“No. Just a little shaken,” she said steadily. “But I fear Papa has broken his leg.”

To confirm this, a groan and a stream of curses in Italian emanated from the coach’s shadowy interior.

“He’ll end up in the drink if we don’t get him out. So will you. Is there anyone else in the carriage?”

“No, only the two of us.”

For a brief moment, Fergus wondered why she wasn’t traveling with a maid. The carriage was expensive, and so was that cape. Discreet jewels sparkled at her ears and throat. Whoever the lady was, someone had spent money on her appearance and comfort.

After months of rain, the bank was all mud and not the most reliable foundation. To anchor the carriage, he stood on the step. “Can you get out alone, or should I lift you?”

When she shoved uselessly at the door handle, the coach gave an ominous creak and tipped closer to the rushing brown water. “I think—”

“For pity’s sake.” Fergus wrenched open the jammed door with a grunt of effort, and hoisted her free.

He had a brief impression of lily fragrance and a tall, nicely curved body, before he set her on her feet on the road. She clutched a worn leather satchel that seemed too big for a lady.

“Well, that was decisive.” In the rain, she looked as ruffled as a wet hen, but he didn’t have time for politeness.

“Stay there and don’t move.”

He turned to shout at the coachman who was hauling the horses up the bank, away from the bridge. “Are the horses hurt?”

“No, my lord, only frighted.” The man edged away from Macushla and Brecon who approached him, more out of canine curiosity than aggression, Fergus knew.

“Then get down here and help me,” he said, blinking the rain away from his eyes.

“But the horses, my lord—”

“They willnae wander far, if they wander at all.”

Fergus returned to the step and stuck his head into the carriage. The lady’s father turned out to be a portly gentleman huddled in the far corner, just where he was most likely to tip the vehicle. The light inside was dim, but not too dim to hide the unnatural angle of the man’s left leg as it dangled in the well between the seats.

“Maledizione. I told Marina this viaggio was cursed, but does she ever listen to her papa?” the man said in a thick Italian accent. “No, not that one. She always knows best.”

“Papa, stop complaining and come forward so we can pull you free,” the woman—she was no ingénue, but at least in her middle twenties—said from beside Fergus’s shoulder.

He stifled a growl of annoyance. No wonder she hadn’t objected to his orders. She’d decided to ignore them instead. At least when she added her weight to his on the step, it helped counterbalance the tilting carriage. Even if things were a wee bit cozy for strangers, with the two of them sharing the narrow metal platform.

“My leg, she hurts,” her father groaned, shifting further away.

Fergus bit back a curse. If the coach slipped now, all three of them would end up in the burn.

“The rest of you will hurt if you fall into the river,” the woman said, edging closer to Fergus. The scent of lilies mixed with the fresh smell of the rain. When she reached inside for her father, the carriage gave another alarming creak.

“Get out of the way, lassie. This is no place for a woman,” Fergus snapped, catching her by the waist again. He’d already rescued her once. He shouldn’t have to do it twice. “And mind the broken glass.” Jagged shards littered the seats and floor.

“Oofff,” she gasped as, with little ceremony, he hauled her off the step.

“And stay there, ye wee besom,” he said, plopping her back on the road with no great expectation she’d heed him. She hadn’t yet.

If he had time, he might call her unwomanly. If he had time, his appreciation for those fine eyes might convince him she was very much a woman after all. “You’re getting in the way.”

“My father isn’t a small man,” the woman said breathlessly, as she staggered to keep her feet. He noted that, unlike her father, she spoke English with the clipped accents of the upper classes. Perhaps once they were out of this blasted mess, he’d find out why. “You’ll need help.”

“I’m sure I can manage, madam.” He didn’t delay to make sure she was all right. Using his sleeve to brush the glass shards from the seat, he leaned in to assess what he needed to do. “Can you slide across to the door, signore? It will be easier on your leg that way.”

“I can’t move,” the man moaned, pressing against the far door. When the shift in weight set the carriage rocking, Fergus’s stomach twisted in dread.

Tags: Anna Campbell The Lairds Most Likely Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net