Chapter 8

8

The carriage rattledand shook on the cobblestones. Emma stuck her head out of the window and looked behind them. Fashionable, grand Mayfair row houses on either side of the road appeared in the light of the gas lamps, then sank into darkness.

A carriage followed behind them, old and shabby.

She thought she’d seen it move out of the shadows in Burlington Square the moment Jack drove out of Longton Place.

They drove for several more minutes. Emma checked again, and the carriage was still there. In fact, it got closer and closer. Uneasiness churned in her stomach.

The next time she turned, the carriage was closer still. In moments, it was so close she could smell their horses and see an eye patch on the coachman’s scarred face. His good eye looked straight at her.

Who could this be? No respectable coachman would come so close. Were they robbers, thinking her a duchess and hoping they could take her money and jewelry? The one-eyed driver snapped his reins, urging the horses even closer and bringing his carriage in line with Emma’s. Wood scraped against wood, screeching, as it pushed them, driving them off the road.

She looked ahead and cried, “Faster! Faster, please!”

As Jack cracked the whip and her carriage started to pull away from their pursuer, it turned a tight corner and careened. The horses neighed shrilly. The floor tilted under her feet. There was a loud crack, and the carriage fell to its side and smashed into the corner of a building.

Emma was thrown against the wall of the carriage, her head ringing. With trembling hands, she shook shards of glass off her dress. Then she pushed the opposite door open and tried to pull herself out.

“Your Grace!” Jack said as he climbed onto the side wall of the carriage and offered his hand. “I beg your pardon! Are you all right?”

She took his hand, and he helped her climb out.

“I am,” she said.

Jack jumped to the ground, then reached up to help her descend to the street. She looked around. Despite all that had happened, they couldn’t have been driving for longer than ten minutes. The street around her was not unlike Mayfair. The buildings were grand three-story homes with long rectangular windows, and gas lamps still illuminated the street.

She heard hooves drumming against the cobblestones. And moments later, a carriage turned the corner and stopped. Emma took two steps back as two men jumped out. The coachman with the eye patch descended, as well.

The three thugs strode closer and looked her over.

Jack stood in front of her, his hands in fists. “Stand back.”

The men’s hands went to their belts, and three knives glistened in the light.

“Seems the lady is in trouble,” said one of them.

She shook her head. “Please, Jack. There’s no need for that.”

They were thugs. They must want to rob her. She went into her reticule and removed the mother-of-pearl box she’d taken from the duchess’s room. “I do not have any money to offer you, but this box will fetch a good price. You can have it if you let me go.”

One of them rushed forward and snatched it from her hand, tucking it inside his jacket.

“Now, please go,” she said.

But the three of them didn’t move.

“This is nice,” said the man who took the box. “But we came for you. Sir Jasper awaits.”

Sir Jasper? No. Not Sir Jasper, please! She couldn’t go back to him.

Jack took one step forward. “Stay away from the mistress!”

One of them launched at Jack and rammed him in the stomach. They landed on the pavement, Jack punching at the man’s head. The thug delivered one purposeful blow after another right into Jack’s face.

To Emma’s horror, Jack went completely still.

Emma stepped back, the ground sinking under her feet. The thug rose, and the three of them stepped closer to her. One of them grabbed her, his strong fingers digging into her flesh. Prickly horror shot through her. She screamed and struggled while he dragged her to their carriage.

No, she wouldn’t let them take her. She wouldn’t go back to Sir Jasper with his control and his manipulation and his insults. Not when she was so close to freedom.

She tried to jerk her arm away, but her captor held tight, and then another man took her by her other arm. They both dragged her.

“Let me go!” she cried, fighting against their steely grasps. “I won’t go back to him!”

Suddenly, hooves drummed and wheels rattled behind them. The thugs stilled but didn’t let her go.

The carriage stopped, and a man climbed down from it. She would have recognized him just by his dark silhouette—the broad shoulders, the thick, muscular neck, the square jaw. It was the duke.

Something weightless fluttered in her middle.

“Let my wife go,” he demanded coolly, walking into the light.

The Duke of Loxchester’s coachman descended from the front seat of the carriage and pointed a pistol at the thugs.

“She isn’t your wife,” announced the one with the eye patch.

The one who wasn’t holding her launched at the duke’s coachman, who fired a shot. But the shot went astray. The thug swung his arm and his knife glistened in the light of the streetlamps. The duke’s coachman ducked and drove his fist into the man’s stomach. The man doubled up but rammed the coachman with his body, driving him into the wall of the building. There was a loud crack of bone.

One of those holding her ran to his associate’s aid, and they both turned on the duke. But despite being outnumbered, the duke held both men at bay, delivering one punch after another. The thug who still held her stared, distracted, so she stomped on his foot and drove her elbow into his stomach.

She wrenched her arm free and turned to find the other two thugs lying on the ground.

The thug who had gotten the jewelry box had just recovered from her attack and was about to grab her again, his face vicious in the lamplight, when a tall shadow fell over him. The duke caught the thug’s arm and sent his mighty fist into the man’s jaw. The man staggered back, then when he got his balance, he backed up even more. He didn’t attack again. Instead, he made a large circle as he ran. The duke darted towards him, but the man was faster. He jumped onto the driver’s seat, cracked the whip, and his two horses neighed and were off.

Emma only jumped back as the coach darted past her.

She was free.

Free from Sir Jasper.

She caught the duke’s eyes. He stood there, looking like a gladiator trapped in the clothes of a duke. He stalked towards her. And she felt her legs carry her to him. Before she could say a word, one arm was around her waist, the other around her neck.

They came together as though they had always belonged together, as though they were truly husband and wife.

He held her in his arms, looking her over.

“Are you hurt?” he asked.

“No, I’m just shaken,” she said, melting from his touch.

Her carriage was wrecked, and Jack lay unconscious on the ground. She couldn’t really go. Unless he’d let her. Should she ask him?

But she’d just stolen from him. He wouldn’t want her anyway.

She noticed a light bruise on his cheekbone. “Are you all—” She cut herself off as she felt something warm and wet under the palm of her hand, which lay on his shoulder. She looked at it, and even in the dim light of the gas lamps, she could see it was dark with blood.

“You’re hurt!” she cried as she broke out of his hug and turned him to the side to look at his shoulder. A deep cut oozed blood. She couldn’t leave now. First, she needed to see if he was all right.

“We must get you help,” she said. “Oh, goodness! Jack!”

The duke and his coachman, Oliver, dragged the unconscious Jack into the carriage. Quickly, Oliver unhitched the two horses from the fallen carriage and tied them to the back of the duke’s carriage. It was a miracle neither had broken a leg, and Emma was grateful for that small mercy. With every minute that passed, her stomach churned with worry for the duke and for Jack. Both were hurt because they had protected her.

The duke asked Oliver to come back with a few men to retrieve the broken carriage later, and they were on their way.