I have not, admittedly. Now I do, and I map out my options. When I do ease through, he does not try to stop me. I climb onto a narrow ledge and then lower myself with care to a crossbeam. I am poised there, flexing my feet, when a voice inside says, “I’ll check the hayloft.”
I glance up to see Nicolas coming through the hole. He’s halfway onto the ledge, but he can proceed no farther while I block the way down.
I grab a vertical board and slide my hands down it, wincing at the inevitable splinters. When I reach as far down as I can, I hook my fingers into knots in the boards and then lower my legs. My injured arm will not let me suspend my body weight, and my feet are still a yard from the ground, but there is nothing else to be done. I release my fingers and let myself fall.
A sharp breath sounds from above in that brief moment during which I seem to hang in the air before I fall, backward, arms pushing as if I am propelling myself through water. My bottom hits the ground. Pain ignites my injuries, but I am too busy wishing I had looked to see where I would land. On open ground—yes—but is it rock? Or dried grass that will crackle and give me up again? No, to my relief, I struck down on soft heather, and the only sound is the dull thump of my landing.
I scramble up and run, bent double, to the other side of a jutting boulder. Then I drop there, and I’ve barely drawn a breath before Nicolas lands beside me.
“Are you all right, Miranda? Have you reinjured your arm?”
I want to tease that he’s using my real name, but he is in such a state that I say nothing as he examines my arm’s binding.
“It is bleeding again,” he says, ending with a French curse. “The wound has reopened.”
I take his hands and gently pull them from my arm. “I am fine.”
“You are not—”
“I am not lying sprawled on the heather with a broken back. Nor sprawled and riddled with bullets. Therefore, I consider myself to be fine, sir.”
“Sir?” He gives a sharp shake of his head and then manages a strained laugh as he squeezes my hand. “You are never going to call me Nico, are you?”
I shake my head. “I heard mention of a warrant, and you said something about hanging. Was that in jest? I am attempting to ascertain the seriousness of the situation and how determined these men are to kill you. To killus, if necessary.”
All humor drains from his face as he rubs his cheek. “A day ago, I would have said no danger at all. Not of death. Imprisonment, yes. Humiliation, certainly, if at all possible, because that is the gravest crime I have committed.”
“Humiliating Lord Norrington. Or should I say, Nottingham?”
The faintest quirk of his lips. “You are not the first to make that jest.Mais oui, I have undermined his authority by daring to feed his people. That is not, however, a hanging offense. I will explain more later, as you seem not to know the story, but as to the question, I cannot answer it except to say that, given that you were shot twice, we must presume they intend us grave harm.”
“Thank you. One more question, how far can muskets shoot?”
“About fifty yards, with very poor accuracy.”
“Good. Then we can safely steal one of their horses and ride off without being shot in the back.”
“Steal a horse? You really do want me to swing, don’t you?”
He’s teasing, but I see his point. “Let me do it.” I peer at the trio. “The flanks on the bay mare bear marks of recent abuse. I will not truly be stealing her, but liberating her, in recompense for her aid in our escape.” I look at him. “Unless you have a better idea?”
“Non. That poor mare has obviously endured abuse, and now, having seen it, we cannot ignore her plight.”
“Nor ours.”
A faint smile. “Nor ours. All right, let us free the poor beast.”
6
We arrive at the horses just as the men realize we are not in the barn. Nicolas helps me onto the mare, who does not seem the least concerned about being boarded by strangers. Any resistance has, I fear, been whipped out of her. Nor does she complain at the second weight added to the first, and we take off across the open moor just as a shout sounds behind us. A musket blast follows, but we are too far gone to be in any danger.
The poor mare must realize we are not the only ones escaping our fate. She runs like the wind, despite having both of us on her. We fly over the moors, with Nicolas taking the reins as I cling to him, perhaps more tightly than is necessary, but the mareisin full gallop, and I must have a care for my safety.
Nicolas expertly steers her through hill and dale, cutting a path that our pursuers cannot easily follow. If theydofollow, we never see it. We are long gone, having veered past every wall and building and shrubbery stand that might hide us.
When Nicolas is certain we have lost them, he stops the mare and swings from her back to walk alongside her. I try to do the same—arguing she needs the rest—but he insists I ride, and I must admit he is correct. That brief run to the horses set my injuries afire. I cannot risk further inflaming them when I may need their cooperation again soon.
“Are we returning to Thorne Manor?” I ask.