A Night Like This (Smythe-Smith Quartet #2)(52)

“You left when she died, I presume.”
“Yes. I was quite fortunate in that she had a great-niece near Birmingham who was in need of a governess. I think she knew that her time was near, and she made the arrangements for a new position before she passed.” Anne was quiet for a moment, then he felt her straighten beside him, almost as if she were shaking off the foggy mantle of memory. “And I’ve been a governess ever since.”
“It seems to suit you.”
“Most of the time, yes.”
“I should think—” He cut himself off sharply. Something was amiss with the horses.
“What is it?” Anne asked.
He shook his head. He couldn’t talk right now. He needed to focus. The team was pulling to the right, which made no sense. Something snapped, and the horses took off at breakneck speed, pulling the curricle along with them until—
“Dear God above,” Daniel breathed. As he watched in horror, still struggling to control the team, the harness came separated from the shaft and the horses took off to the left.
Without the carriage.
Anne let out a little cry of surprised terror as the curricle sped down the hill, tilting wildly on its two wheels. “Lean forward!” Daniel yelled. If they could keep the carriage balanced, they could ride out the hill until they slowed down. But the canopy weighted it down at the back, and bumps and ruts in the oft-traveled road made it nearly impossible to hold their positions leaning forward.
And then Daniel remembered the turn. Halfway down the hill the road curved sharply to the left. If they continued straight on, they’d be tossed down the hill, into a thick wood.
“Listen to me,” he said to Anne urgently. “When we reach the bottom of the hill, lean left. With everything you have, lean left.”
She gave a frantic nod. Her eyes were terrified, but she was not hysterical. She would do what she needed to do. As soon as—
“Now!” he yelled.
They both threw themselves to the left, Anne landing half atop him. The curricle lifted onto one wheel, its wooden spokes protesting with a horrible shriek at the extra burden. “Forward!” Daniel yelled, and they heaved themselves forward, causing the carriage to turn left, narrowly missing the edge of the road.
But as they turned, their left wheel—the only one in contact with the ground—caught on something, and the curricle pitched forward, bouncing into the air before landing back on its wheel with a sickening crack. Daniel held on for dear life, and he thought Anne was doing the same, but as he watched in helpless terror, the curricle spit her out, and the wheel— Oh, dear God, the wheel! If it ran over her—
Daniel did not stop to think. He hurled himself to the right, toppling the curricle before it could strike Anne, who was somewhere on the ground, somewhere to the left.
The curricle smacked against the earth, skidding for several yards before coming to a halt in the mud. For a moment Daniel could not move. He’d been punched before, he’d fallen off horses; hell, he’d even been shot. But never had his breath been so completely ripped from his body as when the curricle hit the ground.
Anne. He had to get to her. But he had to breathe first, and his lungs felt as if they’d gone into a spasm. Finally, still gasping for air, he crawled out of the overturned carriage. “Anne!” he tried to bellow, but it was all he could do to wheeze her name. His hands squelched into the mud, and then his knees, and then, using the splintered side of the curricle for support, he managed to stagger to his feet.
“Anne!” he called again, this time with more volume. “Miss Wynter!”
There was no response. No sound at all, save for the rain, slapping against the sodden ground.
Still barely able to stand, Daniel searched frantically from his spot next to the curricle, turning in circles as he held on for support, looking for any sign of Anne. What had she been wearing? Brown. She’d been in brown, a medium shade of it, perfect for blending in with the mud.
She must be behind him. The curricle had rolled and skidded for some distance after she’d been thrown out. Daniel tried to make his way to the back of the carriage, his boots finding little traction in the deepening mud. He slid, losing his balance, and he pitched forward, his hands flailing for anything that might keep him upright. At the last moment, they closed around a thin strip of leather.
The harness.
Daniel looked down at the leather in his hands. It was the trace, meant to connect the horse to the carriage shaft. But it had been cut. Only the very end looked frayed, as if it had been left dangling by a thread, ready to snap at the slightest pressure.
Ramsgate.
His body filled with rage, and Daniel finally found the energy to move beyond the broken curricle and search for Anne. By God, if anything had happened to her . . . If she was seriously injured . . .
He would kill Lord Ramsgate. He would eviscerate him with his bare hands.
“Anne!” he yelled, spinning madly in the mud as he searched for her. And then—was that a boot? He rushed forward, stumbling through the rain until he saw her clearly, crumpled on the ground, half on the road, half in the wood.
“Dear God,” Daniel whispered, and he ran forward, terror grabbing at his heart. “Anne,” he said frantically, reaching her side and feeling for a pulse. “Answer me. God help me, answer me now.”
She did not respond, but the steady pulse at her wrist was enough to give him hope. They were only about half a mile from Whipple Hill. He could carry her that far. He was shaking, and bruised, and probably bleeding, but he could do this.
Carefully, he lifted her into his arms and began the treacherous walk home. The mud made each step a balancing act, and he could barely see through his hair, plastered over his eyes by the rain. But he kept going, his exhausted body finding strength through terror.