Too Wicked to Tame (The Derrings #2)(78)

He slid after her, his small, dark eyes narrowing in predatory enjoyment. “A few hours in this carriage and marriage to me will be your only alternative.” He nodded, his chin jutting forward in satisfaction. “I mean to see you keep the promise you made.”

His hands grasped the hem of her nightgown. She shrank back as far as the wall vibrating against her shoulder would allow.

Still, he clung.

“Can’t have you wed in this, can we?” His thick fingers worked fast. Two great, mauling paws gathered fistfuls of her nightgown. She slapped at his hands. Still he talked, lifting her gown higher and higher, heedless of her kicks. “Your sister-in law packed a change of clothes. Nice of her, eh?”

If the hands on her nightgown weren’t message enough, his leer left no doubt. He meant to ravish here right here, right now.

“Simon, please—” her voice broke into a strangled sob as his hands gripped her bare knees.

Hard, brutal fingers dug into her tender flesh, forcing her legs apart, spiking unthinkable terror in the deep well of her heart.

This isn’t happening. Pulse thundering in her throat, she thrashed her legs, desperate to fight him off even as her stomach rebelled, convincing her she was going to be ill again.

He dropped his full overwhelming weight on her—a mountain crushing the air from her lungs, shoving her so hard into the carriage wall that she feared her bones might snap from the pressure.

Grunting, she fought for breath, life, freedom. She writhed, struggling to free her hands from between their bodies. All the while her knees worked furiously, pumping, squirming, trying to shake off his foraging hands.

He leaned back ever so slightly to fumble with his trousers, and her terror swelled, a deep burn in the pit of her stomach.

Time suspended. She froze, sealed in a tight bubble of astonishment. She gazed at him, the man bent on violating her: the wild tick in his jaw, the sweat sheening his nose and beading his upper lip, the open mouth and wet, furry-looking teeth.

Sounds heightened, building to a roar in her head. The excited rasp of his breath. The creaks and groans of the jostling carriage. The thundering beat of rain all around them. The fall of hooves on the wet road.

Her gaze shifted, darting about wildly, desperately, a sparrow in flight looking for a safe place to land. The sound of his trousers sliding, dropping, fired her to action. Her gaze fell on the door’s latch, inches to her left.



With a prayer on her lips, she surged forth and kicked him full in the chest. Her hand flew to the latch, grappled with it for a heartbeat before it opened. A gust of wind flung the door wide. Rain pelted her face, impairing her vision as she looked out at the blur of trees flying past.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she jumped. Wind and rain rushed her. Earth rose up to meet her. She landed unevenly, her feet slipping on the wet ground. The carriage thundered past. She fought for balance but still fell, pain lancing her left ankle.

Half staggering, half crawling, she dragged herself into the thick undergrowth crowding the road.

She pushed ahead, slapping at branches, ignoring the wet, the cold, the agony in her ankle.

Branches clawed at her sodden nightgown, tore at her unbound hair. Still, she pressed on, determined to lose herself in the woods.

She struggled forward, wincing at the jar of her every step, her breath falling in violent spurts.

She bit her lip until the coppery tang of blood ran over her teeth. Soon another sound rose over the rain and pound of her heart.

Voices.

Simon’s. The driver’s.

They grew closer, the heavy tread of boots on the forest floor reverberating through the trees.

“Portia!”

Close. Much too close.

Dropping on all fours, she crawled to the nearest tree and pressed her back against the rough bark. Tucking her knees to her chest, she tried to steady her gasps, to collect her thoughts. Her ears strained for the slightest noise, a voice, a movement beyond that of rain and wind.

Unfolding her legs, she resumed crawling through the muck.

“Portia!”

She froze. The voice was close, so near she feared she had been sighted. Still as stone, she looked up. Her heart lodged in her throat. She eased back on her heels and pressed a fist to her lips, stifling the cry that threatened to spill.

Simon stood to her left, leaning against a tree not two yards from where she squatted in the mud.

He stared ahead, not looking in her direction. Her heart beat wild as a drum against her chest.

Surely he would see her white gown. She risked a glance down and released a silent sigh. Not a trace of white remained. Closing her eyes, she remained just so, making herself a part of the landscape, as still as any rock lying on the ground.

Simon pushed his wet hair back from his brow and looked left and right, his gaze skipping over her. “Portia!” he roared.



A shudder ripped through her. She clenched her hands, her nails slicing into her palms as she willed herself to become invisible.

With an ear-stinging curse, he set off again, calling her name in a voice that carried to the skies.

Once his heavy tread faded, she shoved to her feet and slogged back to the road. Bursting through the trees, she scanned the road. The coach loitered several yards to her right, its horses munching on the low-hanging branches of a hawthorne tree.

Heart hammering in her too-tight chest, she hurried forward, careful not to startle the horses.