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Authors: Elizabeth Thornton
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led into a dense thicket of bramble bushes. It was an excellent place to conceal a body.
Her body
.
His hand touched her shoulder, and she shied away, slipped on the mud, and sat down heavily among the bramble bushes.
“For the love of God!” He sounded thoroughly annoyed.
“What did you think I was going to do to you?” He stared hard at her, then shook his head. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have done it when you went into the bushes to relieve yourself. Have you no sense, woman? Hold still till I get these thorns out of your clothes.”
He thrust his pistol into the waistband of his trousers, set down the bottle of brandy, and began to detach the prickly thorns from her gown. She sat there in miserable silence, with her knees drawn up to her chin, as the rain cascaded over her like a river in spate. Was it only yesterday, she wondered, that she’d longed for a little adventure? If this was the Deity’s idea of a joke, she was not amused. In fact, she was seething at the injustice of it all. Not that she blamed the Deity. No. Richard Maitland, and he alone, was responsible for all her troubles.
Having released her from the brambles, he straightened and gave her another searching look. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Am I all right?” she said pleasantly. “I wonder you should ask. What could be more agreeable than to be held at gunpoint, abducted, and tossed into a thicket of brambles in a downpour of rain in the middle of nowhere?”
“You fell into the brambles,” he said. He stooped to pick up the bottle of brandy.
Was that a smile on his face? Her temper ignited and before she could think of the wisdom of what she was doing, she lunged for his booted foot, gave it a hard yank, and sent
him
, his blanket, and his brandy bottle flying into the bushes. Before the first oath was out of his mouth, she was on her feet and stumbling down the muddy track toward the boat. A push from behind sent her sprawling, and her momentum carried her forward. But she wasn’t done yet. She was still clutching her stupid shoe, so she lay there in a heap, awaiting her moment. It came when he went down on one knee, and grasping her shoulders, raised her to her feet.
“Will you be sensible—”
She aimed for his face. As he threw up his arm to ward off the blow, his elbow inadvertently connected with her jaw.
“Bloody hell!” he muttered, and caught her as she began to sink to her knees.
The path led to a one-room derelict cottage behind a dry stone wall. By the time Richard had carried her up the steep incline and deposited her on the bed, he was gasping for breath. Two weeks in Newgate hadn’t improved his health, nor had carrying the Amazon from one end of the prison to the other and now up the hill to the cottage. The wound in his chest was beginning to throb.
As he stepped back from the bed, he took a good look at her. The perfect princess, the newspapers called her. Well, the perfect princess looked as though she’d been caught in a mangle.
How had it come to this? It was an accident, of course, though he didn’t expect her to believe it. He had never struck a woman in his life. He didn’t want to hurt her or terrorize her. He just wanted her to behave herself until they could go their separate ways.
He reached for the threadbare blanket at the end of the bed and draped it over her to absorb some of the damp, then he went to a cupboard in the fireplace wall. When he discovered that everything was just as he’d hoped, he said a silent thank you to Hugh Templar for providing everything a man on the run could possibly want—a fresh set of clothes, a fat purse of money, a medicine box, dressings for his wound, a razor, food, and a bottle of brandy to replace the bottle he’d lost.
There were two tin mugs on a table in front of the fireplace. He half filled one, took a healthy gulp from it, then crossed to the bed. He held her head as he dribbledbrandy between her lips. Thankfully, she
Her body
.
His hand touched her shoulder, and she shied away, slipped on the mud, and sat down heavily among the bramble bushes.
“For the love of God!” He sounded thoroughly annoyed.
“What did you think I was going to do to you?” He stared hard at her, then shook his head. “If I’d wanted to kill you, I would have done it when you went into the bushes to relieve yourself. Have you no sense, woman? Hold still till I get these thorns out of your clothes.”
He thrust his pistol into the waistband of his trousers, set down the bottle of brandy, and began to detach the prickly thorns from her gown. She sat there in miserable silence, with her knees drawn up to her chin, as the rain cascaded over her like a river in spate. Was it only yesterday, she wondered, that she’d longed for a little adventure? If this was the Deity’s idea of a joke, she was not amused. In fact, she was seething at the injustice of it all. Not that she blamed the Deity. No. Richard Maitland, and he alone, was responsible for all her troubles.
Having released her from the brambles, he straightened and gave her another searching look. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“Am I all right?” she said pleasantly. “I wonder you should ask. What could be more agreeable than to be held at gunpoint, abducted, and tossed into a thicket of brambles in a downpour of rain in the middle of nowhere?”
“You fell into the brambles,” he said. He stooped to pick up the bottle of brandy.
Was that a smile on his face? Her temper ignited and before she could think of the wisdom of what she was doing, she lunged for his booted foot, gave it a hard yank, and sent
him
, his blanket, and his brandy bottle flying into the bushes. Before the first oath was out of his mouth, she was on her feet and stumbling down the muddy track toward the boat. A push from behind sent her sprawling, and her momentum carried her forward. But she wasn’t done yet. She was still clutching her stupid shoe, so she lay there in a heap, awaiting her moment. It came when he went down on one knee, and grasping her shoulders, raised her to her feet.
“Will you be sensible—”
She aimed for his face. As he threw up his arm to ward off the blow, his elbow inadvertently connected with her jaw.
“Bloody hell!” he muttered, and caught her as she began to sink to her knees.
The path led to a one-room derelict cottage behind a dry stone wall. By the time Richard had carried her up the steep incline and deposited her on the bed, he was gasping for breath. Two weeks in Newgate hadn’t improved his health, nor had carrying the Amazon from one end of the prison to the other and now up the hill to the cottage. The wound in his chest was beginning to throb.
As he stepped back from the bed, he took a good look at her. The perfect princess, the newspapers called her. Well, the perfect princess looked as though she’d been caught in a mangle.
How had it come to this? It was an accident, of course, though he didn’t expect her to believe it. He had never struck a woman in his life. He didn’t want to hurt her or terrorize her. He just wanted her to behave herself until they could go their separate ways.
He reached for the threadbare blanket at the end of the bed and draped it over her to absorb some of the damp, then he went to a cupboard in the fireplace wall. When he discovered that everything was just as he’d hoped, he said a silent thank you to Hugh Templar for providing everything a man on the run could possibly want—a fresh set of clothes, a fat purse of money, a medicine box, dressings for his wound, a razor, food, and a bottle of brandy to replace the bottle he’d lost.
There were two tin mugs on a table in front of the fireplace. He half filled one, took a healthy gulp from it, then crossed to the bed. He held her head as he dribbledbrandy between her lips. Thankfully, she
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