“I was hoping,” Netta began, “to bring about a reconciliation between you and your grandmother, but I see now that it isn’t my place. You and she must make amends in your own time.”
He handed her into the carriage and followed her up. “There is no reconciliation to be had.”
She sighed. “You Chaucer men sure do hold grudges.” He glared at her, and she quickly added, “Not that this one wasn’t earned, of course. But people do change.”
“Are you friends now? With that woman?” Outrage dripped from his voice. Netta had thrown him many a turn, but truly, this was too much.
She shifted to sit beside him on the opposite bench. Laying her palm on his knee, she squeezed. “My relationship to her was purely mercenary, to facilitate an accord between you two. I think it would do you good.” She leaned into him. “You were my only concern.”
Slightly mollified, he brushed a smudge of dirt off his sleeve. “Let’s keep it that way.”
She rested her head on his shoulder. “As you wish.”
Since she was being so accommodating, he asked, “About last night—”
The carriage hit a bump, shifted, and a loud curse emanated from the driver’s seat, followed closely by a bellow.
“Nigel?” Or was it Michael driving them tonight? He’d been in such a rush to see Netta he’d barely spared his driver a glance. “Anything the matter?”
The crack of a whip was his only reply, and the carriage lurched forwards, tossing John back into his seat. “What the hell?” He yanked the window down. A faint yell drew his attention back the way they’d come. Nigel ran after them, yelling and waving his arms, his limping steps falling farther and farther behind from the racing carriage.
“What’s happening?” Netta yanked on his sleeve, demanding his attention.
“I believe we’re being kidnapped.” The absolute brass of the villain. John wasn’t involved in any mission for the Crown. He’d sent Sudworth a note saying he had the document from the Dutch embassy, so that man should be happy. Who could possibly be on his carriage?
“What?!” Netta’s eyes went wide.
John peeled out of his jacket. “Stay here. I’ll sort it out.” Pulling his knife from his boot, he slid it into his waistband and opened the door.
Netta grabbed his hand, her grip as hard as steel. “You can’t climb out of a moving carriage.”
“Better than allowing the man to take us to his destination.” He pressed a hard kiss to her mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ve had practice at this.” And peeling her fingers from his own, he stood from the door and grabbed the rail on the top of the carriage.
The dark form holding the reins presented him with no identification. With a shiver of excitement, John wedged the toe of his boot at the window and slid his body to the roof. It had been too long since he’d seen this kind of action. He almost wanted to thank the poor bounder. Of course, he was attempting to kidnap Netta, too, and for that he must be put in some pain.
It wasn’t hard to remain unheard as he crawled forward. The pounding of the horses’ hooves on cobblestone, the creak of the wheels as they were pushed to their limits, all worked to drown out his approach.
He balanced on the board above the driver’s seat and pressed his blade to the man’s throat. “Stop.”
The kidnapper did as he said, a little too well. He yanked back on the reins, the horses’ hooves skittering as they slammed to a stop, and John toppled over the man’s shoulder landing at his feet.
The man’s face was clear in the street lights as he pulled a pistol from his pocket and leveled it at John. With an insolent grin, he slapped the horses back into motion and their wild careen down the streets of London began again.
John cursed. What a pathetic performance. Perhaps Liverpool was right to put him out to pasture. The carriage turned, rising up onto two wheels. The streets became narrower, less populated, and John recognized the direction they were headed.
The docks.
Where he or Netta could be spirited away with no one the wiser.
Enough of this nonsense. He rolled to his side. into the driver, presenting a smaller target. He whipped his blade around and slashed the back of the man’s ankle, pressing hard to cut through the thin leather of his boot.
An unholy shriek told him that he’d managed to strike his target. The blackguard dropped both pistol and reins to clutch at his wound.
John lunged for the reins, but they slipped between the horses, dragging on the road.
Unfettered, the horses picked up speed. The sound of a wheel cracking sliced through the air, and the rough bounce of the ride became even harder. The horses turned, narrowly missing a sailor who shouted obscenities after them.
John ignored him, focusing on the slight glimmer ahead. “Fuck!” Bracing his palm on the seat, he kicked the driver off the carriage, eliminating one distraction. He needed to stop the carriage. Now. That instant. He leapt forward, landing hard on one of the horse’s backs. Sliding sideways, he grabbed for a harness and hauled himself upright. “Whoa!” He pulled on the mane in front of him with one hand while scrabbling for the reins with the other. “Whoa!”
