“I saw someone do it once.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“No, it is not,” Madeline admitted with a flat tone. She refused to dwell on what would happen if she failed. It was true she had seen someone stop a runaway coach. But the coach hadn’t been going as fast as theirs, and it was a team of two, not a team of four. Plus, the man was big, burly, and as strong as an ox.
Madeline shuddered, as Elizabeth had moments before. Cold air brushed against her skin as Elizabeth finished unlacing Madeline’s dress and helped her remove it, rendering Madeline dressed only in her chemise. Her fingers trembled as she drew the back hem of the chemise between her legs and secured it in place with her ribbon belt.
Elizabeth was correct. Madeline was mad to attempt this.
“If I don’t make it…”
Elizabeth pulled Madeline into a tight hug. “You will make it.”
Madeline nodded. “But if I do not,” she repeated, “strap yourself to the seats in any manner possible. If the coach crashes, that might help you survive.”
Madeline eased the door open. Icy wind and snow pushed inside the carriage as though trying to prevent her from leaving. Teeth chattering, she fought against the rising panic and cold and wrapped her arm around the open window’s frame. She took a deep fortifying breath and prayed for courage.
With her free hand, she reached for one of the head irons that crisscrossed the side of the carriage. If she could reach the coach’s step and pull herself up to the bench seat, she had a chance.
The carriage careered around a corner and hit a bump in the road. She lost her grip on the head iron as the door swung open, but she kept her hold on the window sash with one arm, her legs swinging free. Her body slammed against the side of the carriage. Pain exploded across her back as she grabbed the window frame with her other hand.
Elizabeth screamed and reached for Madeline, trying to pull her back into the carriage, but she was too far away to reach.
Hooves thundered over the road as a man raced toward her. Consumed by the shadows of the forest, his face was obscured under a tall hat pulled low over his forehead. The man’s dark greatcoat billowed behind him like the wings of a predatory bird.
“Highwayman.” The dreaded word tumbled over her lips. Fear spiked through her as she tried to retain her hold on the window frame.
The road narrowed and the highwayman was forced to drop behind the coach.
Madeline did not want to consider what would happen if he overtook the carriage. It became imperative that she gain control. She gathered her waning strength and, with great effort, forced her cold hands to grip tighter on the window’s frame. She struggled to find a foothold on the side of the carriage. After a number of failed attempts, she succeeded, and pulled herself onto the driver’s bench.
Her fingers numb from the cold, she searched for the reins as the falling snow turned to icy rain. Between the rain and the lack of light, she had to resort to touch. She felt her way along the driver’s bench and the floor to no avail. The reins must have dropped when the driver was killed. She fought her growing sense of dread.
The carriage buckled, tilted, and sent her sliding… Arms churning, she reached out and grabbed the seat iron and held on for dear life. Breathing heavily, she waited until the carriage righted itself, then pulled herself onto the floor of the driver’s seat.
Pulse racing, she felt defeated. With the reins gone, she was at a loss what to do next. She had heard of men jumping onto the backs of a racing team of horses to grab the reins of the lead horse. Those stories had mixed results. Most of the riders were thrown, or trampled under the horse’s hooves.
But she had to try. She took a deep breath and shook away her fear.
“Stay where you are,” she heard a familiar man’s voice shout.
Her heart soared even as she fought against false hope. The voice sounded like the duke’s, but what if it wasn’t? What if fear clouded her memory?
The road widened, and the man she had thought was a highwayman surged forward, racing past her toward the lead horse. His profile confirmed it was the duke. A sob of relief escaped. He had found her.
She pressed her hand against her lips to stifle another sob as a new fear clutched her heart. He might die trying to stop the runaway carriage.
Keeping pace with the team of horses, he leaned over and jumped onto the back of the lead horse, losing his hat in the process. He rode low over the horse’s head as though speaking to the animal.
Moments dragged. Was it her imagination that the carriage had slowed?
A few more minutes passed, and the carriage rolled to a stop.
When the carriage was fully stopped, the duke jumped from the back of the lead horse, securing it to a tree with rope.
He rushed toward her. “What were you trying to do? Get yourself killed?”
The anger in his voice caught her off guard, evaporating the relief that this was the duke and not a highwayman. “Yes, as a matter of fact, that was exactly my purpose,” she shot back.
