“How do you know?”
“Should hit a lane at any moment.”
“But what if they get across the bridge?”
“We must hope they’re too faint-hearted to attempt it.”
Delia was not convinced. “They’ve shown nerve enough so far.”
“But not common sense. With luck, one of them at least will fall in.”
At which instant, Delia heard a loud cry and a splash. Elation soared and she laughed out. “They have fallen in!” She was craning to try and see behind Giff and caught an amused look.
“It’s to be hoped they never find out how pleased you are about it.”
“Pleased? I hope the wretch has broken his leg. But I’m sorry for the horse.” Giff’s laughter echoed in the trees and Delia gave him a buffet on the arm. “Hush, for heaven’s sake! They’ll hear you.”
His brows flew up. “If I ever met such a bossy chit!”
“If it comes to that, I’ve never met such an autocratic fellow!” She regarded him a moment, a little concerned to see strain in his face. “Do you need another swig of brandy?”
He shook his head briefly, his gaze concentrated on path ahead.
Delia studied his face without meaning to, forgetful of everything save his danger. A pang smote her. He mustn’t die!
“Why is your cousin trying to make away with you? What did you mean when you said you were in the way?”
But she’d lost Giff’s attention. His brows had drawn together and he turned his head to look back. A fretful mutter escaped him. “What, are they bloodhounds?” His glance swept Delia’s face. “I don’t think you’ve got your wish.”
Her pulse shot in high gear. “They’re still coming? Oh, no!”
“Not fast, though. We still have a chance. Hold on now!”
His piercing whistle made Delia catch at her ear, but she was obliged to grab the horse’s mane again and hang on for dear life as Tiger lengthened his stride to a canter. Hoarse shouts sounded in the rear, but they rapidly diminished as the distance grew between them and the fleeing stallion.
In seconds, the path opened into a lane. The horse swerved into it and then he was galloping hell for leather. Giff bent low, forcing Delia to do the same.
The country began to change around them, the woodlands giving way to pasture fields bounded by hedges, with the welcome sight of cottages nestling in the midst and a church spire some way ahead.
Tiger dropped to a canter, and Delia was able to push up from her crouch as Giff lifted away. She was obliged to catch her breath before she could attempt to speak, and was thankful as the horse slowed to a trot, evidently also in some distress.
“Is the church where your uncle lives?”
Giff did not respond and Delia looked quickly round. He was pale, his jaw tight and the strain was evident.
“Is it hurting?”
He nodded. His jaw unclenched. “Nearly there.”
A man with a bundle of sticks on his shoulders came into sight, and then another carrying a couple of full sacks. Looking about, Delia realised they were entering a village. Relief swept over her.
“Stepleton, didn’t you say?”
Giff merely nodded again and urgency crept over her. He was nearly spent. What was more, so was Tiger. Steam was rising from the horse’s flanks and his breath was coming in heavy snorts.
She nearly cried with relief when they turned a corner and the lane opened out into a green, surrounded by a number of dwellings. There was no one about beyond a couple of boys working the pump in the middle of a small square. The church lay directly to the right and Giff urged Tiger into a pathway running behind.
“We’re going in by the cemetery?”