“If you move, I will shoot you,” Phillipa vowed. “I would rather hang than let you defile me.”
“One can’t defile a harlot,” Orwell sniped savagely.
“You will stop this carriage and let me leave. If you don’t, I will kill you.”
His dismissive laughter froze her insides. She gripped the heavy pistol, ignoring the growing burn in her muscles, and the jostle of the carriage as it sped her to complete ruination.
He rapped the trap door to the driver’s seat to give instructions, and her heart sped with relief. Until he yelled up, “Faster! Drive faster!” His laughter echoed sinisterly.
Tears stung her eyes as she heard the crack of the whip. The carriage careened, sped up even more, and her breathing became ragged. The oiliness of his smile, the depravity in how he licked his lips had her stomach cramping harder. The heaviness of the pistol grew harder to manage. She did not know how much longer she could hold on.
She did not dwell overlong on her decision. He gave her no choice. She raised the pistol and fired.
The bang exploded in the close confines of the carriage. Her ears rang; her head pounded. She heard the muted neighs of the horses, the driver’s frantic commands, and the carriage rocked wildly as it slowed. She acted with desperate alacrity, wrenching the door open. Before the team had fully halted and before the driver could stop her, she jumped.
And ran like her life depended on it.
Chapter Ten
“Grab her!” Orwell’s cry of wounded rage spurred her faster.
Phillipa clutched the pistol to her breast, holding her torn bodice closed against the chill, and raced across the flatlands. She could see a manor house in the distance, but her breath labored in the daunting cold. She was grateful for the moon that peeked from the clouds providing her with light. She gripped her skirt, hating how the petticoats hampered her movements. She raised it high above her knees and sprinted as fast as she could. Fat drops of rain slapped her cheeks as she ran and ran. She refused to look back. The thundering in her ears grew louder, and she belatedly realized it was hoofbeats.
Oh, Lord. Her breath caught and tears splashed her cheeks. He was riding her down.
“Phillipa! Stop!” His hated voice was muffled by the wind and the ringing in her ears.
“Leave me alone!” she cried, her tears flowing with the rain.
She could not run any faster, so she turned into the woods. With brambles ripping at her hair and her lungs burning, she stumbled to a stop and spun, jerkily raising the pistol.
Her heart thundered, and she blinked, dazed, at the massive black stallion that loomed over her.
Sweet relief crashed through her as she stared into the grim face of the man she most wanted to see in the world. Her heart soared.
“Anthony!”
“Oh, thank God!” He jumped from his horse and swept her into a tight embrace. “Is he dead?”
“No!” she gasped, her body racked by a rash of shivers.
“I heard a pistol shot.”
Her teeth chattered. “I fired into the cushions, to create a distraction while I fled.”
The cold rain came down in torrents. She raised her violently trembling hands to Anthony’s cheeks. “Is it really you?”
“You’re freezing.” He shrugged out of his greatcoat. “Here,” he muttered, bundling her into the voluminous cloak. It was warm and smelled like Anthony, and she sank into its comfort. He’d come for her. She was safe.
Pounding footsteps came through the trees, and she gripped the pistol tight. She really would shoot Orwell this time, before she let him hurt Anthony.
But it was the coachman. He broke through the thick brambles of the forest and screeched to a startled halt when he saw Anthony. “I— I—”
His stammer was cut short in a wheeze when Anthony delivered a short, brutal jab to his throat. He fell with a crash into the thicket, choking, then stumbled off, running in the direction of the last village they’d passed.
“Stay here,” Anthony ordered her.
Not a chance. The dark pressed in on Phillipa, and she scrambled to keep up with Anthony as he strode back to the carriage. His fine white shirt was plastered to his broad shoulders and rain ran in rivulets down his golden hair. He looked like an avenging angel.
Orwell drew up sharply when he saw them, quickly masking his astonishment.
“Lord Anthony,” he said with a sneer, stepping down from the carriage into the rain.
Her mouth went dry at the dangerous glitter in Orwell’s expression.
She started to warn Anthony, but she realized it was unnecessary. She flinched from the cold rage that gleamed from his emerald eyes.
“Are you really willing to go to the gallows over this tease? This lascivious slut?” Orwell smirked, strolling with insolent confidence toward Anthony.
