20. Rambler for the Victory

20

RAMBLER FOR THE VICTORY

"Come on, girl," Leo encouraged, "just a bit more speed…"

They made better time now than they had after just starting out. The farther northwest they'd come, the dryer the roads, the storm saturated roadways south and east of here not stretching this far.

His horse had already done a good day's work, but the dig of Leo's heels in her flanks prodded for even more. Two changes, and still he had not caught up with the stage, and now they had fresh horses— again , Loughborough being several miles behind him.

He could have switched Nelson Rambler out as well, but couldn't imagine trying to learn another steed, not when he and this one were so attuned. Not when more than half his attention raced far ahead, along with the coach.

What do you think you are doing? What do you expect to say to her? Are you even assured she did not leave the stage at that last inn, the one you charged from after your single query was met with a negative shake from a young groom: "Did a young woman exit the stage that just came through? A black-haired lass?"

What was he doing?

Doubts grew the further through the Midlands they charged—without success. He really had naught to offer... Busted wattles, a somewhat broken naval career (albeit, with some decent prize monies earned), attitude and air of command that obviously hadn't done near what it needed to this morning, with her.

Quit whinging! You abandoned Reaver to come after this woman; you would not have done that did you not anticipate some sort of future beyond today.

True. What that future might look like, he wasn't yet quite sure, but he couldn't imagine dropping the astonishing hours they had shared together into the abyss of nothing.

There! Dust on the horizon. Not a significant amount, but as he'd gained miles and the ground had firmed, even Nelson's hooves kicked up a bit. What's more, a single rider couldn't account for what he saw.

"Up ahead, girl. Come on, Nelson Rambler." She knew; when he used her full name, she knew. As though wings lifted her belly, propelled her long, strong legs, his trusty prancer bolted forward.

The thunder of hooves shouldn't have breached Thias's awareness, focused on the ragabash as he was, but they did, followed by one impressive bellow…

"Susanna!"

"What ho?" The big man chortled. "Highwayman?" It jarred him when Harold Harrell spoke. For the man had been unusually quiet since they'd left Loughborough. "Should we expect a ‘Stand and deliver!' next?"

"Susanna!"

" Yours? " he mouthed at the female.

Eyes wide, frightened before the bellow, now closed in relief. A tiny nod.

"You're mine tonight , bitch, before I hand ya over. I'll be hanged before I let you 'scape again…"

Whatever else the cull might have threatened was drowned beneath the coachman's snap of the whip and cries of, "Move, ye bastard! Got time to keep."

"As if your schedule hasn't already gone to h—" Hell and torments! "Ah, smithereens this week," Thias murmured, barely catching himself in time. My, this holiday must have agreed with you, likely too much, if you're ready to begin swearing this close to home.

What he was ready for, given the look of terror that had so briefly filled the female's gaze once the royster started pawing her, was to rip the man off her and pound some sense into the brute.

"Halt! Susanna!"

Yea, in heart you work wickedness; you weigh the violence of your hands in the earth.

Nay. David had it wrong in that Psalm, at least where Thias was concerned today. Not wickedness, righteousness . Against evil. And the violence of his hands? The crick-crack of his knuckles proved audible.

"Halt, I say!" Thias shouted above the melee of horses, adding his voice to the other. Yelling until he felt the horses' gait hitch. "Halt the coach!"

Oh? And what happens when you arrive Sunday with torn, bruised knuckles?

He gave a grunt of satisfaction. For would that not take care of at least one third of his female congregation? The ones determined to marry him off to females in their family?

If they concluded their humble vicar had rough secrets of his own?

"Susanna!"

The roar was closer now, and before the stage had juddered to a complete stop, the narrow door burst outward.

Therefore now let your hands be strengthened, and be ye valiant… The words of Samuel came to his rescue as the lady, Susanna he now knew, was rescued by her man.

"Susanna!"

Leo urged Rambler forward. Alongside the clipping coach.

Wind whipped against his face, flapped his coat out behind him.

"Halt!"

The coachman saw him. Scowled. Yelled something. But only pushed his team faster.

Nay. Not having it.

Leo's thighs tightened, heels knocked Rambler's sides, and with a burst of speed he'd owe his equine lady for the rest of her life, they overtook the team that had begun to falter.

Galloping across the road, in front of the coach, flustered the reined horses further.

