As dawn broke, the sisters were able to discern more of their surroundings. The holes in the roof allowed them a glimpse of the countryside. The lane from which they had fled the night before was visible, and it appeared to be a well-travelled road. A few carriages and horse riders had already passed.
But the heavy black carriage of Lord Harry was nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps, the sisters thought, they could hail down some help from the travellers.
‘Come, we cannot stay here forever. We must try and get some help.’
As they helped each other down, clutching their makeshift weapons, they crept towards the barn door. Heather spotted two riders in the distance. Eager to reach them before they disappeared from sight, she bolted forward.
Alarmed, Grace hissed, ‘Heather, slow down!’
But it was too late.
An ambush.
Turner had been lying in wait near the grass bank. He easily wrestled the weapon from Heather whilst James lifted her over his shoulder with ease.
‘No!’ Grace caught up just as they turned, swinging her hoe with all her strength. The metal head cracked against Turner’s skull with a sickening thud.
He groaned and staggered, but she had already pivoted, striking James across the legs, sending him crashing to his knees and forcing him to release Heather.
A second blow to James's shoulder sent him sprawling.
But before Grace could land a third, Lord Harry caught hold of her from behind.
With brute strength, he wrenched the hoe from her grasp and threw her to the ground.
‘Heather, run!’ she gasped—just before a violent blow to the head plunged her into darkness.
SHE AWOKE IN THE DREADEDblack carriage.
Her skull throbbed viciously, her vision blurred. She tried to move—but couldn’t. Her wrists and ankles were hog-tied, the coarse rope digging into her skin. A tight gag stifled any attempt to scream.
But she was alone.
The carriage rocked violently as it sped at breakneck pace along the road.
Where is Heather? Did she escape?
The thought consumed her, terror rising like bile in her throat. Please, God, let Heather be safe. She could not bear to consider the alternative.
Then—thunderous hoofbeats.
Riders.
Galloping fast. Getting closer.
She tried to shout for help, but the gag turned her cries into muffled whimpers. Hot tears of frustration and fear spilled down her cheeks.
Then—a voice.
A strong, commanding voice.
‘Stop this carriage!’
A voice she would recognise anywhere.
The Duke.
