Sophie heard the threat in the words, the cool implication that if he did not get what he wanted, he was not above hurting Bess. She descended the carriage, coming to stand next to Mary and face the monster. “I suggest you step back.”
He turned to Sophie, eyes wide. “Or what?”
Sophie was in over her head, but her father’s voice echoed through her—Bluster until it’s real. She squared her shoulders. “Or else you shall regret it.”
Bear smiled, looking up and away before he turned back, all anger. “I think you shall be the one who regrets it.”
The blow came fast and furious and unexpected, stars and pain exploding at her temple. She was flat on the ground before she could think. Mary retreated, pressing herself against the open doorway of the carriage. “Dammit, Bear, I said don’t hurt anyone.”
“Next time, find a protector who’s strong enough to take a punch,” came the reply. “I told you. I’ll be havin’ my cutpurse.”
Sophie opened her eyes at that, her location making it impossible to miss the little body curled beneath the coach. John. His eyes were wide and full of fear and tears, his gaze locked on Mary’s feet.
“And I told you,” Mary said, “he’s not here.”
Sophie heard the blow Bear delivered; it landed with a wicked crack against Mary’s cheek, and though the young woman cried out in pain, she did not lose her footing. Bess screamed from inside the coach, and John closed his eyes at the sound. “I told you, you bastard,” Mary repeated, protecting the boy. “He’s not here.”
The beast called Bear hit Mary again, harder, and this time, she did fall.
At the edge of Sophie’s vision, John moved, and she knew what he was up to. He was going to show himself, to turn himself in to save Mary. Sophie wasn’t about to allow that. “Wait!” she called out.
John stopped. Thankfully.
Sophie pushed herself up to her feet before the man could climb over Mary to search the carriage.
He turned back to her. “Stop playing the hero, boy. You won’t win.”
She approached, putting herself between the villain and the unconscious Mary, arms akimbo, not knowing how she would stop him, knowing only that she couldn’t let him hurt another. “I shall stop playing the hero when you stop playing the monster.” She paused, lifting her chin. “But that won’t happen anytime soon, will it?”
He laughed again. “You’ve a death wish, it seems.”
She allowed her hatred into her gaze. “Only if it is your death of which we speak.”
He turned away from her, arms spread wide, meeting the gazes of his two companions with a quiet chuckle before reaching into his waistband to extract his pistol and returning his attention to her.
Sophie went utterly still.
“I’ve had enough of you,” he said before raising his arm and taking perfect aim at her head.
She closed her eyes, expecting terror to overpower her. But the terror never came. Instead, she was flooded with a single, calm thought.
If only the Countess of Liverpool hadn’t liked fish so much.
There was nothing in the world that King loathed more than coaches.
He tugged at his cravat, desperate for air in the enclosed space, and added this ride to the long list of things for which Lady Sophie Talbot should be punished. As it was, she had thrown a serious complication into his plan—a race to Cumbria with his curricle-driving mates, followed by a short, final audience with the father who had ruined his life. He had visions of approaching the duke’s deathbed, of leaning down and taking the final victory in their decade-long battle. The line ends with me.
And he would bury his demons. Finally.
Instead, thanks to Lady Sophie Talbot, troublesome scandal and thief, he was not racing north. He was inside a massive, empty coach that had a distinctly coffinlike feel. If it weren’t for the clattering of wheels on the terrible road, King might not have been able to hold the panic at bay.
Instead, he leaned back against the plush cushion of the carriage and released a long breath, hating the way the small space closed in on him.
He should have saddled a horse and ridden. Yes, he would have had to change horses constantly, and risked the English weather, but at least he would have had fresh air. Growing more uncomfortable by the minute, King shucked his coat and removed his cravat altogether. Closing his eyes, he took several deep breaths, leaning into the sway of the vehicle. “It’s a carriage, you idiot,” he muttered into the darkness. “It’s moving.”
For a heartbeat, he thought it might work, thought that if he kept his eyes closed, he might be able to keep his sanity. And then the coach hit a particularly deep rut in the road, and he was tossed to one side, and his eyes opened to a small, dim space.
It was going to crash.
She was going to die.
And it would be his fault.
Panic consumed him and he moved to bang on the roof, unable to stop himself. Before he could make contact, however, the carriage slowed, as though the great, hulking mass of wood and metal understood his madness.
He had the door open and was on the ground before it stopped.
The coachman looked down at him, curiosity turning quickly to surprise, and King hated the wash of warmth that flooded his cheeks. He didn’t want the man witnessing his discomfort and panic. “Why are we stopped?” he snapped, eager to redirect any attention from his madness.
The driver did not flinch. “There’s someone in the road, m’lord.”
King turned in the direction of the coachman’s gaze to find a man, out of breath and waving his hands madly in the air. “My lord, please! We’ve been set upon by highwaymen!”