She probably was some farmer’s wife or daughter or even a maid. What the devil, she could have been a nun. Cloaked from head to toe, she’d burrowed herself into a corner as far away from him as she could even though he had rescued her from the damn bastard who had been driving the coach.
Yes, she had thanked him, but in a wee voice as if he frightened her more than the lecher. Wasn’t that the way it always was?
To be honest, Kit knew he wasn’t a hero. He hadn’t interfered because the coachman was vulgar.Allcoachmen were vulgar. Come to think of it, men were vulgar. Kit had even been vulgar more than he cared to admit.
No, he had stepped in because he was bloody tired of bastards and no longer in the mood to look the other way. The chit had the right to go wherever she wished without having to worry about rape.
Should she be under the protection of menfolk? Absolutely, but she wasn’t.
So, he’d ordered her into the coach, closed the door, and grabbed the driver by the neck until the man had changed his mind about charging her extra fare. It was a simple meeting of the minds. Far from a ducal action, but vastly more effective.
Come to think on it, Christopher the duke wouldn’t have even noticed a coachman making a foul suggestion to an innocent... so maybe Kitwasbecoming a better man?
Doubtful.
Especially if the bellwether was his antics over the last month. He was exhausted. He had those bastards from Moorcock hunting him and a host of regrets and fears he couldn’t seem to shake. He’d been ready for a fight this afternoon. The coachman had provided it.
Afterwards, he’d climbed into the vehicle, ignored the chit staring at him as if he was Beelzebub, and tried to sleep despite the splashes of rain flying in his face around the edges of the window flap.
Then they had crashed.
Kit remembered the woman landing against him. He’d wrapped his arms around her, as much for his sake as hers. The weight of two bodies might manage to keep them from being thrown from the vehicle. He’d had no desire to see his neck broken.
Apparently, his plan had worked. His neck was fine, but here he was, stuck between the seats of the coach, half on his back and half on his side. The floor was wet with rain and, he imagined, the filth from who knew how many passengers.
That thought alone served as impetus to right himself.
Putting his weight on one hand, he pushed and freed his other arm. Awkwardly, he tried to unwedge himself, his ribs complaining sharply with even the smallest movement... but he could breathe. That was something.
He reached up for a handhold. His fingers found a dangling object, and he wrapped them around it.
At first, there was give, and then the thing pulled back. He gripped harder.
“Let go, let go.What are you doing?” a cross female voice said. That is when he realized he held the chit’s ankle.
Good to know she was alive, too—but where was she?
He released his hold, and the leg disappeared throughthe door of the coach. The vehicle rested on its side. Of course. Now he understood the lay of it.
She had been sitting in the open doorway. He’d been so caught up in his own thoughts, he’d been oblivious to what was over his head. He heard her body scramble across the side of the coach, and then a sound, as if a weight had dropped to the ground, followed by a feminine “Oompf.”
Kit found his footing and stood. His height meant his head and shoulders poked out the open doorway.No bones broken—well, perhaps a rib, he thought triumphantly.
Soft, misty rain struck his face. Thunder rumbled in the distance. He removed his glove and pressed the back of his left hand against his temple. The stickinesswasblood. He had a cut, but he no longer felt disoriented. Instead, he had an urge to curse his present circumstances—which he did fluently and with great gusto. So much for adventure.
And then he realized he didn’t hear sounds. Not from the horses, or the guardsman and driver, or the maid.
Where in Hades’s name had she gone? Or was she on the ground with something broken? Had that “oompf” meant she was in trouble?
The concern gave him strength. He gripped the edges of the door and started to heave himself up and out when something hard and wet stirred the air around his head. Instinct helped him duck back down in the coach just in time, saving him from having his head lopped off.
He poked his head up again. “What are you doing?”
“Protecting myself.” The maid sounded desperate. She was standing near the boot of the coach, on a step or something. She held the dark shape of a broken branch up as if ready to swing at him again.
Fortunately, his arms were longer. He snatched her awkward club out of her hand and threw it to the other side of the coach. “You don’t need protection from me,” he answered. “I’m in the middle of this like you are.”
She made an exclamation of alarm before jumping from her perch and out of his view.
