Page 45 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
In six years, she’d seen dozens of accidents in the theater, two of them fatal. Odd things did happen. If the sandbag and bucket had been two weeks apart instead of two days, she wouldn’t be hesitating to call them accidents now. With Claremont eliminated as a suspect, she would have to settle herself and admit that it was just two oddevents close together, and that was all that made them seem suspicious. They were accidents.
She pulled off the red wig and set the simple black one over her head, pinning the edges to keep it secure. There. Perhaps her wig-wearing was silly, but it made her feel like she was doing something to keep her privacy intact. And since no one had successfully followed her home from the theater yet, it seemed to be working.
The coach lurched sideways. With a gasp, she put a hand out to keep from slamming into the far wall. “Gus! What is—”
“Hold tight, Miss Persie!” the driver called, his voice clipped. “Damned wagon dri—”
They rocked again, harder. Persephone lost her grip and slid across the bench. The coach teetered, went back onto all four wheels, then lifted on the left side again. Abruptly everything rolled, and the portmanteau slammed into her hip as she landed first on the right-side door, and then on the roof.
Upside down. The coach was upside down. She flailed upright. It was disorienting, seeing the seats above her head and the broken windows below. Persephone put her hands down to steady herself, and they splashed into water. Good heavens, her whole backside was wet. Her feet tangled into her skirts as she tried to stand, and she went down hard on her knees.
The nearest door wrenched open, coming off one hinge. “Give me yer hand, lass,” Gavin said, reaching in for her.
He had blood on one side of his face, his hair wild, but she grabbed onto him and held tight as he pulled her free of the coach.
They’d gone over into a ditch, she realized as she scrambled to her feet outside. At the front of the coach, one of the horses lay in a tangle of reins and harnesses, whinnying, while the other stood a few feet away, its headdown and blood dripping down one leg. “Where’s Gus?” she gasped, falling back against the side of the carriage.
“Seeing to the horse,” the groom said. “Ye stay here. Dunnae move, lass. I’ll lend him a hand.”
When she nodded, Gavin hurried back to the fallen animal, pulling a knife from his boot and sawing at the harness. Gus did the same on the far side, and a moment later, the horse lurched to its feet.
Staggering, her dress ripped up one side and the hem tangling beneath her shoe, Persephone made her way up the short, steep bank of the ditch. “Are they all right?” she asked. “Are the two of you all right?”
“Aye,” Gavin answered, taking hold of the first horse’s harness and leading it up and down a few feet while he eyed its gait. “Just some scratches and a banged head. Ye’ll have to put a compress on the right rear hock here.”
“That damned wagon driver,” Gus muttered, climbing out of the ditch with the other horse. “Excuse my language, Persie. He saw us there, plain as day, and he still turned right into our path.”
Persephone’s heart lurched. “It was deliberate, then?”
“If I could think of a reason why a man would want to murder any of us, I’d say yes,” her driver returned. “It’s a warm afternoon, and him all kitted up in a hooded cloak and all. He wanted us off the road, and that’s for damned certain. Excuse my language again.”
She and Gavin exchanged a glance, and she could read his thoughts clearly in his expression. It hadn’t been an accident. And that meant nothing over the past few days had been an accident. Someonewastrying to kill her. And not only had they very nearly been successful, they hadn’t cared about murdering two horses, a driver, and a groom, either.
“Gus, I’m so sorry,” she said, tears rising in her eyes.
“What for?” the driver retorted. “It’s that clod with the wagon who owes me a new coach, da—blast him.”
“This wouldn’t have happened to you if you hadn’t been my driver,” she said. “I will of course pay for any repairs, or for a new coach if it’s not fixable.”
“That’s kind of you, Persie,” Gus said, freeing one hand from his grip on the horse’s harness to pat her shoulder. “But I can’t ask you to do that.”
“Nonsense,” she retorted, swiping a hand across her eyes. “You do what you need to, and you have the bill sent to me. Is that clear?” Perhaps it was a small thing in the greater scheme of things, but helping Gus was something she wanted to do, and it was definitely something she could afford. And a large, nagging part of her knew the damage was her fault, anyway.
Somewhere, somehow, she’d made a mistake.
“Are ye up to seeing to yer team, lad?” Gavin asked, giving Gus’s gray mare another critical look.
“I’m more angry than anything else. Yes, Mary, Jane, and I are fine.”
The groom nodded. “Good. I’m going to see the lass home.”
When Gus agreed, Gavin skidded down the slope and reached into the coach, pulling out her portmanteau. Ignoring the gathering crowd of curious onlookers, he returned to her side and offered her an arm.
“Let’s get away from here a bit, and I’ll hail us a hack. Too many people for me to keep my peepers on right now.”
She’d been thinking much the same thing. Any one of these people could be the wagon driver, or whoever it was who’d hired the wagon driver to run Gus’s coach off the road. Wincing at a wrenched knee and bruised hip but doing her best not to limp, she headed toward Albany Street with Gavin.
Every vehicle that drove up from behind them made her flinch. What if the wagon had merely circled around and was now headed back to finish her off? What if someone on the street had a knife or a pistol and they were only waiting for her to turn her back?
