not be the only one to catch the sharp edge of his temper, either. Thorn had a few hard questions to put to Oliver Armitage. The lad was supposed to be a scientist, after all. Could he not have predicted the consequences of eloping to Gretna with young Miss Greenwood? Did he not foresee what a bitter mistake marriage to a creature of Ivy’s mercurial temperament might be?
With any luck, the past day’s journey cooped up together in the close confines of the coach, might have shown the two young people exactly how ill-suited they were. Both Ivy and Oliver might feel secret relief at being rescued from their folly.
As Thorn drew level with the coach, he peered toward the window, hoping to see his sister.
Instead, the heavily-powdered visage of an older woman glared back at him. She motioned for him to be off and mouthed some words that Thorn was thankful he could not hear.
Fighting a twinge of disappointment, he prepared to slow his mount and fall back to report his mistake to Felicity.
Thorn wrenched his gaze away from the coach just in time to see a narrow stone bridge appear ahead of him. Fortunately, his horse saw it, too.
Before Thorn could gather his weary wits enough to rein the beast in, it veered to the right and plunged down a rather steep slope into a wide stream. The water immediately halted the gelding’s progress, but not that of its rider.
Thorn felt himself jerked clear of the saddle and flung over the horse’s neck in a high, lethal arc. His limbs flailed in vain for something to break his fall, but found only air.
The water rushed up to meet him, driving the wind from his chest in the instant before a burst of black pain hurled him into the sleep he’d fought so hard to resist.
Chapter Eight
T he carriage slowed abruptly, jolting Felicity back into the upholstered seat. Outside, the horses whinnied as Mr. Hixon bellowed at them. They veered off the road, dragging the carriage in a drunken stagger over a bit of ploughed field. Thrown about the interior of the carriage like ivories in a gamester’s box, Felicity shrieked.
What could be happening?
After a few tumultuous moments that seemed to go on forever, the carriage finally lurched to a halt. As Felicity tried to recover her wits after that fearful jostling, she heard her footman and driver scramble down from their perches. Their voices quickly retreated into the distance.
Why had they not checked at once to make certain she was unharmed?
Muttering under her breath about men and their entire lack of consideration, Felicity pushed open the carriage door and slid down to solid ground on very unsteady legs. She scanned the field, looking for some sign of Ned or Mr. Hixon and some clue as to what had just taken place.
The two servants were nowhere in sight, though Felicity could hear their voices, as well as the sound of water splashing. For a moment she stared at a narrow stone bridge, which stood not far from where her carriage had left the road.
All at once she recalled this place from her regular travels between Bath and her estate in Staffordshire. A deep stream ran beneath this bridge, its water flowing swiftly down from the Cotswolds, as if eager to merge with the mighty Severn.
A sense of alarm swelled in Felicity’s breast until it seemed to hamper the workings of her heart and lungs. She scrambled toward the riverbank. Just as she reached it, Thorn’s horse struggled up the steep incline, shaking water from its dark mane. Down in the stream, both Ned and Mr. Hixon were submerged up to their chests.
But where was Thorn?
The fear that had gripped Felicity when the highwayman accosted her carriage had been a mere twinge compared to the bottomless dread that now seized her in its ravenous jaws. How she hated being at its mercy!
Just then, the young footman dove beneath the water. He resurfaced a moment later with Thorn’s arm around his shoulders. Bobbing above the surface of the churning water, Thorn’s head hung
With any luck, the past day’s journey cooped up together in the close confines of the coach, might have shown the two young people exactly how ill-suited they were. Both Ivy and Oliver might feel secret relief at being rescued from their folly.
As Thorn drew level with the coach, he peered toward the window, hoping to see his sister.
Instead, the heavily-powdered visage of an older woman glared back at him. She motioned for him to be off and mouthed some words that Thorn was thankful he could not hear.
Fighting a twinge of disappointment, he prepared to slow his mount and fall back to report his mistake to Felicity.
Thorn wrenched his gaze away from the coach just in time to see a narrow stone bridge appear ahead of him. Fortunately, his horse saw it, too.
Before Thorn could gather his weary wits enough to rein the beast in, it veered to the right and plunged down a rather steep slope into a wide stream. The water immediately halted the gelding’s progress, but not that of its rider.
Thorn felt himself jerked clear of the saddle and flung over the horse’s neck in a high, lethal arc. His limbs flailed in vain for something to break his fall, but found only air.
The water rushed up to meet him, driving the wind from his chest in the instant before a burst of black pain hurled him into the sleep he’d fought so hard to resist.
Chapter Eight
T he carriage slowed abruptly, jolting Felicity back into the upholstered seat. Outside, the horses whinnied as Mr. Hixon bellowed at them. They veered off the road, dragging the carriage in a drunken stagger over a bit of ploughed field. Thrown about the interior of the carriage like ivories in a gamester’s box, Felicity shrieked.
What could be happening?
After a few tumultuous moments that seemed to go on forever, the carriage finally lurched to a halt. As Felicity tried to recover her wits after that fearful jostling, she heard her footman and driver scramble down from their perches. Their voices quickly retreated into the distance.
Why had they not checked at once to make certain she was unharmed?
Muttering under her breath about men and their entire lack of consideration, Felicity pushed open the carriage door and slid down to solid ground on very unsteady legs. She scanned the field, looking for some sign of Ned or Mr. Hixon and some clue as to what had just taken place.
The two servants were nowhere in sight, though Felicity could hear their voices, as well as the sound of water splashing. For a moment she stared at a narrow stone bridge, which stood not far from where her carriage had left the road.
All at once she recalled this place from her regular travels between Bath and her estate in Staffordshire. A deep stream ran beneath this bridge, its water flowing swiftly down from the Cotswolds, as if eager to merge with the mighty Severn.
A sense of alarm swelled in Felicity’s breast until it seemed to hamper the workings of her heart and lungs. She scrambled toward the riverbank. Just as she reached it, Thorn’s horse struggled up the steep incline, shaking water from its dark mane. Down in the stream, both Ned and Mr. Hixon were submerged up to their chests.
But where was Thorn?
The fear that had gripped Felicity when the highwayman accosted her carriage had been a mere twinge compared to the bottomless dread that now seized her in its ravenous jaws. How she hated being at its mercy!
Just then, the young footman dove beneath the water. He resurfaced a moment later with Thorn’s arm around his shoulders. Bobbing above the surface of the churning water, Thorn’s head hung
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