Hadn’t they just had this same conversation? But this was worse. They were talking about Anthony now.
Anthony did not deign to answer. Instead, he backhanded Orwell when he came within striking distance, shocking her with the viciousness of the action. Orwell snarled and charged him. Anthony grabbed Orwell’s lapel and yanked him forward, then slammed a fist into his face.
Phillipa stood rooted to the spot, trembling, as Anthony punched Orwell again. Anthony gave him no quarter, no chance to retaliate. Anthony slammed his fist in Orwell’s gut, doubling him over. Orwell groaned.
Thankfully, it was over almost before it started. With Anthony landing another vicious blow to his face, Orwell crumpled to the ground. Anthony casually walked toward the carriage. She stared at him in ill-concealed shock, feeling faint. Rain pasted his hair to his scalp and ran in rivulets down the sharp blades of his cheeks into his soaking jacket.
“Get in,” he growled with barely leashed fury, flinging open the carriage door.
She jerked into motion, stepping gingerly over Orwell and scrambling into the equipage just as the sky opened with fury. Anthony leaped in after her and sank into the darkened shadows of the carriage, silent and cold. They sat mutely, listening to the sound of thunder and clouds pouring out torrential rain. She trembled, freezing and nervous, feeling the palatable tension in the air.
“Anthony—”
“Quiet.” His voice cracked like a whip.
She shuddered. Tumultuous emotions glazed his eyes, as if he fought for restraint. She did not know how to respond to this unknown side of him. Before, he had been so sensually teasing. She would never have thought him capable of brutality. The beating he had given Orwell could have been far worse, had he truly lost control, but it made her realize how little she knew of Anthony.
She had never imagined any of this would go this far. With Orwell or with Anthony. She swallowed, tears burning her eyes, shivers racking her.
And yet, Anthony had rescued her. He had come for her.
Weak moans came from outside; Orwell had regained consciousness. She didn’t dare ask what would happen next.
“Let’s go,” Anthony said, saving her the trouble, and stepping down from the carriage.
She scrambled after him, avoiding the curled-up form of Orwell on the ground. The cold rain caressed her cheeks like a dark omen. It shook her to the core.
And knew her life was forever changed because of this night.
They halted at the massive black stallion. “What will we do?” she beseeched Anthony, hating the rage he thrummed with. She wanted her sweet lover back again.
He drew her to him. His head slashed down and his lips captured hers in a hard, rough kiss. Her lips parted, but before she could sink into his kiss, he lifted his head again.
“We are about fifteen minutes’ hard ride from my manor house in Baybrook. We can rest there for the evening.” He raked a hand through his wet hair. He looked as if he’d been about to say more, but stopped.
A crack of thunder made her jump.
“We must get there before the deluge returns,” he said, looking up at the black clouds.
He leaped
into the saddle and held out his hand to her. She did not hesitate to grip it, and was swung up behind him. They raced into the night as the sky opened a little more. She wrapped her arms tight around his waist and pressed her face into the hard muscle of his back. She couldn’t stop her tears from falling, mixing with the drops of rain that splattered so insistently.
She had almost been raped.
She wanted to curl into Anthony, to feel his arms around her, to banish the horror and the edge of fear that still lingered. The profundity of her gratitude staggered her. Her mouth whispered words of thanks, even though he could not hear them.
The night was icy cold as they rode, stealing her breath and chattering her teeth. The sky darkened, eclipsing the stars. A premonition of her future?
The sky opened as they raced by houses they could have sought shelter from, but she understood why he did not stop. A harsh sob ripped from her. Even now he had thoughts to protect her reputation. She did not know if it could be salvaged, but she hoped so. If not for her own sake, for Payton’s. She prayed Orwell would not trumpet the fact he had tried to kidnap and rape her. Instinctively, she knew Anthony would protect her.
A manor house loomed in the distant with a light flickering high from a lone window. Relief surged when Anthony turned the stallion toward it. Within minutes, they rode into the yard and he swept off the horse, pulling her with him. He handed the reins to a stable boy who ran out to meet them, and stalked toward the entry. The front door was flung open, and he marched in, issuing commands. Servants scurried to obey, and a matronly woman bustled toward them clucking her lips.