A Reckless Encounter

“I fear you’ve been misinformed if you think that he alone is responsible for my misfortune. There’s the matter of smuggling, you see, avoiding the excise men and revenue cutters that has rather stirred up a fuss. It’s not up to my great-nephew, but to his superior. It will be up to Colter to convince his superior to allow me to leave England. Would that convincing Colter alone be all I need to do…I’m sure that could be accomplished with you as the prize.”

Despair formed a hard, tight knot in the pit of her stomach. Mowry had not seemed the kind of man who would be agreeable to bargains of any kind, not if it meant foiling his own plans or purpose. He would hardly consider her as a strong reason to free a man he wanted to prosecute.

The gig rocked violently to one side and she grabbed at the handstrap to remain upright on the seat. Easton gave a harsh grunt, hauling back on the reins as the gig went into a curve on the road, then rolled smoothly forward again.

Waning light turned the sea gray, easily seen now on the right as they took the coastal road toward Devon. Celia remembered the last time she had come this way, afraid then, too, when Marita had betrayed her to Easton and Sir John.

It seemed that most of her life had been lived in fear of something—fear of the past, fear of the future, fear of failure. Yet, despite it all, she survived.

There was a resilience that she hadn’t realized she possessed until now, and it came to her rescue even when everything else seemed to fail her.

Even if Colter has abandoned me, she thought, then pushed the disloyal idea from her mind.

If she must save herself, then she would. This time Sir John was not there to relent, to take her back to London as he had last time. If she was to escape being put aboard a ship again just to save Easton from a well-deserved fate, she had to do it on her own. With her hands covered by the lap robe, she worked at the velvet sash around her wrists until it loosened and slithered free to the floor. Free!

A glance showed her

that he had his pistol on the seat beside him. To reach it she would have to lean over him. Impossible, of course.

So she waited, watched, and when night fell and the gig went more slowly, the feeble lights flickering with scant illumination to show the rutted road, she reached slowly for the handle of the door. It was outside, so she had to slip her hand over the edge of the door, a cautious movement that required stealth.

Fumbling fingers found the latch, and she sat quietly waiting until just the right moment, until Easton was intent upon the road and the gig slowed enough so that she wouldn’t kill herself with a leap. Ridges lined the road, high and narrow, dropping steeply away in places. In other spots the road dipped into softer terrain. She narrowed her eyes, staring out the window as they pressed onward. Finally she saw a break in the chalky ridge of rock that lined the road.

Spiked heads of club-rushes waved in a brisk wind, indicating soft ground to cushion her fall, seeming in the ghostly light of rising moon and lamp to be beckoning to her as she gathered her nerve.

She saw her chance as the gig slowed to take another curve. Just as Easton lifted the whip to urge the sleek matched bays to a faster pace, she snapped open the latch and flung herself out into empty air.

Even cushioned by brackish water and soft ground, she landed hard, breathless from the impact as she scrambled to her feet. There was no time to look back, no time for anything but flight, and she ran through the muddy sludge toward the rushing sound of the sea. She heard Easton’s angry shouts, but he’d have to leave the gig to pursue her. Surely she could outrun him!

The enveloping cape swirled around her, impeding her movements, and as she ran she undid the braided frog that held it closed, letting it slide free of her shoulders. It billowed out, the rich burgundy like a splash of wine sailing through the air to land in a drift upon the ground.

Holding her skirts high, she fled like a marsh hare, ran as her side began to ache and her breath came in short gasps of air like a blacksmith’s bellows. It was cold, the wind constant, and the hem of her skirts grew wet and heavy. Several times she stumbled and nearly fell, but she pushed herself up and surged forward again, the sense of urgency driving her on until she reached a sandy ridge.

Tussocks of marram grass studded the sand, tripping her as she ran, so that she went sprawling on the dune, tasting grit in her mouth, her hands coated with it as she tried to wipe it from her face. Breathless, aching, she waited and listened, lying under silvery light with waving grasses as graceful as dancers, a whispering sway in the wind.

Around her, it was deserted, desolate, a barren silence save for the careless indifference of nature. When she finally dared look behind her, she saw nothing but empty expanse, heard nothing but the wind.

Above, on the rutted road that led to Dover, Colter saw the stopped gig, heard the angry voice shouting. He slowed his mount and drew the pistol from the waist of his pants.

Easton turned, saw Colter in the light of moon and lamp and blanched, disbelief registering on his face.

“You—how did you get here so quickly?”

Dismounting, Colter approached him with a light, swift tread like that of a stalking cat, the pistol held at the ready.

“Where is she?”

There was a brief silence before Philip shrugged, and said, “I don’t know who you mean. Where is who? You can see I’ve no companion with me.”

Colter stepped sideways to glance inside the gig, saw the wool lap robe on the seat but nothing else to indicate Celia had been with him.

“You’re coming from the direction of Harmony, so I can only assume that you were foolish enough to try to use her against me again. So help me, if you’ve harmed one hair on her head—”

“She was alive, well and quite energetic the last I saw of her,” Philip broke in, and some of his old arrogance returned as he smiled. “I do believe you’ve finally formed an affection for someone, Colter. Convenient, since you married her, I suppose.”

“Yes, quite convenient. Put your hands in the air where I can see them. I don’t trust you not to do something rash and stupid—and I’d much rather see you dangle at the end of a rope than explain how you came to be shot.”

“Hear hear now, no need for unnecessary violence. I’ve no weapon, as you can surely see. Not even a sword, though I would be of little use if I did have one. Never the shot or the blade that you’ve proven to be.”