The Chase

by Sara Portman

  “Albert.” Using his moment of advantage to both alert the coachman and assess the threat, Michael quickly looked around and saw no other men. In fact, he saw no other person—man or woman.

  Miss Crawley.

  The man with the crooked nose gained his footing, forcing Michael’s attention back to the immediate threat. Michael landed a blow quickly that turned the man’s face, but didn’t faze him as much as he would have liked. He followed up with a second, but his foe found contact with Michael’s side, pushing a bit of the breath from him. Michael pulled back, intending to land a finishing punch that would end the fight and allow him to attend to the matter of the missing Miss Crawley, but a rope slipped over the man’s head and he was jerked backward, away from Michael.

  While Albert had him thus restrained, Michael found another piece of rope and tied the man’s hands behind his back. When he was certain the man was bound sufficiently for Albert to control him despite the coachman’s smaller size, Michael ran back to the coach. He quickly climbed into the tipped carriage and reached underneath the forward facing seat. His hand closed around the flintlock musket he kept stowed there and he pulled it from its place, handing it out to Albert. He reached again and recovered a smaller flintlock pistol, passing this to Albert as well. He then reached under the other seat and found the ammunition box, backing out of the carriage. As he was not hunting for sport, Michael loaded the muzzle with a musket ball rather than shot.

  He looked to Gelert who watched him, dutifully sitting where he had been told to stay. The dog looked toward a spot in the woods and let out a plaintive whine.

  Damned obedient dog.

  “Where is she?” Michael asked.

  Gelert whined again and looked into the woods.

  “Go!” Michael shouted. Gelert darted off into the forest and Michael followed, unable to match Gelert, but keeping the quickest pace he could.

  Chapter Eight

  The farther Juliana hurried into the woods, the more she doubted the sense of her decision to flee. She’d been struck with the thought rather suddenly and there had been no time to consider anything but the fact that Mr. Rosevear had very clearly threatened to return her to her father.

  Surely the man would be happy to be rid of her and have no reason to give chase, but the trouble was she was now alone in the woods with no possessions or skills that would be of any use to her. She had no earthly idea how to survive in the forest. What did she know of tramping about in the woods? How would she even be sure she was walking in the correct direction?

  Walking all the way to London could not be a possibility, but neither could she put herself at the mercy of another stranger. Relying upon the compassion of a kind traveler had been a miscalculation. She supposed if she came across a farm or village, she could steal a horse. She had never stolen anything before, save the few coins from her father, but as his daughter it seemed somewhat her due. She was certainly not due a stranger’s horse, but she didn’t see another way. Asking the help of a stranger had not so far gone well. Better to take it than to ask for it, she supposed.

  Assuming she found one.

  As she walked, Juliana was quickly learning one important fact of tramping through the woods—doing so required a specific type of sturdy shoe. Judging by the moisture already soaking her feet and the sharp jabs that penetrated the soles each time she trod upon a rock or twig, Juliana was not in possession of the desired type.

  Under the canopy of the trees, everything was still wet from the prior day’s storm. Every branch she brushed dampened her clothes and soon her hem was as soaked as her shoes. A breeze rustled the leaves all around her, turning the dampness to a chill. She shivered.

  Still she did not turn back. She trudged on.

  She was no longer likely to arrive in London before her birthday, but she would get there somehow. Mr. Rosevear had been right about one thing. The world was not kind. People were just as dangerous as the wilderness.

  She walked, reciting her destination as a chant to keep her company. Hammersley, Brint & Peale. Number 48 Hardwick Street. She knew she could not fail to remember it, but reciting the information comforted her. When she was fairly certain she’d walked deep enough into the thick forest to be undetectable from the road, she pivoted and began walking in what she hoped was a parallel course.

  Once sufficient time had passed, she would allow herself to walk more closely to the road so as to not find herself too far off course. If they were still several hours from London by coach, how long would it take her to walk there? Days? What would she eat?

  She immediately felt hungry for no reason other than the uncertainty of her next meal. It was her own fault, of course. He had offered her something to eat and she had obstinately chosen to decline.

  Sleeping would be another difficulty. She had never slept outdoors before. What of the wild animals? What if there was another storm such as the previous day’s? She would have no shelter.

  She stopped walking and looked to the patches of sky visible through the breaks in the trees. It was blue enough, but would that last until she reached London?

  She looked behind her. Maybe she should go back. If they had been able to repair whatever was wrong with the carriage, she could be warm and dry and speeding toward London. Yes, he had threatened to return her to her father, but would he really do so? Now that she thought more clearly, he was as anxious to reach London as she. It would be irrational for him to further delay his arrival when he could be rid of her by simply proceeding directly to town and parting ways there.

  Nearly as irrational as Juliana believing she could walk all the way.

  She turned, pushing a thin, flexible branch out of her path, only to displace another that sprang back and struck her on the cheek, narrowly missing her eye.

  “Ouch.”

