Susannah’s head was on his shoulder, her breathing light and shallow against his flesh. He knew she wasn’t asleep. He knew she was thinking about what he had told her. She hadn’t questioned him closely. He wondered if she suspected he’d omitted facts, which he had. He’d said nothing about Theodore Micah, nothing about his being in Eastbourne. She was probably hatching plots. It pleased him, this forthright nature of hers, this fearless deviousness of hers. It also pleased him that he was coming to know her well enough to realize what she was thinking. But he would not tell her about Micah. He didn’t want to frighten her. He didn’t want to take the chance she would scurry to Eastbourne and try to find him by herself.
He kissed the top of her head. He doubted he would ever regret his marriage to this woman—not Susannah, a woman with grit and pride and ruthlessness. He tightened his arm around her. “Susannah, we’re nearly home.”
He wanted to tell her as well that when he got her home, when he got her to their bedchamber, when
he finally got her into his bed, he would kiss every luscious inch of her, particularly the soft flesh behind her knees. His breathing hitched.
“I know. Thank you for letting us leave the inn, Rohan. I didn’t think I could bear staying there another night.”
When he’d walked into their bedchamber after his meeting with Tibolt, she’d been standing in the middle of the room, fully dressed, their valises at her feet.
She’d taken one look at his face and walked to him, pressing herself against him, her arms around his back.
She’d said nothing, just held him.
“Not more than fifteen minutes now.” It was nearing one o’clock in the morning. There was a light drizzle falling from a black sky. It was cold; the fog was rising, a thick swirling gray, now nearly to the level of the carriage windows.
“You won’t tell me more, will you?”
“There is little enough more, really.”
She sighed. “I don’t believe you. You’re trying to be chivalrous. Do you believe that George is the one involved with the map?”
“I don’t know, and that’s the truth. Tibolt isn’t telling me the entire truth, and I just can’t seem to separate fact from falsehood.”
Suddenly the quiet of the night was rent by the explosion of a gun. There were two shots. Rohan heard Elsay, his coachman, scream. Oh, Jesus, he’d been shot!
He shoved Susannah onto the floor of the carriage and grabbed his gun from the leather side pocket of the door.
The horses came to a plunging, rearing halt. Then Rohan heard a man yell, “All of you out of there now. No foolishness, my lord, else this wounded little man will get another bullet through his gullet. Come out now, bring that little tart as well.”
The first thought in Rohan’s head was Thank God it wasn’t Tibolt. Just who the man was, he had no idea.
Despite his wound, Elsay wasn’t about to have his master face the villain. He cracked the whip and yelled at the horses. Rohan was hurled on top of Susannah as the carriage abruptly started up.
There was another loud shot. A man’s loud curses, the sound of a horse galloping after them.
“Stay down, Susannah.”
Rohan eased his head out the carriage window. The man was some twenty yards back, galloping hard. He wasn’t firing. He could have only one or two bullets left. The horses were racing wildly now, out of control. Elsay must be hurt badly.
Rohan slipped the gun into his waistcoat pocket, turned on his back and pulled himself out of the carriage window. He grabbed the brass railing that circled the top of the carriage. It was sturdy. He managed to pull himself up. Then the coach lurched to the left, the horses now galloping madly toward a dangerous curve that gave to the cliffs at Beachy Head.
The wind made his eyes tear, whipped his hair across his face, blinding him, but he managed to climb to the top of the carriage.
“Elsay? Hold on, I’m coming.”
There was no answer from the coachman. Rohan saw the man on horseback drawing closer. The rain thickened. If one of the horses slipped, they would die.
He saw Susannah leaning out the window.
He crawled to the front of the carriage, letting himself down slowly onto the driver’s bench. Elsay was gripping the wooden brake with all his might.
“Hold on,” Rohan said again, as he eased into position. Then he saw that the reins were loose and hanging down between the two horses. “Damn,” he said. “Well, there’s no hope for it.”
“Mi’lord, be careful.”
The horses veered left, nearly overturning the carriage. Rohan simply dove onto Ramble’s back, managing to catch his harness to keep himself from falling beneath their hooves. He began talking to the horses, trying his damnedest to soothe them. He only wished he could sing like Jamie.