"Halt!" He gave the order from the scary position of facing down a galloping team, but determination was on his side.

And a bit of foolhardiness, too?

Though Rambler strained against him at the coming onslaught, he made a nuisance of himself, confusing the horses and irking the driver until, finally, the coachman pulled on the ribbons, his lips moving and jaws flapping in unheard shouts.

Leo leapt from his horse while her hooves were still flying. Stumbled at the jarring thump that bounded up his legs. Flinging his gloves to the ground—because he needed to touch her skin-to-skin—he raced for the side of the coach andtore the door open. "Susanna!"

It had to be the right coach. It had to! He hadn't passed another this way.

Had to be?—

The dark interior swam before his sun-drenched gaze. His body vibrated from the mad dash, the miles covered with little rest for either Nelson Rambler or himself.

The stage had come to a lurching stop beneath the canopy of a large tree, casting everything in shadows. After the glare of the last miles, his vision swam with spots. But he narrowed on his goal: liberating his woman from the stage.

"Susanna." 'Twas a low rumble, a growl this time, as he blinked into the darkness and thrust his upper body inside, past the squawking (red-faced, lips-a-blur) whinger taking up more than half the coach, to converge every ounce of his attention on the opposite corner where his black-haired, dirty-bonneted sweetheart was doing two very different things...

One that filled him with pure contentment: beaming him a smile of welcome that reached her eyes. And another that brought forth more rage than he'd felt since seeing one of his men needlessly dirked through the heart by footpads while on shore leave: fighting the white-knuckled hold of the pitted-faced nasty clutching her to him. Preventing her from moving.

One of Bowyer's worms, part of the filth fouling the inn last eve.

Leo didn't see red. Nor black. Nor any other color. Fury didn't screech through his head, blaring in his mind. His garret didn't instantly debate options and outcomes.

Nay, he simply reached forth and plucked her to him. Straightened, cradled her against his chest, and hauled them both free of the contraption.

His booted feet walked backward, the rest of him benumbed, stupefied by how she petted him, ran ungloved fingers over his head, hair, face, chest…

He inhaled her sweet, sweet scent and strove to calm the panicked cacophony that had made a bunk in his chest the last hours since she'd left.

He knew she spoke, the murmurings warm against his sternum. Knew she welcomed his presence, and that told him all he needed at the moment.

Relief. She would listen. He could apologize. He could tell her the thoughts he'd had for them, for a future together.

"Forgive me," Leo said the moment they were alone, after tugging her toward his horse. Hands to her shoulders, he set her away from him, so he could see her lips. " Portsmouth. We thought they would all be heading south. Never occurred to me one of them might be on your stage, else I would not have let you leave?—"

"You cannot, can-not blame yourself. I did not really…a…" As though catching herself rattling faster, she took a hearty breath and spoke again, slower. "Gave you no choice, fleeing as I did."

"Susanna. I apologize. I never should have read?—"

She interrupted, said something, but he knew not what, as she had plastered herself against him again, arms about his waist, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt beneath his coat, as her warm breath "spoke" against his front.

She still had no cloak. No gloves.

And the sun might be shining now, but it was closer to the end of December than the middle. Seeing her bare hands when he pulled her arms from their clutch at his back, so he could read her face, her words…seeing the fragile, pale fingers cradled within the darker-hued nicked-up callus of his did something to his middle. He wanted those delicate fingers on his stomach, gliding up his chest, curving over his shoulders as he?—

Leo cleared his throat, thick with all he wanted to say, needed to express, and met her gaze.

"I am pleased you are here," she said upon the instant. "Pleased you came for me." The flush on her cheeks said so much more.

The thickness hadn't receded, so he cleared his throat again. "Now isn't the time to say everything that is required. Will you come with me and Rambler? Allow me to escort you from here?"

A single nod.

"And I have something for you. Your little box? The wooden one you stored your letters and pencils in? It's in my saddlebags. I found that and one—one only one , mind—of my socks in the carriage after you left." She smiled at him, some of that alluring mischievous he'd noticed coming to the fore, but he knew better than to let her distract him. This was too important. "Your letters," he said with every bit of solemnness he could voice, "the ones I will never dare read again."

But she was shaking her head. "Nay…the quickest…you to know me. To hear me." She bit her lip, looked down, then braved catching his gaze again. "Other than running out without listening to you, I wouldn't change a moment since we met." And to make sure he "heard", she repeated it twice, pronouncing her words with care.

