was afraid if she tried to free them he'd lose his grip on her completely.
Then they were through the gate. Abigail heard one final shot, then Anthony and Ned were close on their heels.
Gifford kept up the same hard pace for the first quarter of a mile, back down the road they'd already travelled earlier that evening. But it was too dark to race at breakneck speed along the rutted roads.
He called an order to the others, then slowed to a walk before they finally halted and turned to listen for pursuit.
Abigail took the opportunity to rearrange herself in his arms. It wasn't that she didn't trust him, but she hated the slithery, jolty feeling she might end up in the ditch at every pounding stride.
'W-where's your gun?' she asked, suddenly realising his right palm was pressed against her stomach and there was no sign of the weapon he'd fired at the gatekeeper.
'I dropped it.' A hint of surprised laughter underpinned his brief reply. 'It was either you or the pistol at that moment.'
'Good.' She wrapped her arms tightly around him. She was trembling so violently she couldn't stop her teeth chattering. 'I d-don't w-want to be d-dropped.'
'I won't drop you.' His voice gentled and he pressed his cheek briefly against her hair. 'Anyone hurt?' he asked the others tersely. 'Lead us out of here, Ned.'
Abigail hid her face in his coat. Deep shudders racked her body. Her arms locked convulsively around
him. She felt cold despite the humid warmth of the night.
For several miles she was barely aware of her surroundings. She didn't know that both Ned and Anthony directed anxious, low-voiced enquiries to her. She didn't say anything to anyone. She clung to Gifford and found comfort in the strong arms which encircled her almost as tightly as she held him.
He wouldn't drop her. He'd promised.
Chapter Eight
Gifford held Abigail close and battled with the fury which coursed through his body. His anger hadn't abated just because he had her safely in his arms. If anything, it had magnified. He wanted to go back and tear Charles Johnson apart. He knew he should say something to comfort Abigail, reassure her that nothing would harm her now. But the only words which sprang to his lips were vengeful curses.
For several miles he trusted to Ned to find the route ahead and Anthony to watch for pursuit behind. He'd maintained his icy self-control throughout the auction. But now rage clouded his mind and his senses. His tense muscles burned with the self-restraint he'd imposed upon himself since he'd learned of Abigail's capture. He needed the release of action, more violent, cathartic action than the brief skirmish in the inn yard.
But the only action he could allow himself was to ride through the night to safety. He clenched his teeth until his jaw ached, but he said nothing and did nothing to alarm Abigail.
She trembled and panted in his arms. Her body vibrated against his, reminding him of the soft, vulner-
able fear of a wild bird. But there was nothing soft about the death grip she had around his neck. It was uncomfortable to the point of painful, but it was a pain he welcomed.
Her distress stoked his anger—but her fierce embrace was strangely soothing. He liked how she clung to him, as if he was the only sanctuary she needed. Of course, that was an illusion. As soon as he got her back to Bath, she would turn to the comfort of old, familiar friends like Mrs Chesney.
But he was the one she'd turned to first. She'd not bothered even to ask how he'd found her. She'd simply put her arms around him and told him not to drop her.
He liked that.
He liked that in the most traumatic experience of her life she'd trusted him without a single question. He liked that even after the degradation of the auction— even though he'd bought her—she was willing to let him hold her close to him.
He suddenly worried that he might be holding her too tightly. He loosened his embrace slightly. Immediately she pressed herself closer to him.
'Don't let go!' Her whisper was panicky.
'I won't.' His voice sounded husky and he cleared his throat before continuing. 'I didn't want to hurt you—holding you too tight.'
'Oh.' She sighed. Her trembling eased and he felt her relax against him. 'You're not hurting. It's nice. Safe.'
She moved her head, pushing up a mass of curls which caressed his cheek and filled his mouth when he opened it to speak. He blew the curls out of the way
and felt her shivering response. He lifted his chin and she snuggled more comfortably against his shoulder.
'No sign they're following,' said Anthony softly. 'Are we heading back to Bath now?'
