She wrestled against him. “I said unhand me.”
“I’ll not be generous because you are female, Jezebel. Whom do you serve?”
“No one—”
“Lies.” He yanked her arm as if she were a cloth doll, pulling her toward his horse.
The world seemed to darken at the edges, but she fought against the sensation. She must stay alert. Memorize his features so she could describe him to the magistrate when she escaped.
Taller than Peter but shorter than Hugh. Brown hair, gray at the temples. Blue eyes. About forty years of age. And a fetter-strong grip she had to break.
She twisted into him. Her free hand grasped the fingers shackling her and jerked them back. Then she kicked.
Her boot found his knee. He let go and she ran.
Her rolled ankle protested each step, but she dared not slow. The sting of the smuggler’s slap still prickled her cheek, and she didn’t care to suffer more from his hands.
Dashing through a gap in the trees, she hurtled into the dark of the woods toward home. Perhaps if she screamed for help—
Fresh pain pressed her arm and tethered her to the spot. A grip far tighter than the smuggler’s captured her and spun her around. She prepared to kick.
Father, make my aim true.
* * *
Pain split Tavin’s shin, but his Hessian boots did a fair job protecting him. He swept Miss Lyfeld’s leg back with his and covered her mouth with his hand. “I’m here to help,” he whispered. “But you must be quiet, or they will find us.”
Her clear blue eyes narrowed when she recognized him. At her nod, his hand fell. He beckoned her deeper into the woods. “Let’s go.”
“What are you doing here?” Her tone was an accusation, as if this was his fault. Well, it was. In part. Still, she had no way of knowing that. Could she speak to him—even in a whisper—without sounding like a wasp about to sting?
“Later.” He’d not noticed the welt blossoming across her cheek until now. Tavin’s fingers itched to return the favor to the man responsible. “Are you hurt?”
“More furious than anything.”
“I want to hear the details, but we must hurry.”
“Aren’t we safe now that we’re in the trees?”
A shot cracked into the trunk of a nearby oak. Not as safe as she’d hoped.
He pulled her by the hand and ran. Dodged trees. She slid, and when he pulled her back to stand, she winced. “Did I hurt you?”
“No. My ankle twisted on the hilltop.”
“I’ll carry you.” One arm swept around her shoulders. The other scooped behind her knees, but she stepped out of his hold.
“I won’t slow us down.”
His estimation of her raised a notch. “Come on, then.”
Crack. Would they never stop shooting? Another crack, as a bullet struck a tree. Then a third, hitting ground. Moldy leaves skittered up the hem of her cloak. Of course. He tugged her behind a thick oak and pulled on the cloak’s fastener at her throat.
Her fingers fought his. “What you are doing?”
“The red draws his eye.” He yanked the garment off and wadded it, inside out, into a ball. He stuffed it under his arm and gripped her hand again. To his surprise, she curled her fingers around his, pulling him to the right.
“My home is that way.”
“Not yet.” He jogged with her in tow for a short distance. Releasing her hand, he slid into a ditch, then lifted his arms. Before he could instruct her, she leaned into him. Her breath was hot against his cheek when he lowered her beside him. “Not much farther.”
He’d spent the past few days scouting these woods, never imagining he’d be running from gunfire with Gemma. He pushed aside a clump of foliage and gestured for her to precede him through.
Smelling of decay and earth, the small clearing offered slight protection. “A moment’s rest.” He gestured to a fallen oak where she could sit while he thought.
“The Gypsy camp.” She touched her ankle and winced. “Why did we not go straight home?”
“We cannot risk being followed.” He walked the clearing’s perimeter, straining to see movement through the trees. “You don’t want them to know where you live and thereby learn your identity.”
“But I meant them no harm.”
“They may have believed that, until someone started firing a weapon.”
“That was not you?”
“Do you see a musket?” He didn’t even have a pistol.
“Then who shot at them?”
“It came from here in the trees. I’d fathom a guess I’m not the only person in Hampshire displeased with that particular group of smugglers.”
“There are more?”
It was hard not to laugh. “Many. And it’s a competitive field.”
She pushed a damp curl from her cheek. Without her bonnet or cloak, she appeared vulnerable and young, but not as young as he’d first thought. Her cheeks had lost some of the fullness of girlhood. She may be about to embark on her come-out, but she was no chit fresh from the schoolroom. “This makes no sense.”
It did to Tavin, but he’d not explain now.
A rustle. Tavin spun, his hand reaching behind his back for his knife—
Through a parting in the leaves, a dun-colored body sauntered several yards’ distant. Tavin’s shoulders relaxed.
“A pony.” He could hear the smile in her tone. “They run wild in the forest.”
“And it wants naught to do with us.” Tavin watched the creature. Its ears twitched, but it didn’t exhibit signs of alarm as it disappeared around a group of trees. That boded well for him, and Miss Lyfeld, too. He gestured for her to rise. “I’ve not heard a shot in a while. We’ll take a roundabout way and return to the house.”
“Where you will explain all of this to me?”
Her tone brooked no argument. Nor did the set of her jaw.
Better to change the subject than agree. “You said the man meant to take you with him. How did you break away?”
“I would not be a good aunt to two boys if I paid no mind to their tricks.”
Despite himself, he laughed. His smile fell when he reached the far side of the clearing. The pond he’d planned to skirt had swollen from last night’s torrent, blocking their path. “We could have walked around it yesterday.”
“You don’t mean we’re going through it.”
“I see no better option. We aren’t visible, with the trees circling us. And I’m certain the pond isn’t deep. Must I carry you?” He meant his words to be gallant, but they sounded frustrated. Of course. Everything he said came out wrong with Miss Lyfeld.
She squared her shoulders, shot him a glare and marched into the pond ahead of him.
* * *
Gemma might as well have trudged barefoot through snow. Spring-chilled water soaked her to the knees and flooded her kid boots, which found little purchase on the slimy stones underfoot. Not that she would complain. This was not the first time she’d crossed a pond.
“Take care with your steps,” he warned, “but make haste.”
“Make