Practice to Deceive (43 page)

“I—I will that, sir. I'll bring her to you … I do swear.”

“Now!”

Again the poor horses were wrenched back. Again, the carriage rocked and lurched. The coachman became a Flying Dutchman indeed as he leapt into and annihilated a tall clump of shrubs.

The carriage rolled on. Quentin shouted, “Get on! Giddap! Giddap!” slapping the reins against the foam-streaked backs of the team. After a minute he glanced behind. The troopers had re-formed and were coming up fast. He grabbed the whip and sent it swinging out to crack loudly over the heads of the horses. It was the last straw. They took the bits between their teeth and bolted. The carriage flew. Quentin braced his feet and prayed. The lane swung in a wide left curve through the trees and as they came out onto the straight-of-way again, he saw a hump-backed bridge looming ahead. He thought tensely, ‘Only a few miles to go.' But then he realized that Holt must know this road, and had done exactly as he himself would have done in like circumstances. A trooper had been sent through the trees to cut him off, and now rode in from the side, musket levelled. The coach roared past, heading for the bridge. Quentin ducked as the trooper's musket belched flame. There was a shattering crack. One of the horses screamed and staggered as they thundered on to the bridge. The carriage leapt crazily into the air. Quentin was hurled from the box. He had a brief impression of slowly spinning trees and sky. He was falling. Something dark and big was coming down over him. Water glittered and a tree loomed up, a stone wall beyond it. Instinctively, he threw out his arms to protect himself. A violent impact brought pain that was too intense to be borne and wiped everything into emptiness.…

*   *   *

It was hours now. Hours of prayer and pleading and nightmare imaginings. And still he did not come. Penelope's tears seemed to have dried up with her hopes. She stood at last, and brushed mechanically at her skirts. A small rabbit, who had watched her for some time, made no attempt to run, but crouched there, its long whiskers twitching, its bright eyes fixed on her. Almost, she thought dully, as though it could feel her despair and was staying to keep her company. She took up her reticule. Her little hand mirror was smashed, but there were two large pieces left and, by resting them side by side in the crook of a branch, she was able to see herself. She was shocked, not by her mud-streaked face, swollen eyes, and dishevelled hair, but by the dull hopelessness of her expression; as though the light of life within her had been turned out and she was already dead.

“Mrs. Chandler—have I chanced to mention that I love you…?” The words were so clear that she could almost hear them, almost see the worship in the fine green eyes, the half-smile on the beautifully shaped mouth. Mrs. Chandler … A widow, perhaps, before she was legally a wife. She lifted her hand. The dragon ring gleamed in the sunlight, and pausing to touch it tenderly, she marvelled again that despite her falls it had somehow stayed on her finger. Her shoulders stiffened. What would her dear husband think of her now? He once had called her a valiant lady—she was not being very valiant at this moment. She began to tidy her hair as best she might, and to wipe the mud from her face. Quentin would have been here by now, had he been able to get away from the soldiers, but he'd said that if he was delayed she must make her way to Lac Brillant. It
was
possible, surely, that he had been driven so far out of his way that he dared not swing back for her? It
was
possible that he was now making a desperate attempt to get closer to Lac Brillant, even if he would not dare go directly there with the troopers hot on his heels. If he was able to escape, eventually he would seek her there. There was no point in waiting here any longer. Somehow, she must make her way to Lac Brillant.

The rabbit hopped unhurriedly away when she began to search about for her cap. She found the lace-edged patch of silk hanging on a lupin and carefully restored it to her curls. At least it gave her some slight aura of respectability. She removed twigs from her shawl and draped the torn silk across her shoulders. There was a large rent in the hem of her gown and the muslin was rumpled and muddy. She tidied it as best she could and made her way back to the road.

