A Fine Passion (Bastion Club 4)

Her face was classically beautiful.

Her dark gaze was a fulminating glare.

Jack blinked. She looked like she wanted to rend him limb from limb, metaphorically at least, and had every intention of doing so—soon. He would have looked again, more closely, but the horse shied, still skittish; he refocused his attention and crooned some more.

From the corner of his eye, he caught a flash of petticoats and slim ankles as the lady got to her feet. He glanced at her again, but she didn’t look his way; instead, she nimbly leapt the ditch and went quickly to the side of the overturned carriage.

Jack realized the driver was nowhere to be seen. “Is he conscious?”

After an instant, the lady replied, “No.” The carriage rocked as she tried unsuccessfully to lift the side. “He’s trapped. His leg’s broken and possibly one arm. Once the horse is calm enough, you’ll have to help me get him out.”

To Jack’s relief, her voice showed no hint of agitation, much less hysteria. Her words were brisk, her tone commanding, as if she was used to being obeyed.

He looked at the horse. “I can’t let the horse go—he’s too nervous—but he’s calm enough for you to hold. Come and take the reins, and I’ll get the driver out.”

The lady straightened; hands on hips, she rounded the wrecked phaeton and stopped five feet away, regarding him through dark, narrowed eyes, her ruby lips a thin line, her sculpted jaw set.

He’d been right; she was tall. Only a few inches shorter than he.

“Don’t be asinine.” Her glance was measuring—measuring and dismissive. “You can’t lift the carriage and get him out at the same time.”

Jack narrowed his eyes back; pain stabbed through his skull. His tone verging on lordly arrogance, he retorted, “Just take the reins and leave getting him out to me.”

He offered the reins he’d gathered to her.

She made no move to take them. Instead, she caught his eye. “Unharness the horse.” Her words were a clipped order. “If he panics again, I won’t be able to hold him, and if he drags the carriage, he’ll harm the driver more.” She turned back to the side of the phaeton. “Or worse, you’ll drop the carriage after you’ve lifted it.”

Jack bit his tongue and manfully swallowed his less-than-civilized response. It was, he told himself, only because his head was throbbing that he hadn’t thought of unharnessing the horse himself.

Talking nonsense to the horse, he played out enough rein to reach the harness buckles along one side. The lady returned and, without so much as a glance his way, went to work on the buckles opposite. Tugging the leather straps free, he studied her face, alabaster ivory, exquisitely molded features set in aloof dispassion. Arched brows and lush dark lashes framed large dark eyes; he hadn’t yet got close enough to be sure of their true color.

Then they had the harness loose. The horse edged forward; the poles threatened to fall to the ground.

Jack grabbed one. “Here—take the reins and walk him forward. I’ll hold the poles steady.” If they fell, the driver’s trapped limbs might be crushed even more.

Grasping the reins, the lady went to the horse’s head, caught its attention, then, talking soothingly, slowly urged the bay forward step by step. Jack took the weight of the poles as the harness loops slid off.

With the horse free, the lady looked around. Jack glanced over his shoulder. Challenger had returned and stood cropping grass on the other side of the road. “Tie him to the hedge near my horse.”

She did, although she cast him another of her irritated looks on the way.

By the time she returned, he’d found the height at which the poles were balanced; he held them resting on his palms. “Stand here, and support these until I tip the carriage. Once I do, you can let go and come and help drag the driver free.”

Her gaze raked his face, then she looked at the poles, quite clearly evaluating his plan. Then she nodded, stepped up beside him, and grasped the poles.

Jack bit his tongue. Again. She was the most aggravating female, and she didn’t even need to speak.

He rounded the side of the carriage and saw the driver. A young gentleman, he’d obviously done everything he could to save horse and carriage, and had stayed on the box too long. The carriage had rolled onto its side, then farther, pinning and crushing one leg. Luckily, the slope of the ditch wasn’t that steep; the carriage hadn’t continued rolling onto its hood, but had rocked back to settle on its side.

Hunkering down, Jack checked the man’s pulse. Strong enough, steady enough. At least one leg was broken; a quick survey revealed that one shoulder was dislocated, a collarbone broken, and an arm as well. On top of what must have been a hellish knock on the head. Jack winced, then rose and studied the wreck. The fine wood of the ornamented sides was splintered, but the carriage was well made; the skeleton remained intact.

It took a minute to identify the best points on the frame to grasp to lift. Positioning himself with his back to the carriage, half-crouched, the edge of the lower side resting on his hands, Jack glanced at the lady. She was watching him in surprising silence and with grudging approval.

“When I lift, let the poles rise as they will. When we’re sure the carriage is going to hold together and not break apart, come around and help haul him out.”

She nodded.

He straightened, lifting the side up to waist height, then he braced, bent, heaved the carriage higher, and ducked his shoulders beneath the bones of the side. Bits of panel fell away; wood creaked, groaned, but the frame held.