The horn sounded again, and the mail coach swung faintly into view, its red wheels bright against the snow. Johnson stood in the road ahead, waving his arms like a man possessed. The driver swore at him but drew his team down to a trot. The guard, perched high behind with his horn, had taken out his blunderbuss and was peering keenly over the side.
Darcy stepped forward into the open as they approached.
“Your way will clear in a moment,” he called. “We were waylaid, but the men have run. If we could have a little help to remove the obstruction, you will soon be back to speed.”
The guard’s eyes ran over the scene in a quick, practised survey. His expression hardened as his eyes landed on Darcy.
“Highwaymen?” he called back. He sounded incredulous, for highwaymen had all but disappeared from England’s roads.
Darcy inclined his head. “Fools,” he said. “They fled at the sound of your horn.”
“And the sight of Mr. Darcy’s pistol,” Johnson added, with a glance over his shoulder that was half awe, half relief.
Darcy shook his head once, a small movement that he hoped would silence Johnson. It had not been clear what the men would have risked had the mail coach not made the decision for them.
A man riding on the back of the stagecoach jumped down to assist Anders and Johnson with the branch. Darcy meant to help, but Anders shook his head. “You only have one good arm, sir. Besides, it’s not so very large.”
It did not take long before the road was clear. The guard spat down into the snow and spoke a few rapid words to the driver. As soon as his man was again in position, the driver flicked his whip and the mail coach rumbled on past them at a cautious pace, wheels jolting over the marks where the felled limb had lately lain. As they passed, the guard touched the brim of his hat to Darcy with a rough sort of respect.
“Much obliged to you, sir,” he said. “We shall make a report to the postmaster at the next town. See to that arm. They are more trouble when they are left.”
Darcy touched the brim of his hat.
The coach went on, gathering speed as it climbed out of the hollow. Silence settled in its wake. The air smelt of powder and cold and the coppery smell of the blood on his sleeve.
Darcy looked down at it. The dark cloth of his coat was torn along the upper arm, the edges stiffened where blood had begun to dry. Now that there was no immediate need to ignore it, the pain announced itself withmore insistence. His arm felt heavy and hot, as if someone had bound a band of iron around the muscle.
He flexed his fingers. They moved with only a little pain from the wound. Not deep, then, only inconvenient.
“Are either of you hurt?” he asked.
Anders shook his head. There were beads of sweat upon his brow, though the day was bitter.
“Not I, sir,” he said. “Nor Johnson.”
Darcy was grateful to them for calming the horses. He had seen a bolting team do a great deal of damage, and as much as Mrs. Hobart irritated the life out of him, he would not wish her harmed.
“Look to the horses,” he said. “We will not remain here.”
Anders had already gone to the harness. He ran his hands along leather and buckle with the reflex of long habit, his eyes on his work rather than on the scarred bank.
“All is well,” he said after a moment.
“Then let us leave this place,” Darcy said.
He turned back to the carriage and set his good hand upon the door. For an instant he let himself feel the weight of what lay behind it: two women, one foolish and loud, one too courageous for his comfort. Then he opened it and stepped in.
Chapter Thirteen
Elizabeth’s hands currently knew their business better than the rest of her.
Her heart thudded against stays that seemed oddly tight, her ears were still ringing with the echo of the last shot, and her stomach would have cheerfully remained behind in the hollow.
Her fingers were already reaching for Mrs. Hobart’s large reticule.
“Mrs. Hobart,” she said, surprised by how steady she sounded, “I must have your flask.”
Her companion slumped in a disordered heap upon the opposite seat, her bonnet askew, her pelisse wrinkled, one plump hand pressed to her bosom. At Elizabeth’s words she started, blinked, and reached for the reticule.