“Tell them we have nothing,” she cried to the coachman. It was true. She carried no purse, wore no jewellery save the slender ring Sebastian had given her.
“Your Grace, I—” the coachman began, but he broke off with a shout as one of the men stepped directly into the horses’ path. Instinct forced him to halt.
“Halt!” the man barked.
Evelyn shrank beneath the hood of the barouche, trembling. One of the robbers approached, his hat pulled low, his face half concealed by a kerchief. Only his eyes—dark and void of sympathy—were visible.
“Out. Round the back of the coach,” he ordered harshly.
Evelyn cried out, thinking he spoke to her, but he addressed his two companions. He seized the reins while the others circled the coach, checking the interior and boot for concealed weapons. Evelyn sobbed in fear, though the men seemed uninterested in her—for the moment.
“We have nothing!” the coachman protested, voice taut.
Two more men emerged from the dripping hedgerow. The leader raised a pistol.
“If he moves, shoot him,” he told one of them. The man nodded and levelled a weapon at the coachman’s head. Then the leader turned his gun on Evelyn.
“Get out,” he demanded.
Her tears came in a flood she could not stop. She knew remaining in the coach was safer, yet the cold emptiness in the man’s eyes told her he would not hesitate to fire. She tried to rise, but her legs failed her, and she stumbled, nearly spilling from the carriage.
“Get her out,” the leader snapped.
Two men seized her, and she screamed, scrambling to her feet only to half-fall down the steps of the barouche.
“I—I can walk,” she stammered, shivering under the leader’s pitiless stare. She had no doubt he would shoot her or the coachman without hesitation. She bit her lip, trying desperately to stop crying, but her mind was blank—empty of anything but terror.
“She’s coming with us,” the leader told the men. Evelyn gaped in horror.
“No,” she stammered. “No… no, no.”
It was all she could manage—the single word she clung to as her thoughts retreated beyond reason.
“Get over here,” one of the men ordered. When she could not make her body move, he raised a rifle and pointed it at her.
“Get. Over. Here,” he repeated.
Evelyn’s tears streamed. She forced herself to take one step, then another. She wanted to live. And she knew these men could kill her with no more trouble than drawing breath.
When she reached them, a man seized her wrists. She let out a sharp cry and screamed, her stomach twisting violently, nausea overwhelming every instinct but fear.
“No…” she whispered, but the man did not have any immediate harm in mind. He dragged her to a coach and shoved her into it.
“Don’t move,” he warned. He pointed the gun at her. “If you move, then...” he placed his finger on the trigger, keeping the wicked-looking gun pointing at her forehead.
Evelyn moved slowly along the seat of the coach, pushing herself into the corner. The man slammed the door shut and, before she could cry out, a few loud thumps sounded, and the coach set off. The windows, she noticed, were all covered, the merest chink of light showing at the one across from her.
“No!” Evelyn screamed. She pushed at the door, pulled, beat at it, frantic to escape, but it would not budge. She wrapped her arms around herself and sobbed, shaking violently. As the carriage rattled down unseen country paths, she wept until she had no strength left.
“Where are we?” she whispered into the dark, empty interior. The men had not attempted to harm her in any way. Oddly, they had shown some respect for her status—but that offered little comfort.
“Where are we?” she cried again, louder.
No answer came.
Tears spilled anew down her cheeks.
The coach jolted and rattled, and Evelyn pressed close to the window. Through a small gap in the paintwork—or whatever substance obscured the glass—she could see only the faintest impression of the world outside. They were still in the countryside, passing through woodland. Rain streaked down the coach walls, yet the driver urged the horses on at a reckless pace.
