could get to the cottages and raise the alarm, she’d be safe. She didn’t even have to worry about Matthew anymore.
From behind her came a roar; the thud of heavy footsteps reached her, rapidly gaining.
Fighting down panic, she kept her eyes down, locked on the path, feet dancing over the tree roots—
She ran into a black wall.
She shrieked, then stilled as the familiar scent, the familiar feel of Tony’s body against hers, of his arms wrapping about her sank into her senses. She nearly fainted with relief.
He was looking beyond her, over her head. “Where is he?”
His words were a lethal whisper.
“On the path leading up to a disused mine.”
He nodded. “I know it. Stay here.”
With that he was gone. He moved so swiftly, so silently, surefooted in the darkness, that by the time, dazed, she turned, she’d nearly lost him.
She followed, but carefully, as quiet as he. She’d expected him to wait in the shadows and let Sir Freddie blunder into him as she had, but instead, he paused, waited until Sir Freddie was nearly to the trees, then calmly, determinedly, walked out of the wood.
Sir Freddie saw him. Pure horror crossed his face. He skidded to a halt, turned, and fled.