'No!' Abigail roused abruptly in Gifford's arms, startling him. 'Please! I don't want...' Her voice broke and she turned her face towards him. He felt her breath warm against his neck, and then the dampness of tears on his skin.
'Abby? You'll be safe in Bath.'
She shook her head. 'No. Please...I'm sorry...' She swallowed and pressed against him.
Her distress hurt him. He didn't know what to say to reassure her. His right hand closed to a fist in the thin muslin of her gown. He hated the dress, not because it didn't suit her, but because it had revealed to the lascivious mob all the feminine charms he'd spent days dreaming about.
In this dress, standing beneath the lanterns, there had been no mistaking the full swell of Abigail's breasts. Her nipples had pressed against the sheer muslin of the bodice. Her hair had fallen in a riot of Titian curls around her shoulders, a temptation no man could resist.
The only previous occasion when Gifford had seen her uncovered hair had been the night Miss Wyndham had died. And as soon as Abigail had realised how improperly she was dressed she'd wrapped herself in a shawl.
Tonight...
Gifford carefully opened his hand and smoothed the thin muslin against her back.
He wasn't used to worrying about other people's opinions. He lived according to his own code. There were very few men whose judgement mattered to him. He had no time for scandal or gossip. He'd meant to take Abigail straight back to Bath because he thought she'd feel safer in familiar surroundings with familiar people.
But perhaps not.
He usually tried to block out memories of his time as a captive on the privateer ship—but now he let them surface. He remembered the bitter sense of defilement he'd felt as a prisoner. His shame that he'd ever been captured—even though he'd been wounded and unconscious when his first lieutenant had surrendered the ship. He had escaped from—killed—his own guards, then crept through the privateer ship to release his men. Together with his crew he had gained control of the enemy ship and eventually recaptured his frigate, the Unicorn. He'd ultimately turned defeat into a resounding victory.
But the shame and horror of waking a prisoner on board the privateer ship had never left him.
He knew why Abigail couldn't face her old friends so soon after the terrible thing that had been done to her. She was ashamed.
'Ned.' He raised his voice. 'Do you know an honest inn nearby? Where the innkeeper is discreet?'
'To change the horses, sir?'
'To take a couple of rooms.'
'Rooms?' Ned rode in silence for a while. 'Yes, sir,' he said at last. "Bout three miles away. I'll take you there.'
'Thank you.'
'Good idea,' said Anthony. A breeze had picked up as they were riding. The heavy cloud cover was breaking up, allowing starlight to brighten their path. When Gifford glanced at his cousin he saw the flash of a smile. It occurred to him that Anthony might have been ahead of him on this matter.
Anthony had also been a prisoner of the privateers. He had his own share of nightmares from that time. And in some respects he might understand how Abigail felt better than Gifford did. Gifford was grateful for his cousin's intervention.
Abigail stirred in his arms.
'Thank you,' she murmured. 'I'm sorry to be a nuisance. But...I've never spent a single night at Mrs Chesney's before. For this to be the first time...I couldn't...I'm sorry. But...thank
you.'
Gifford's arms tightened. 'You're not a nuisance. Never.'
Abigail rested against Gifford. She wished they could go on riding through the night forever. Through the dark. Unseen.
Her arms ached from holding on to him so tightly. She marginally relaxed her grip, knowing he would never let her fall. She didn't want to think about the future—or the recent past. She didn't want to think at all.
She was glad they were going to an inn. She couldn't bear the thought of exposing herself to Mrs Chesney in her current state. The landlady was kind-hearted and
practical—but she would be so shocked if she saw Abigail. So...scandalised.
Abigail knew Mrs Chesney would be scandalised by what had happened to her, because she was scandalised.
So deeply ashamed of what had happened to her she didn't know if she'd ever be able to show herself in daylight again. Ever be able to talk to anyone who'd known her before this night.
She moaned softly at the thought.
'Abby? What's wrong?'
She shook her head at Gifford's worried question, and hid her face against him.
He held her firmly with his left arm and stroked her hair gently with his right hand.
'Everything will be all right,' he said softly. 'Everything will be fine.'