  She nearly started at the sound of her own voice, so out of place among the sounds of the woods—the leaves and birds and falling droplets. Another breeze rose as though from the forest floor. This one shook the leaves above her so thoroughly, the rainwater they still held fell in a deluge, as though mother nature had thought it humorous to create a rain shower just for her.

  “I am an idiot,” she announced to whatever woodland creatures might be hiding nearby.

  As though in agreement with her declaration, one more fat drop of rainwater fell, striking the brim of her bonnet before dropping onto her collarbone and sliding into the bodice of her dress.

  Lovely.

  She reached down with both hands, grabbed fistfuls of her skirt and pulled the hem clear to her calves, fully determined to march herself right back to Mr. Rosevear.

  Only she didn’t march. There was a new sound in the forest. She held her breath and listened.

  Snap.

  There it was again—the cracking sound of steps breaking twigs on the forest floor. She was not alone. Someone or something was walking nearby.

  Gelert. Had he sent the dog after her? As she stood, frozen, her mind recalled the story of the original Gelert. He had savagely bested a wolf. If Mr. Rosevear instructed his dog to give chase, what would the beast do when he found her?

  Snap.

  She turned her head in the direction of the sound. She stared into the tangle of trees and brush, watching as the source of the noise emerged.

  For a moment, she relaxed. It was not Gelert. It was a stranger. The moment was fleeting, however, for he stepped closer and she saw he was not unfamiliar to her. She had seen him in the common room at the inn, with another man. Looking for someone.

  As she stared at him, he stopped walking, met her eyes, and grinned.

  She hiked her skirts even higher and took off at a run, desperately hoping she was running in the direction of the road. Branches scraped her and she kept going. She nearly stumbled on a rock, but she righted herself.

  Her efforts were futile. He caught her easily. He
caught hold of her sleeve and yanked her back. She tried to pull back from his hold but only succeeded in causing a tear in the garment. She stumbled back toward him with a force that pulled her bonnet from her head and expelled her breath. “Just where do you think you’re going?” he grumbled low at her ear. His breath was warm and rotten and he smelled of filth. She should have known her father would not lay out the coin for a kidnapper who bathed or washed his clothing. She wriggled in his arms in an attempt to work herself free. Her bonnet, still tied under her chin, was crushed between them.

  He pinched her arm and she winced. “Be still girl,” he hissed, “else I’ll knock you dead out and carry you like a sack back to your father.”

  She had assumed that he had been sent by her father, but hearing the confirmation spoken by this awful man sent a spike of rage through her. The vision of her father meeting this miscreant face to face and willingly sending him after his only child steeled her resolve more than any of the blows he’d given her directly throughout her life.

  She went limp in compliance with his reprimand. The sudden change in her posture gave her enough room within his hold to free her arms and pivot towards him. She lifted her hands and slapped, as hard as she could, with open palms against his ears. His grip immediately loosened and she twisted away.

  She didn’t wait to find out how quickly he would recover. She hiked her skirt and ran again, breathless with both panic and the victory that her attempt to free herself had worked.

  Only it had not. Not really. He caught her quickly again, this time reaching up to yank her cruelly by her hair. She yelped, unable to stop it, and cursed her father again. Whenever he’d boxed her ears, she’d suffered dizziness for hours—sometimes her ears rang for days.

  She scratched at his arm and he cursed.

  “You little bitch.” He yanked her hair again and tears stung her eyes from the pain of it. He pulled her up against him once more and hissed, “Your father promised me you’d be real meek and scared. He ain’t paid me enough for this. I’ll have to take payment from you for that scratch.”

  She squirmed in his hold and he pulled her more tightly. “Yes, I think I’ll enjoy that very much. Maybe you should scratch me again, so’s you’ll ‘ave to pay twice.” His fist closed around her upper arm and squeezed, mercilessly. She tried very hard to stoically bear the pain, but she could not. She whimpered and hated that she did. She retaliated by kicking backward with her heel, hoping to find contact with his shin.

  At first, she thought the low growl that followed her kick emanated from her captor, but she quickly realized it did not. It was from farther away and it was not human.

  She wrenched herself in his hold and confirmed her suspicion.

  Gelert.

  The dog stared at both of them for a moment, teeth bared, the hair along his spine spiking upward. Then he charged.

  Out of instinct, she turned away from the attack the best she could in the tight grip of her assailant. But she was not the intended victim. The man howled and she turned in time to see the dog lunge, clamping down on his leg. The force of the impact sent him tumbling to the ground, freeing his hold on her and she stumbled away.

  Gelert lunged at the man again. Juliana watched in awe of the dog’s ferocity, unable to feel remorse for the awful man. Despite Gelert’s vicious hold, the man landed solid blows around the dogs head and onto the dog’s back, but Gelert did not give any sign of pain and did not relent. He held the grip tightly and growled deeply. When the man continued to struggle, Gelert began to pull, thrashing his head back and forth with the man’s arm in his jaws, drawing a wild howl from the criminal.

  “Gelert. Enough.”