She walked along slowly at first, then more rapidly, her mind busying itself with the invention of a plausible explanation for her plight, in case some Good Samaritan might drive by and rescue her. But she realized with a faint sense of shock at her own stupidity that she must not walk so openly beside the road. The troopers might come up behind her long before she heard them, and they'd have no doubts as to what had befallen her especially if the terrible Captain Holt was with them. A fine thing it would be if dear Quentin made good his escape and she was taken purely through carelessness! She turned off the deserted road and began to walk parallel to it, through the trees, finding the going tiresome in the extreme, her skirts catching on the undergrowth and the thin soles of her half-boots seeming to find every pebble however carefully she tried to avoid them.

On and on she trudged. The afternoon was waning, but the sun was still hot and the hooped skirts and constricting corsets she wore added to her discomfort. These miseries were felt, but relegated to a distant part of her mind, most of her concentration fixed upon Quentin and where—and how—he might be at this moment.

*   *   *

Quentin's return to consciousness was as puzzling as it was painful. He was lying down and yet he could see water some distance below him, and a grey rock marked by vivid red splashes was directly beneath his gaze. He was most uncomfortable, and when he moved he discovered miserably that he seemed to be one large bruise. Not until his hand came within the field of his vision did he comprehend that he was draped ignominiously over the branch of a tree and that the slowly spreading stain on the rock was dripping from his own fingertips.

That shock brought full recollection. He must only have been unconscious a very few minutes, for he could hear soldiers grumbling and, lifting his head, saw them scrambling down the banks in search of him. He began to drag himself up, a more difficult task than he'd imagined, and one that must be accomplished as swiftly and silently as possible, if the troopers were not to discover the source of the stains on the rock. Moving with desperate caution, he managed to straddle the branch and rest his back against the tree trunk. He was enormously relieved to find that his sword had not been torn off when he'd crashed through the branches, and that the panel concealing the cypher was intact.

The troopers were coming closer. He wrapped the skirts of his coat around his hurt arm and tightened the folds, cursing with soft and anguished fluency as he tried to restrict the bleeding. He'd obviously reopened the wound when he'd zoomed through the tree, but a glance to the side told him he'd been very lucky. The stone arch that supported the approach to the bridge was scant feet away. If he'd smashed into
it
instead of the branches, his problems would have been permanently settled.

The troopers were investigating the wreck of the coach, which lay on its side half in and half out of the stream. They were also indulging in a low-voiced and extremely profane assessment of the probable ancestry of their Captain. Quentin was in full accord with their opinions; he was also aware that at any instant one of them might look up and see him, and he was very relieved when a noisy commotion arose in the nearby woods. Startled birds were shooting up with a great outcry, probably flushed by some wild creature, but convincing the soldiers their quarry had blundered that way. With much excited hallooing they all went tearing off.

Quentin lost no time in descending the tree and hobbling stiffly toward the east. After a while, there being no sound of pursuit, he paused beside a quiet pool and, kneeling to drink, beheld his reflected face so covered with welts and scratches that it was a miracle his eyes had escaped injury. Apart from his many bruises and the damage to his arm, a raw scrape across his left knee was his only other injury. Trifling annoyances compared to what might have befallen him. Congratulating himself on his narrow escape, he was startled to hear distant shouts and the noisy approach of horses. He made a run for it, but they gained rapidly. He plunged into the most densely overgrown areas where it would be difficult for a horseman to follow. It soon became obvious that the soldiers had also abandoned their mounts and were again closing the gap. Holt, thought Quentin, being the efficient officer that he was, had no doubt sent a man on ahead so that the net could be spread beyond the forest to snare him should he get through. His one hope was that they would expect him to aim south, whereas his way lay eastward. He dared not continue in that direction, however. Penny would certainly know his destination when she saw the name on the signpost, and he had no intention of leading this curst pack to his love.

And so he ran where they expected him to run, making no attempt now to cover his tracks, refusing to slow his pace until he was staggering with exhaustion and so light-headed that he knew he was cutting things too fine. He must change direction, or he would be too far spent to complete his mission.

He took to the trees again, struggling to quiet his sobbing breathing as they came into view; shocked because they'd been so close behind him. Again, he was spared. They ran past without a pause and the sounds of their progress faded into the distance. Down he clambered, and set off at a steadier pace towards the northeast, taking care this time that he left no telltale splotches of blood to betray him.

