Crouching, she put her arm about Miss Trice, who was struggling to sit up. “Are you all right? Did they hurt you?”
“No. I—oh!” Miss Trice was still struggling to catch her breath. She leaned against Caro’s arm; Caro didn’t have the strength to lift her.
Then Michael was there; he put one arm about Miss Trice, took her hand, and drew her into a sitting position. “It’s all right. They’ve gone.”
They all knew there was no point giving chase; at night it would be easy to hide a regiment in the forest.
Miss Trice nodded. “I’ll be recovered in a moment. I just need to catch my breath.”
They didn’t rush her; eventually, she nodded again. “Right. I can stand now.”
Caro stood back and let Michael help Miss Trice to her feet. She swayed, but then caught her balance.
“We’ll walk you to the door.” Michael kept his arm around Miss Trice; Caro noted the older woman seemed to find his support comforting.
The attack had taken place just yards from the vicarage gate. Once they were through it and walking up the paved path, Michael asked, “I don’t suppose you have any idea who those men were?”
Miss Trice shook her head. “They’re not local men, that I’d swear. I think they were sailors—they smelt fishy, they had the arms for it, and their voices were terribly rough.”
They were within easy riding distance of Southampton. Although it was unusual for sailors to penetrate far into the bucolic countryside, tonight two had, intent on attacking some woman.
Michael glanced at Caro as they reached the vicarage steps; her attention was all for Miss Trice. He wondered whether it would occur to her that if he hadn’t insisted on driving her home, and persisted until she succumbed, she would have been the first woman to walk this way down the village street.
In the dark, alone.
Without anyone close behind to rescue her.
6
At least Caro had let him drive her home without further argument. With the morning bright about him, Michael swung Atlas down the Bramshaw lane and let his mind revisit the final scenes of the previous night.
They’d seen Miss Trice into the vicarage, into Reverend Trice’s shocked and solicitous care. Between them they’d explained; once assured Miss Trice was indeed unharmed and did not wish the doctor fetched, they’d left.
Almost absentmindedly, Caro had allowed him to hand her into the curricle; she’d made no comment when a few minutes later, he’d turned in between the Bramshaw House gates. The winding drive was lined with old trees; in this season it was heavily shadowed along most of its length. Pulling up before the front steps, he’d walked around, handed Caro down, then escorted her to the door.
Drawing in a deep breath, she’d turned to him; with her face lit by the porch lamp, he’d realized she wasn’t, as he’d supposed, affected by shock. Instead, she was puzzled, as puzzled as he. “What a very odd affair.”
“Indeed.” They’d both turned as Catten opened the door.
She’d held out her hand. “Thank you for seeing me home. As it transpired, it was a stroke of good fortune, especially for Miss Trice.”
Frustration had bloomed. He was glad they’d been in time to save Miss Trice, but…he’d held on to Caro’s hand until her fingers had fluttered and he’d once again had her complete attention. Still he’d waited, until she’d looked up and met his eyes. “Tell Geoffrey.”
Her eyes had narrowed at his tone, but she’d nodded—somewhat regally. “Of course.”
“Promise.”
At that, her eyes had flashed. “Naturally I’ll tell him—immediately, in fact. Good gracious! Those men might be hiding on our land. With Elizabeth at home, I’m sure Geoffrey will ensure our gardeners, workers, and woodsmen are alerted.”
Geoffrey on guard was what he’d wanted; biting his tongue, he’d accepted her assurance and released her. “Good night.”
She’d left him with a distinctly haughty nod. He’d headed home, aware as he’d tooled through the night that no matter what else she’d realized, she hadn’t yet divined his true direction.
If she had, she wouldn’t have jibbed at his protecting her. To his mind, protecting her now figured more as exercising a right he’d claimed rather than as some polite offer it fell to her whim to accept or decline.
In that respect, there was no longer any choice, any decision for her to make.
A lark’s call drew him back to the present. The outlying cottages of the village appeared; he slowed Atlas to a trot.