Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95222 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 317(@300wpm)
Chapter 27
The barren land is endless, as is the journey. I doubt I have even made it halfway to the coast yet. My backside is numb, my thoughts circling, my self-hatred endless. Christ, how I wish I had not been such a pig-headed idiot. How I wish I had taken a moment to think properly about what I was faced with instead of barging in and blurting words I did not mean. How I hope it is not irreparable. How I wish Taya had confided in me! I look down at the drawing.
Now, crazy as it is, mad as it seems, the Winters brothers are the least of my worries, the smallest hurdle to clear. Now I have to convince Taya that I am a man of honour, and I will love her fiercely, like no other man could ever love her. That she was not a dalliance. That I would rather face lions – or her brothers – than be without her. Of course, I may be clutching at straws. She may well laugh at me and tell me I was a game, an added thrill in her mission to exact revenge on the ton.
Then I remember our night together. Our kisses, our laughs, our conversations. No one is that good an actor. They can’t be.
And still, I am nervous.
I should throttle Lizzy Fallow. Throttle her! That horse neighing, the sound that jerked her off me, before I had come to my senses, got over the shock of her throwing herself into my arms, was Taya. She saw me kissing Lizzy Fallow. ‘God dammit,’ I mutter, jumping in my seat, flinching, when we hit a rock in the road. We have not seen another traveller for miles. Not one, not on horseback, not in a yellow boulder, a hackney carriage, nothing. It is not unusual for this route, mind you, for in my haste to get to Taya and repair the damage I have caused, I elected to travel the highway to shave at least a day off my journey time.
‘Whoa!’ the coachman yells, and the carriage jolts once again, but this time, concerningly, I suspect it is not as a result of a rock in the road. We start to slow.
‘What is it?’ I call, poking my head out of the window. A broken wheel? A lame horse?
It is neither.
‘Hide your purse, Mr Melrose,’ he calls back as we come to a standstill. ‘We are under attack.’
I see the two horses charging towards us – both beautiful grey stallions – and my heart gallops along with them. ‘My God,’ I breathe, sitting back in my seat, a sweat coating my forehead. I reach for my cravat and pull at it. This is bloody typical, I think, as I frantically try to unravel my tangled thoughts, try to figure out what it is I must do, even though I have considered this scenario carefully. Hide? I slam my fist down on the seat, frustrated, but, in truth, I had anticipated the risk of taking this route, a renowned shortcut for the bravest of the wealthy. We got through Hampstead Heath unscathed, not a surprise since the highwaymen that rode those lands are no more, but I knew of the risk to continue on this dangerous route.
Which is why I brought a pistol along, because if I am robbed, I will have no choice but to turn back and return to Belmore Square.
Never.
I reach under my seat and pull it out. I will be dead before I must turn back. Dead! I step out of the carriage, keeping the pistol behind my back, and wait. Oddly, I am not fretful. No, I am more annoyed to be delayed on my journey to deal with this. The horses get closer, and are soon upon me, treading the uneven ground, their heads nodding, fighting the tension on the reins. I pull out my pistol and aim it at one horseman, then the other. ‘Not today,’ I say, catching the eye of one just before he looks away. My gun lowers, my gaze taking him in from top to toe, my forehead becoming heavy from my frown. He turns the horse away, jerks his head, a sign to the other rider, and kicks his horse into action, cantering away, his partner following.
‘You certainly did tell them!’ the coachman sings, laughing.
‘What the devil?’ I breathe, watching them go, the dirt being kicked up behind them hampering my view. I look at the carriage. The slow, bumpy carriage. Then to the two horses pulling it. I am working to release one of them, the strongest, fastest, before I can convince myself I am going crazy.
‘Sir?’ the coachman says, watching from his sitting post as I dismantle the leathers and hooks and create a makeshift set of reins.