There had been a time when Kit had believed women were the most delicate of creatures. He’d been trained to shield them from life, to handle them with the utmost care. He was over that.
He now philosophized that the feminine sexhad a will of their own, one that rivaled cats. They did what they wanted, when they wanted, and no amount of coaxing or common sense could move them. He didn’t trust cats and he didn’t trust women.
Here he’d been nothing but kindness to this chit and she wanted to bash his brains in.
As he pulled himself up to perch on the coach edgeshe had vacated, his feet dangling in the open doorway, he immediately spied the body on the ground. With grim practicality, he surmised the man was dead. The other coachman probably hadn’t survived either. There were no cries for help.
It was just Kit and the maid.
“What a bloody mess,” he grumbled before looking around. “The horses are gone.”
He was stating an observation, speaking aloud.
The maid’s voice came from a different point than before, another side of the coach as if she hid from him. “The front of the coach is destroyed. The singletree is smashed. They must have bolted. Who knows where they are now?”
She wasIrish.
The realization was a surprise, although Kit didn’t know why it should be. Many households had Irish servants. He liked her accent. It gave her report of desperation and mayhem a musical lilt. He could appreciate that—
A wave of dizziness washed over him. Hepaused, placed a hand on the side of the coach to hold himself steady, waiting for it to subside.
“Is something the matter?” she asked. Her voice came from the right front of the coach now. Apparently, she was circling him as if on the prowl.
He grunted a response.
Her head popped up again by the boot.“Are you all right?”She sounded frantic.
He was tempted to make a sarcastic response about worrying about him after her attempt at clubbing him. Unfortunately, he suspected she would rattle on to justify her contradictions. That is what women did. “Haven’t been better.”
His words sounded garbled even to his own ears. Wanting to prove his point, he pulled his legs out of the coach, thankful they still worked. Well, his ribs weren’t happy, but he could live with that. A man needed his legs more than ribs.
As if deciding to offer a benediction upon them, rapidly moving clouds parted to reveal the last of a setting sun. Now Kit had a full view of the destruction around them. He was shocked they were still alive. It was as if the seats in the coach had protected them.
“The Mail Guard is behind us,” the maid said. This time, her voice came from the back corner of the coach. She paused, hummed a moment, and then whispered, “He is very still.”
“Oh, he’s dead,” Kit said, sounding a touch cheerier than the occasion warranted. “And willyou stay in one place? You are as annoying as a black fly the way you buzz here and there.”
She climbed onto her perch by the boot again, her expression a fierce scowl. “We have a crashed coach, we have dead people, andI’mannoying?”
“More than a little,” he assured her. Kit slid down off the broken vehicle. He landed heavily in the mud but kept his balance. Still, hisknees.
Leaning against the coach, she watched him warily. She looked like some specter in her long black cloak. She stood on a broken plank of wood from the boot and appeared drenched to the skin. Her hood had fallen back and her hair was plastered to her head. He probably didn’t look any better.
Having firm earth beneath his boots seemed to help his equilibrium. The dizziness stopped. He walked to where the driver lay. His boots squished into the mud. Water seeped into the seams. He wished he didn’t have a hole in one of his socks. Right over the big toe of his left foot, and then he silently laughed. Some duke he was. There had been a time when his valet would have never allowed even so much as a stray thread to mar his sleeve.
“You have blood running down the side of your face,” she offered.
He waved off her concern.
Along the heavy forest lining the road, a hint of fog was starting to rise like wraiths from the ground. Kit was also certain the rain wasn’t finished. The distant rolling thunder bothered him. It sounded as if it was moving toward them. There wouldn’t be much time to do what needed to be done.
He knelt to inspect the body. The driver’s neck was broken.
The other was just as dead, although Kit couldn’t tell from this distance the exact cause, and he really didn’t care.
“What can we do for them?” she asked.
Kit scowled. “Do?” He shook his head. Did she think they could return to life? Women. So impractical. “Say a prayer,” he answered and lifted the driver. Kit’s ribs on his right side complained, but not as sharply as he had first feared. Possibly, they were just bruised. He would manage. He settled the body over his shoulders and walked to the coach.