The sun was low in the sky and he was parched with thirst when he came to a hurrying stream. He plunged gratefully into the deliciously cold water, drinking with the restraint that experience had taught him was vital, and bathing the wound in his arm that had once more become an unremitting agony. It came to him rather dimly that he must do more. He went back onto the bank and risked the time it took to struggle out of coat and shirt. With his teeth and his left hand, he managed to tear off the left shirt sleeve. His handkerchief served for a pad, and he bound it tightly over the wound. His efforts to tie a knot sent him to his knees, but he fought off the faintness and after a short rest managed a bulky knot to keep his awkward bandage in place. Scanning the result, he was reminded of Penelope's gentle and competent hands. “You'd take a very dim view of this botch, love,” he said wryly, then checked, his head jerking up in panic as he heard the sounds of pursuit once more.

Cursing, he struggled into his shirt and coat, then began to run. The faster he ran, the hotter and more breathless he became, and the more consuming was his dread of capture. Soon he had only two thoughts: firstly that he dare not slacken his pace, and secondly that he must keep the sun ever behind him. He ran on madly, until every breath sent a flame through his lungs and a sword into his side. He was reeling and spent and half-blind when he wavered through thinning woods in the heat of the waning afternoon. He saw blurrily that a great oak loomed against the golden skies and that there was a lightness beyond it. Drawing in great rasping gasps that seemed to tear his lungs to shreds, he staggered to the old tree and clung to it, soaked with sweat, consumed by an overwhelming need to lie down—to be done with the whole damnable business and let Jacob Holt haul him wheresoever he would.

His knees gave out under him. He crumpled and slid down the rough bark. They were all about him, but they would give him some water … surely, they would at least let him quench this hellish thirst…?

“Come on … then,” he croaked. “Damn you, Holt … come on!” And he sank to his face and sprawled there, beyond caring.

*   *   *

Penelope's heart gave a leap of hope when she heard hooves approaching, but the vehicle that came into view was heading west, and of such dilapidated appearance that she would not have dared accept a ride, even had one been offered. The narrow road wound on and on. At length she turned a rather sharper bend and saw a bridge ahead, and the rippling sparkle of sunlight on water. In anticipation of a cold wet handkerchief against her heated face, she hastened her steps, only to check, appalled. A dead horse lay beside the road, and one side of the stone bridge had been smashed away along the top. Frantic with fear she ran up the curve of the old structure and peered over the damaged wall. Below, resting half in the stream and half on the bank, lay a carriage, one wheel gone, and the water lapping softly at its crushed side.

The scene swam before Penelope's staring eyes. She clutched the ragged stones and dazedly became aware that she was whispering “Dear God … Dear God…” over and over again. She made herself stop, and only then did she hear someone calling softly, “Miss Penny … he ain't here. Miss Penny!”

Her heart leaping, she scanned the scene again. “Dutch…? Is that you? Where are you?”

“Down here, miss. Under the bridge.”

She ran swiftly down the far side of the bridge and clambered around the bank. Dutch Coachman, his coat and shirt lying nearby, had been attempting to bathe a deep wound across his side. With a cry of mingled relief and sympathy, she ran to grasp his outstretched hand. “Oh, I am so
glad
to see you! Let me help.”

“It ain't nothing much, miss,” he said apologetically. “Just sorta knocked me sideways as yer might say.”

She could have kissed his pale, rugged face, and she made him sit down on the bank while she cleansed and bound the ugly gash, using a strip torn from one of her petticoats for a makeshift bandage, and assuring him that she herself had suffered nothing more than a few bruises. “Never mind me. Please tell me what happened to Major Chandler.”

He told her as much as he knew. “I must've been struck silly arter I jumped off the coach, Miss Penny. Master Quentin had begged me to go back and help you, and I thought I was going the right way till I come to the bridge. All I could think of then was to find if he was here.” His eyes slid away from hers. He went on awkwardly, “And he ain't. Either the troopers got him, or—” He paused, biting his lip.