Tears forced their way beneath her closed eyelids, scalding her cheeks. She didn't see how anything could ever be all right again.
She was dimly aware when they arrived at the inn Ned had selected. She felt the cessation of motion and heard voices as Anthony and Ned spoke to the innkeeper. But she didn't react until Gifford adjusted his hold on her and leant to one side.
'No!' She panicked, clinging tightly to him.
'I'm just passing you down to Anthony,' he reassured her.
'Oh. I'm sorry.' She forced herself to open her eyes and allowed the men to make the transfer. She heard Anthony give a soft grunt as he accepted her weight and she flinched, embarrassed and self-conscious at her
situation. For some reason such intimacy was acceptable with Gifford, but not with any other man.
'I really can walk,' she mumbled. 'Please put me down.' She struggled a little, and heard his quick intake of breath.
'Steady!' His voice was low and strained. 'Giff'll never forgive me if I drop you. Just rest a little longer. Please, ma'am.'
The discomfort in his voice jolted Abigail into a fuller awareness of her companions. She'd been lost in her own misery, but now she noticed how Anthony held most of her weight in his right arm, and how his left arm trembled under the strain.
In a flash she remembered how he'd caught her and then thrown her up to Gifford at the Blue Buck. There had been nothing wrong with Anthony then. But there was something wrong with him now.
'Put me down at once!' Anxiety about him pushed her other concerns into the background and gave emphasis to her command.
'I've got you.' Gifford reclaimed her and strode after the innkeeper, into a small parlour.
Abigail twisted her head to see if Anthony was following. 'Anthony, come with us. Make him come!' she told Gifford imperatively.
Anthony gave a long-suffering sigh and followed them into the parlour.
Gifford lowered Abigail into a chair and turned to look at his cousin. In the candlelight it was easy to see the bloodstained handkerchief Anthony had tied around his upper arm while they were riding.
'You damn fool!' Gifford snapped. 'I asked if you were hurt.'
'It's hardly significant.' Anthony sounded amused. 'I was winged going through the gate. That's all.'
Abigail didn't know a thing about bullet wounds, but the thought that Anthony had been wounded for her sake propelled her into action.
She pushed herself to her feet, and stood swaying slightly for a few seconds. She was horribly lightheaded, but she was determined to make herself useful. To exert her own free will on this matter at least. By the time she was ready to take an active part in the proceedings, Gifford had already issued orders to the innkeeper to fetch warm water and clean clothes. Abigail helped him to take off Anthony's coat.
'There is no need for all this fuss,' Anthony protested.
'I think you should sit down,' Abigail said.
'And there's no need for you to witness this,' Anthony replied almost crossly.
'I'm not squeamish.' She frowned at his bloody sleeve.
Unlike Gifford, Abigail's father hadn't been a rich man. He'd been actively involved in farming his land. On several occasions as a child, Abigail had helped her mother tend injured farm workers, but most of those wounds had been caused by sharp-bladed farming tools. And once a man had crushed his hand. She'd never seen a shot wound before.
'I wish I had my scissors,' she said, reluctant to tear Anthony's sleeve and perhaps hurt him.
'Here.' Gifford offered her a knife.
'Thank you.' Abigail took it, hesitating briefly as she felt the weight of the dagger in her hand. Then she took a deep breath and carefully slit Anthony's sleeve to his shoulder.
Over her head the two men exchanged glances. Anthony nodded slightly, and Gifford stood back, allowing Abigail to continue with her ministrations. It hadn't escaped his notice that, the moment she'd realised his cousin was hurt, she'd snapped out of her lethargy.
He allowed her to wash Anthony's wound without interfering, though his own fingers itched to take over the task. He'd seen his share of injuries. But Abigail was careful. She frowned with concentration as she knelt in front of Anthony, gently cleaning away the dried blood from his arm.
Gifford divided his attention between his cousin and Abigail. He saw how she showed no embarrassment over her own appearance in her worry about Anthony. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. Dried tears stained her cheeks. Her rich auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders. She didn't seem to notice she was still wearing the scandalous white gown, though Gifford had great difficulty not noticing.
