A Seduction at Christmas by Cathy Maxwell Read Free Book Online
Authors: Cathy Maxwell
coach just as a pistol shot filled the air.
Thomas had come out of the inn and stood ten feet away.
The duke came back into the coach, his hand losing its hold on Hester. But it wasn’t him the shot had hit. It was the courtesan. Thomas had missed, again.
Hester’s eyes widened. “What is going on?” she repeated and then fell to the ground.
“Drive, ” the duke shouted at the coachman as the Irishman cursed his bad aim. He threw the pistol at the coach and shouted to his mates. “If you want your money, stop them .”
Fiona tried to go to Hester. The duke blocked her with his arm. “It’s too late.”
And he was right. She had more important problems like the Irishman who followed their leader’s order by trying to climb inside the coach with them.
With a scream, Fiona leaned back as the duke came forward. Another shot rang out but it wasn’t from the Irish. The fire had come from Holburn’s hand.
Their attacker dropped to the ground with a grunt and started hollering in pain.
The duke shouted at the coachman who appeared frozen in fright, “ Drive, damn you .” His words brought the man to his senses. They took off as the duke slammed the coach door shut.
Thomas and his remaining comrade attempted to chase after them, but tripped over Hester’s still body.
Fiona couldn’t move. “They killed her,” she said, shocked by how quickly everything had happened and not believing any of it.
The duke fell back into the corner of the cab’s close confines. His breathing was shallow. Deep lines etched his face and his hair across his brow was damp with sweat. “They wanted us,” he reminded her.
“No, they wanted you .”
The driver drove like a madman in the night fog. He let the horse have his lead and the beast was as frightened as Fiona. The coach swayed crazily all over the road. It was all Fiona could do to keep her balance. The duke was a silent, still figure in the corner of the coach, his arms hugging his sides.
At last the driver gained control of his horse and the ride grew smoother. Resettling herself, Fiona shivered from fear and the weather. “I left my shawl back in the room,” she said, the complaint sounding inane considering the circumstances. She was surprised she still held the duke’s coin purse. She dropped it on the seat as if blaming it for all that had happened this night.
The duke had closed his eyes. He didn’t speak. The corners of his mouth were white with pain.
A knock on the roof signaled the driver wanted to talk to them. Fiona lowered the window. “I think we lost them,” he shouted at them as if he needed confirmation that they were all right.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do you know where you want me to take you?” he asked.
Fiona glanced at the duke. He had placed one hand on the seat between them, the fingers curled into a tight fist. “Take us where you picked me up,” she instructed and raised the window.
She sat back in her seat, her arms crossed against the cold. Several minutes of silence ticked by, allowing a hundred questions to fill Fiona’s brain. The duke had his eyes closed but she sensed he didn’t sleep.
At last she could contain her curiosity no longer. “You had a gun. Were you expecting to be attacked this evening?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his arm crossed his belly to hold off a cramping pain. Just when she thought he would ignore her, he said, “I had it for when I met the Spaniard.”
“Those men weren’t Spanish,” she whispered.
“I know that,” he said, irritation in his clipped tone.
“Do you know who they were?” she had to ask. She had to make sense of what had happened.
His brows came together, his eyes still closed. “No. Do you?”
It was a fair question but it offended her all the same. “Of course not. I don’t consort with murderers.”
“How comforting,” was his dry reply.
Fiona frowned at his sarcasm. “Perhaps you deserved that bellyache,” she muttered.
That comment brought a
Thomas had come out of the inn and stood ten feet away.
The duke came back into the coach, his hand losing its hold on Hester. But it wasn’t him the shot had hit. It was the courtesan. Thomas had missed, again.
Hester’s eyes widened. “What is going on?” she repeated and then fell to the ground.
“Drive, ” the duke shouted at the coachman as the Irishman cursed his bad aim. He threw the pistol at the coach and shouted to his mates. “If you want your money, stop them .”
Fiona tried to go to Hester. The duke blocked her with his arm. “It’s too late.”
And he was right. She had more important problems like the Irishman who followed their leader’s order by trying to climb inside the coach with them.
With a scream, Fiona leaned back as the duke came forward. Another shot rang out but it wasn’t from the Irish. The fire had come from Holburn’s hand.
Their attacker dropped to the ground with a grunt and started hollering in pain.
The duke shouted at the coachman who appeared frozen in fright, “ Drive, damn you .” His words brought the man to his senses. They took off as the duke slammed the coach door shut.
Thomas and his remaining comrade attempted to chase after them, but tripped over Hester’s still body.
Fiona couldn’t move. “They killed her,” she said, shocked by how quickly everything had happened and not believing any of it.
The duke fell back into the corner of the cab’s close confines. His breathing was shallow. Deep lines etched his face and his hair across his brow was damp with sweat. “They wanted us,” he reminded her.
“No, they wanted you .”
The driver drove like a madman in the night fog. He let the horse have his lead and the beast was as frightened as Fiona. The coach swayed crazily all over the road. It was all Fiona could do to keep her balance. The duke was a silent, still figure in the corner of the coach, his arms hugging his sides.
At last the driver gained control of his horse and the ride grew smoother. Resettling herself, Fiona shivered from fear and the weather. “I left my shawl back in the room,” she said, the complaint sounding inane considering the circumstances. She was surprised she still held the duke’s coin purse. She dropped it on the seat as if blaming it for all that had happened this night.
The duke had closed his eyes. He didn’t speak. The corners of his mouth were white with pain.
A knock on the roof signaled the driver wanted to talk to them. Fiona lowered the window. “I think we lost them,” he shouted at them as if he needed confirmation that they were all right.
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do you know where you want me to take you?” he asked.
Fiona glanced at the duke. He had placed one hand on the seat between them, the fingers curled into a tight fist. “Take us where you picked me up,” she instructed and raised the window.
She sat back in her seat, her arms crossed against the cold. Several minutes of silence ticked by, allowing a hundred questions to fill Fiona’s brain. The duke had his eyes closed but she sensed he didn’t sleep.
At last she could contain her curiosity no longer. “You had a gun. Were you expecting to be attacked this evening?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, his arm crossed his belly to hold off a cramping pain. Just when she thought he would ignore her, he said, “I had it for when I met the Spaniard.”
“Those men weren’t Spanish,” she whispered.
“I know that,” he said, irritation in his clipped tone.
“Do you know who they were?” she had to ask. She had to make sense of what had happened.
His brows came together, his eyes still closed. “No. Do you?”
It was a fair question but it offended her all the same. “Of course not. I don’t consort with murderers.”
“How comforting,” was his dry reply.
Fiona frowned at his sarcasm. “Perhaps you deserved that bellyache,” she muttered.
That comment brought a