know how to follow. She would reach Fox Chase long before him and, once on Tempest's back, he could not possibly catch her, even if he knew which direction she had taken. Which he would not. Oh, no. He would arrive at Fox Chase only in time to retrieve his mare from Harrow and return to London.
She felt an occasional qualm of conscience about her hapless rescuer, about the trick she had played on him. But it served him right for interfering. For in truth, she thought as she idly watched a lapwing cut through the blue sky above her head, she had never before met anyone capable of infuriating her to this degree.
Amanda rode on, her gaze now searching for her planned turnoff from both the road and possible pursuit. She was just about ready to set off cross-country when she saw a small shape huddled by the side of the road. She slowly eased her horse past the bundle of rags and thin, dirty limbs, and the sound of muffled sobs came to her ears.
She rode on a little further before drawing the mare to a halt. "Damn," she said as she turned the horse, hating herself, knowing she was courting disaster, but also knowing she couldn't go on.
Dismounting, she approached the small body and saw that it was that of a child, a child so dirty she could not make out its sex. She knelt down by its side. "What's the matter, little one?' she questioned softly, reluctant to frighten the small person.
The pathetic figure jumped up and made to run away, but Amanda reached out and grabbed one thin arm, easily holding the child in place. "Ho, now, I'm not going to harm you. Are you lost? Tell me your name. Are you hurt?"
The grimy face turned and peered into her eyes. Obviously something there convinced the child Amanda meant no harm, and it collapsed once more at her feet.
"Tom's me name," he said at last, "and I not be hurt." A grubby chin went up in defiance. "It's runnin' away I be. Runnin' as far an' as fast as I can go! I only stopped here for a little while, that's all."
Amanda sat back on her haunches and gave the boy a conspiratorial smile. "Ah, well then, it seems we have something in common, young Tom, for I, too, am running away. What are you running away from?"
"Jake." The name came out quietly and not quite fearlessly, as if it was the Devil's name, and must be whispered.
"Jake? Is he your master?" Amanda inquired, frowning as she stared at the bruises on the boy's legs—marks that looked as if they had been made by the furious application of a cane, or some other hard stick.
Tom vehemently nodded his head, saying, "But not no more, he ain't!" then began telling his story in short, disjointed sentences intermingled with a few manfully-stifled sobs. Amanda eventually deduced that this man, this Jake, had taken young Tom from the parish poorhouse as an apprentice of sorts, and then used him to beg in the surrounding villages. There were ten or more others like Tom "apprenticed" to Jake, but only Tom had been brave enough to defy him. Jake beat Tom whenever he refused to beg, and the boy had eventually run off. He'd been on the road for about three days—Tom wasn't sure just exactly how long—and, no, ma'am, he hadn't eaten more than a bite for at least two of them.
By now he was crying again in earnest. Amanda instinctively reached out and gathered him into her arms, unmindful of the resultant dirt on her already travel–stained garments. "How old are you, Tom?" she asked, sparing a moment from her thoughts of how lovely it would be to have the man named Jake slowly roasting on a spit in front of her.
"I dunno, ma'am," he replied, looking up at her, "but I thinks I be twelve. That's nice, ma'am, how yer be rockin' me and all."
Twelve? Amanda was appalled. He was so small, he seemed no more than seven or eight. She weighed her need for haste with her conscience, and her conscience won. She could not ride off and leave Tom to fend for himself, not and still be able to sleep at night. She would simply have to mount him in