He shrugged out of his coat, intending to give it to her at the first opportunity. Sooner or later she would remember how she was dressed, and he wanted to spare her any unnecessary distress at her situation.
At last Abigail sat back on her heels, biting her lip. She looked at the wound, still bleeding sluggishly, then up at Gifford.
'I don't know what to do next,' she confessed. 'I don't think the bullet is still in his arm. I think it went straight through. But I've never seen anyone get shot before. It's not like when Clem put a fork through his foot.'
'Who's Clem?' Anthony asked through gritted teeth, as Gifford moved forward to investigate his wound more closely.
'One of the farm workers. Before I went to live with Miss Wyndham.' Abigail leaned over Gifford's shoulder to see what he was doing.
'You're in my light,' he said gently.
'Oh, I'm sorry.' She stepped back.
'Why don't you put on my coat?' he suggested, his attention fixed on Anthony's arm.
'Oh...oh, thank you.' She slipped her arms into the sleeves, embarrassed that she'd forgotten her state of virtual undress. But Anthony's injury had been more important. It was amazing how much better she felt simply because she'd been able to help take care of Anthony.
'I'm so sorry you got hurt because of me,' she said, sitting on a chair next to him. 'Thank you for rescuing me. Thank you both for rescuing me. I don't know what...' Her voice faltered as she thought of what might have happened to her if they hadn't turned up at the Blue Buck. 'Where's Ned?' she asked a few moments later, looking around the parlour.
'Tending the horses,' said Gifford.
'] must thank him too,' said Abigail. She lifted a hand to push her hair back from her face. Gifford's coat was far too big for her. Only the tips of her fingers
extended beyond his sleeves. She perched on the edge of her chair, a sense of total unreality stealing over her.
She couldn't possibly be sitting in a strange parlour in the middle of the night, wearing Gifford's coat and watching him bandage Anthony's wound. She looked around the room.
Her eyes focussed on the back of a dining chair. Without being aware of what she was doing, her eyes began to trace the pattern carved into the wood—over and over again.
She jerked her head away, irritated with herself. And noticed now ugly the carpet was. She frowned.
'This is all very odd,' she announced, bewildered.
'Abby?' Gifford crouched in front of her, a steadying hand gripping her shoulder, as he peered into her face.
'I think I'm not q-quite myself,' she whispered. 'The carpet's very ugly, isn't it?'
'Yes.' Gifford stroked her hair with his other hand.
'You haven't looked at it.' She frowned at him.
He smiled at her. 'I have confidence in your good taste,' he said.
'Oh.' Abigail blinked. 'Is the bullet still in Anthony's arm?'
'No.'
'That's good. It would hurt if you had to dig it out.' Her thoughts disintegrated in a kaleidoscope of splintered images. She narrowed her eyes, trying to pull the picture together again. 'He would have to bite on a piece of wood,' she said suddenly. 'He might get splinters in his mouth.'
'Abby, you need to sleep,' Gifford said.
Abigail blinked again, accepting the truth of his comment. Then she jerked awake again. 'Don't leave me alone!' She clutched his wrist desperately. 'Please, don't leave me alone!'
'I won't leave you alone,' he promised.
Chapter Nine
'Captain Sir Gifford Raven.' A mocking voice pierced Gifford's pain-filled consciousness.
Gifford opened his good eye but couldn't see anything. Fear consumed him. Ever since he'd lost his left eye he'd dreaded the prospect of total blindness.
Then he realised his eyes were covered by cloth. His wrists and ankles were bound. He wasn't blind, but he was totally at the mercy of the mocking voice.
A prisoner.
He moved his head and sickening pain jolted through him. He clenched his jaw. Resisting the nausea that flooded him. Memory took longer to return.
The Unicorn had been sailing in company with another British frigate when they had encountered two enemy privateers. Two thirty-six-gun frigates should have been a match for the privateers. Why was he lying bound and blindfolded on an enemy ship?
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