Furious, she beat at his hands, his face; he was no Scrugthorpe—she broke free easily enough, pushing Mortimer into a bush in the process. Gasping, dragging much needed air into her lungs, Lucinda picked up her skirts and fled onto the bridge. Behind her, Scrugthorpe, swearing foully, hobbled in pursuit.
Lucinda cast a quick glance behind—and ran faster.
She looked ahead and saw a gentleman striding onto the other end of the bridge. He was dressed neatly in riding breeches and top coat and wore Hessians. Lucinda thanked her stars and waved. “Sir!” Here, surely, was one who would aid her.
To her surprise, he stopped, standing with his feet apart, blocking the exit to the bridge. Lucinda blinked, and slowed. She halted in the centre of the bridge.
The man had a pistol in his hand.
It was, Lucinda thought, as she slowly watched it rise, one of those long-barrelled affairs gentlemen were said to use when duelling. The sun struck its silver mountings, making them gleam. Beneath her, the river gurgled onwards to the sea; in the wide sky above, the larks swooped and trilled. Distantly, she heard her name called but the cries were too weak to break the web that held her.
A chill spread over her skin.
Slowly, the pistol rose, until the barrel was level with her chest.
Her mouth dry, her heart pounding in her ears, Lucinda looked into the man’s face. It was blank, expressionless. She saw his fingers shift and heard a telltale click.
A hundred yards downstream, Harry broke through the woods and gained the river path. Panting, he looked around—then glanced up at the bridge. He froze.
Two heartbeats passed as he watched his future, his life, his love—all he had ever wanted—face certain death. Salter and some of his men were on the opposite bank, closing fast, but they would never reach Joliffe in time. Still others were rushing for this end of the bridge. Harry saw the pistol level—saw the slight upward adjustment necessary to bring the aim to true.
“Lucinda!”
The cry was wrenched from him, filled with despair and rage—and something more powerful than both. It sliced through the mesmeric daze that held Lucinda.
She turned, her hand on the wooden rail—and saw Harry on the nearby shore. Lucinda blinked. Safety lay with Harry. The rail was a simple one, a single wooden top-rail supported by intermittent
posts. Before her, the area below the rail was empty, open. She put both hands on the rail and let herself drop through.
She plummeted to the river as the shot rang out.
Harry watched her fall. He had no idea whether she’d been hit or not. She entered the river with a splash; when it cleared, there was no sign of her.
Cursing, Harry raced forward, scanning the river. Could she swim? He reached the bank just short of the bridge and sat down. He was tugging off one boot when Lucinda surfaced. Pushing her hair out of her eyes, she looked about and saw him. She waved, then, as if she went swimming in rivers every day, calmly stroked for shore.
Harry stared. Then, his expression hardening, he slammed his foot back in his boot. He rose and strode to the river’s edge. His emotions clashing wildly, swinging from elation to rage with sufficient intensity to make him dizzy, he stood on the bank and waited for her to reach him.
He had lost Dawlish somewhere in the woods; those of Salter’s people who had been near, seeing him waiting, wisely left him to it. He was distantly aware of the commotions engulfing both ends of the bridge but he didn’t even spare them a glance. Later, they learned that Mr Mabberly had distinguished himself by laying Mortimer Babbacombe low while Dawlish had taken great pleasure in scientifically darkening the daylights of the iniquitous Scrugthorpe.
Gaining the shallows, Lucinda stood and glanced back at the bridge. Satisfied that her attackers were being dealt with as they deserved, she reached behind her and caught hold of her dripping hat. Tugging the wet ribbons from about her neck, she stared in dismay at the limp creation. “It’s ruined!” she wailed.
Then she looked down. “And my dress!”
Harry couldn’t take anymore. The damned woman had nearly got killed and all she was concerned with was the fate of her hat. He strode into the shallow water to stand towering by her side.
Still mourning her headgear, Lucinda gestured at it. “It’s beyond resurrection.” She looked up at him—in time to see his eyes flare.
Harry slapped her wet bottom—hard enough to leave his palm stinging.
Lucinda jumped and yelped. “Ow!” She stared at him in stunned surprise.
“The next time I tell you to stay where I leave you and not to move you will do precisely that—do I make myself clear?” Harry glared down at her, into eyes that, even now, held a hint of mutinous determination. Then his gaze fell to her breasts. He blinked. “Good lord! Your dress!” Immediately, he shrugged off his coat.
Lucinda sniffed. “Precisely what I said.” With injured dignity, she accepted the coat he placed about her shoulders—she even allowed him to do up the buttons, closing it loosely about her.
“Come—I’m taking you home immediately.” Harry took her elbow and helped her onto the bank. “You’re soaked—the last thing I need is for you to take a chill.”
Lucinda tried to look back at the bridge. “That was Mortimer back there, you know.”