He grunted. "I would change things. For one, I would have put you on a stage with naught but angels for company."

She laughed at that. "I don't know… …bit of devil, devil-ish-ness in this man just met…find quite intriguing. In-trig-gee-ing." Her sweet mouth contorted on the last bit, ensuring he saw every minuscule pronunciation. "You, should there ex-sist, exist any doubt."

"Come now, before delivering you safely to your brother's, I would see you fed, gloves and cloak purchased, your dress washed, if not replaced—a new bonnet if we are fortunate enough to make the next village before the mercantile closes, then see you fed again."

"And I would see you—all of you"—the way she swept her gaze over him left little doubt of her words—"by candlelight"—here, she mimicked the lighting of one—"if you will let me."

Even Leo could hear the growl that emerged from his throat at that brazen promise.

But before he could savor the peaceful, exhilarated feelings stealing over him, chaos erupted.

A howl behind her was the only warning Susanna had before Leo pushed her from his embrace and thrust her behind him. He crouched slightly, steady on his feet, as they watched the two grappling combatants roll in the dirt just beyond the coach.

The vicar had both hands clamped around the loutish oaf's knife-wielding arm, keeping the blade aloft—and not embedded in his chest.

But it was a struggle. Both men straining against the other.

"Mr. Trumbull!" Her cry was instinctive.

Before she knew what he was about, Leo launched himself into the fray. It didn't take her frantic screams to tell him friend from foe. He already knew, taking hold of the back of the scourgemutton and flinging him a body's length hence. Mr. Trumbull popped to his feet, his brief "Thanks" to Leo going unheeded, unheard.

The other man rolled, came upright brandishing his knife, an evil grin splitting his ugly features. "Ye both want a taste? Come on, now…"

He motioned first toward Leo, and then the vicar. Inviting them forth, waving that chive between them. Boasting of his prowess, he tossed it from one palm to the other. Catching it every time. But the action was reckless.

Because Leo had been watching. 'Twas but an instant before he palmed his penknife, the one that had so carefully sharpened her pencil last eve. He had it opened and tossed before she could blink.

It landed in the fleshy part of the joint betwixt the villain's arm and shoulder, of his primary hand. Another howl, this one of surprise and pain, as his weapon—instead of being caught at the end of the arc, skidded to the ground.

"That's enough of that! All of ye!" The coachman, boasting his whip, snapped it down mere inches from the cull who would have retrieved his chive. Behind him, the horses stamped, snorted. "All of ye have made my day of shite e'en worse!"

He aimed the handle of his whip toward the vicar, and his words lost some of their angered informality. "You! Get back inside if you want to finish your journey. You!" The biting, tail portion of the whip came down against the coated arm of the fiend as soon as he bent toward the fallen blade. "Leave that. Be gone with you now!"

"And you!" This to her. "No refunding on unused tickets!"

"No need," she trilled, more than happy to be quit of the stage. She hustled to Leo, put her arms around his back, and held his heaving form against her front as she scuttled them both backward. His breath was loud. All of theirs were, her ears more aware since she knew she was hearing things he could not, and never would.

While the coachman stood guard, snapping the whip a second time—near the oaf's head—when the other man didn't move fast enough, Mr. Trumbull came to stand in front of Leo. "You have her now, good. Miss?" He leaned to the side to capture her gaze. "This is what you want? To leave with him?"

"Absolutely. Thank you for your assistance."

"And you shall be safe?"

"I will. With him, aye." She couldn't stop her lips from kissing the broad back in front of her.

With a single nod, the vicar held his hand out to Leo. "Thank you. I should not admit that I enjoyed that, but I did." A quick angle of his head indicated the fight they'd all witnessed. "Although, before you joined in, it did get more perilous than one might have wished."

She could only imagine how frustrating this must be for Leo, not having much of an inkling what the vicar said. He didn't know to speak slowly, carefully. But Susanna had a good ear and an even better memory. With one hand at Leo's waist, the other at his opposite shoulder, she gave him a quick, two-handed hug, hoping it conveyed her meaning. All is fine. All is well. I will sh are what he said later. Shake his ? —

As though he heard her, Leo did; clasped the other man's hand in his and gave a hearty shake, the two of them grinning at each other in accord, comrades after vanquishing a common adversary.