Chasing the Heiress Read Free

cage.
    After a few minutes to recover his breath, Colin looked up at the carriage. Fletcher remained at his post, his body slumped forward.
    Colin climbed the side of the coach, gritting his teeth against the pain. Blood oozed through the hair at the back of the coachman’s head. Pressing his fingers to the older man’s neck, Colin felt the beat of the artery. Alive.
    Listening and watching for trouble, Colin weighed his options.
    They needed to move, to get off the open road. But for that, he needed Fletcher conscious. At least he wouldn’t have to explain to Cook how her man had been killed on a quiet English road after surviving a dozen campaigns against Boney.
    Still unable to hear, Colin retrieved a water flask from under the coachman’s seat. Tenderly cradling the older man’s head, Colin washed the blood away. The wound was a long gash, slantways from the back of Fletcher’s ear toward the back of his head. He pressed his fingers against the gash. Long but not deep and worst at the curve of Fletcher’s head where the weapon bit hardest through the skin.
    Fletcher moaned.
    Colin lifted Fletcher’s chin. “Pistol shot. Can’t hear.” Colin picked up the fallen reins and held them out. “Can you drive?”
    Fletcher took the reins in one hand. Then, raising his eyes to Colin’s, Fletcher held out his other hand, palm down, as one does when indicating a person’s height.
    â€œBobby?” Colin looked around for the postilion. Fletcher’s nephew had grown up on the ducal estate. The loss of Fletcher or Bobby would devastate the household.
    Fletcher nodded yes, then scowled. Leaning forward, he braced his elbows on his knees and supported his head with his hands.
    â€œI’ll find him. Stay with Marietta.” Colin took the rifle and the cartridge bag from beneath the coachman’s seat, loaded the gun, then placed both on the bench. Fletcher put his hand on the gun.
    Colin leapt from the coach, gritting his teeth against the pain as his feet hit the ground. Then, walking back along the road, Colin began looking for the boy, searching through the overgrown verges and dreading what he might find. A child’s body bleeding and broken after a fall from the carriage. Let him be alive . . . and, if wounded, with wounds that can heal .
    Colin turned at the curve.
    About a tenth of a mile beyond, he saw the boy’s body at the verge of the road. Colin ran to the boy and knelt beside him, checking his wounds. No gunshots. Colin felt his relief like cool water on a parched tongue. Bobby’s arm was twisted before his chest, as if he had been flung from the coach-top or dragged down from it. But Bobby was alive. Fletcher, Bobby, Marietta, all alive. At least their deaths wouldn’t weigh heavy on his conscience.
    The boy struggled to lift himself up and began to speak. But Colin shook his head, pointing to his ears. “Can’t hear.”
    Bobby pointed to his ankle. Colin felt it. No obvious broken bones. “Can you stand?”
    The boy shrugged and held out his uninjured arm for help. Ignoring the arm, Colin lifted the boy to his feet. Luckily Bobby was still small and lithe, not the strapping youth he would be in another year. Colin supported Bobby’s weight gently as the boy tested his ankle, gingerly at first, then with more pressure. When Bobby tried to step fully on the ankle, he recoiled in pain.
    â€œLet me help.” Colin wrapped his arm around Bobby’s waist, avoiding his injured arm. The two walked slowly back to the carriage. There, Fletcher and Colin helped the boy to the seat next to Fletcher, and Bobby took up the pistols.
    When Bobby was settled, Colin motioned for Fletcher’s attention. “Where’s the other one? The one the stable master insisted would care for the horses?”
    Hit me , Fletcher mouthed, demonstrating a blow to the back of his head.
    Colin’s strength suddenly faded. “How