  Mr. Rosevear’s firm call halted the dog immediately. The beast stood over his prey and stared at his master, awaiting further instruction.

  Juliana lifted her eyes to Mr. Rosevear’s as he emerged from the brush. He made a brief gesture with one hand and the dog sat back on his haunches, all signs of aggression gone, save the blood on his nose and the intermittent groans from the man on the ground.

  Mr. Rosevear looked at Juliana then, and she back at him. It was only then she realized the item he carried along his side, the full length of his right leg, was not a cane this time. It was a long gun. They stared at each other across the small clearing. He had lived up to his word. He had protected her even after she had fled. She was certain she looked nearly feral with her dress torn, her bonnet gone, and her hair pulled in all directions. She was breathless from fear and the exertion of fighting off her attacker and couldn’t imagine her heartbeat would ever be peaceful again.

  The dog gave a brief whine and Michael nodded, releasing him from his hold command. The dog stood erect and looked between his master and Juliana. Then he lumbered away from his victim, slowly but directly, to Juliana’s side. He turned and sat, shoulders tall, at her right elbow.

  She stared down at him. She had never been this close to him before—close enough that she could hear his breath and feel his warmth. She lifted her hand and set it, gingerly, atop the dog’s head. It was warm and solid underneath the wiry tangle of fur. He pressed upward into her touch with surprising gentleness. She crooked her fingers and scratched into the fur as she’d seen Mr. Rosevear do. He pressed his head more firmly into the scratch.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to the dog, her voice still unsteady.

  Chapter Nine

  Michael walked to stand over the groaning man, surveying his condition. He’d seen Gelert attack a man only one other time. As that man had been preparing to beat the dog with a heavy club, Michael could not fault the dog’s judgment. Unfortunately for Gelert, he’d been a mere pup the first time. He had required Michael’s intervention and, that day, became Michael’s companion.

  This man was unlucky enough to meet Gelert full grown.

  “Will he live?”

  Michael looked over his shoulder to see Miss Crawley approach. She was in complete disarray—her dress torn, her hair falling about her shoulders in a riotous red tumble. Her hand rested on the mottled fur of Gelert, who stood sentry by her side, muzzle stained with blood. Her shoulders were straight and her chin was high. Her face bore the determination of a warrior goddess, as though she had come from the pages of a legendary tale as opposed to an inn in Peckingham.

  She bit her lip and stared at the man, reminding Michael of her question. He wasn’t certain which answer she might have preferred, but he looked back at Gelert’s victim. He had large, ragged tears on both his right leg and his right forearm. Judging by the odd angle of the arm, it was broken as well. He was bleeding a fair bit.

  “He may live,” Michael said after completing his assessment. “That will depend upon him I suppose. His wounds are not fatal. He will either summon the determination to haul himself out of this forest, or he will not.” He faced Miss Crawley. “Either way, he will no longer be a threat to us.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “You only have Gelert to thank,” he answered, with a nod toward the dog. “He had your attacker well in hand without my help.”

  “You came after me.”

  Michael lowered his head. It was there again in her expression—that gratitude that made him feel as though he would battle anything for her. He tried to ignore it. “Of course I did. You may be the most maddening woman I’ve ever met, but no man would have simply ridden on to London after his passenger had been abducted from right under his nose.”

  She gave him an odd look, as though he’d said something that didn’t make sense. He rather thought she was the nonsensical one. “What I don’t understand,” Michael continued, “is why you didn’t make noise when you were taken—to gain our attention. When I realized you were gone, I thought perhaps you’d been knocked unconscious or taken at gunpoint, but neither seems to be the case. Why did you go quietly?”

  “You came after me because you thought I was taken f
rom the road?”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “No.”

  “Explain.”

  She didn’t cower or avert her eyes this time. She faced him defiantly, daring him to find fault with her words as she said, “You threatened to return me to my father. And then you and Mr. Finn were distracted by the carriage.” She gave a small, one-shouldered shrug as though to suggest he could imagine the rest.

  He could. “So you ran.”

  “It was a rash decision. I realize that now.”

  Michael looked at the man on the ground. “That is not the sort of man a concerned father hires to locate his missing daughter so that she may be safely returned home.”

  “No. It is not.”

  He looked at her again. She too, had turned her attention to the kidnapper. She was still, but with her riotous hair, torn dress, and wild eyes, she looked the way Michael felt inside. Disordered. Unsettled.

  “I would have run,” he said quietly. “Were I in your place.”

  She nodded at this acknowledgment then asked, “Why did you think I’d been taken?”

  “Because Albert noticed that our carriage accident was not an accident, but sabotage. Well, that, and the other miscreant who is currently tied to the wreckage of my father’s coach.”

  She inhaled a slow deep breath and released it. “I am to blame for the destruction of your father’s beautiful coach. I have no way to make recompense.”

  Michael shook his head. She had just fought for her life and she apologized for a carriage. “My father has others. You have only the one neck. We should return to see what Albert has done with this man’s associate.”

  She looked in the direction of the road but did not begin walking.