And then it cracked like a pistol.
It was instinct more than rational thought that had Dougal grabbing Meg and pulling her behind his body, just as the spoke shattered and the wheel gave way. The carriage jerked to the side, tilting drunkenly. The coachman cursed as he struggled to contain the spooked horses. The carriage dragged through the road a few feet, then lodged itself firmly. Meg squeaked in surprise.
“’Gor,” the outrider breathed. “You have the devil’s own luck, Your Grace. If you don’t mind me saying.”
“We could have been seriously injured,” Meg said, stunned. If the wheel spoke had shattered like that while they were going too fast, or heaven forbid, going down a steep hill, who knows how many bones they might have broken. Truthfully, they might have died. She stood, eyes wide, hand pressed to her chest. “You saved us.”
“Just lucky,” he said.
“I don’t think so.” She disagreed as the coachmen unhooked the horses, who snorted, annoyed. “I’m glad no one was injured.” She rubbed her arms as though she was chilled.
Fury sparked up his spine. Meg was frightened.
And she might have been killed.
He schooled his expression when the outrider took a nervous step backwards. Meg didn’t seem concerned. “Never mind,” she said briskly, but he could see the faint tremble in her fingers. “All’s well that ends well.”
“We’ll see to the horses,” the coachman assured her. He shook his head. “It’s that sorry, I am. In all my years I’ve never seen a spoke snap like that. The collapse took the axel out too, looks like.”
Anyone at the ball could have been behind it. A guest, a stableboy, a servant. There had been hundreds of people flooding through the grounds.
“I’m sorry for your carriage,” Meg said softly.
She ought to be sorry for the culprit.
Because he knew exactly what had happened to the spoke, if not who did it. He’d seen his share of “accidents” at the mill.
And he knew one thing for certain.
That wheel had been sabotaged.
There was steelbeneath that calm, measured exterior. She’d seen a flash of it when he inspected the wheel. No, not steel, stone. Grounded, true. Easy to miss and just as easy to rely on.
And she knew just what he’d seen to make him still like that. She sent him a wry smile, trying to calm the pounding of her heart which was still convinced they had both been ejected from the carriage and were even now lying in broken pieces in the road.
Dougal’s calm steadiness was eclipsed by a new leashed intensity. It radiated off him, with nearly the same warmth of his arm against hers. The collapse of the carriage had been a surprise, but what continued to send shivers through her wasn’t the near-miss of an accident. It was the way Dougal had shoved her behind his body to protect her. She knew that it was in his nature, he would have done the same for anyone. But for herself, apart from the Cinderellas, she couldn’t think of the last time someone had shown that kind of concern for her. She tucked it inside her ribcage, nestled close to that burning rose. Something to remember when she was an old woman, still a spinster, but one with stories.
“I did warn you about treasure hunters,” she said, her tone mild, masking all sorts of emotions.
“You said historians.”
“Treasure hunters are even worse.”
He looked stunned. “You’re serious.”
“I’m afraid so. Someone at the party wanted to get to your house before you did.”
“You could have been killed.” He didn’t raise his voice but it changed, just enough to send an answering frisson across the back of her neck. Not like the kind of fear leftover from the carriage accident, but a kind of primal awareness, close to fear and yet very different.
Perhaps she’d hit her head and hadn’t realized it yet. She surreptitiously touched her hair. No blood, no pain, only her dependable braid coronet.
“Are you sure you weren’t hurt?” Dougal asked.
She shook her head. “I’m perfectly well.”
They were standing alone in the middle of the road. The coachman and the footman had taken the horses to fetch another carriage. It would take them some time, even if there was an inn nearby. Lady Blackwell was far ahead of them, along with the third carriage packed with belongings and her lady’s maid and Chartreuse’s maid. The dog had his own maid, who saw to his meals and his exercise and baths and carpet cleanings. None of which was particularly helpful at the moment. Still, all of their limbs were intact, and the sun was shining on their heads, taking the crisp out of the early autumn air. Not to mention that the company was both handsome and enjoyable. It wasn’t so bad.
“Shall we walk, Your Grace?” She suggested. He wasn’t acting impatient, but she could tell that he would rather be moving, doing something.