Page 88 of When the Scoundrel Sins

With a hard shove, he released her throat and pushed her away, then flipped the ribbons and set the horses into a faster pace.

Annabelle cowered to the side of the seat and stared at him with revulsion and fear, her hands grasping the rail to hang on as the curricle bounced beneath her. In desperation, she looked down at the road again, now speeding by beneath the deadly wheels.

She took a deep breath to resolve herself and inched closer to the side of the carriage to jump—

“Annabelle!”

The deep voice boomed across the countryside, only seconds before the sound of racing hooves reached her.

“Quinton!” With relief pouring through her, she tried to rise up from the seat and wave for help over the large canopy. “Help me! Help—”

Sir Harold let fly a sharp curse and grabbed her by her hair. He yanked her down onto the seat.

Annabelle cried out in pain as she fought to keep hold on the seat, now bouncing wildly beneath her as he cracked the whip and the team jumped into a run. She could do nothing more than hang on for her life and trust in Quinton.

***

Quinn lowered himself over the back of his horse and urged the large gelding into a run after the curricle. His heart pounded as hard as the hooves thundering beneath him as his horse ate up the distance between him and the carriage.

When he pulled even with the carriage wheels, he saw Belle clinging in terror to the seat. Beside her, Bletchley ignored her cries to stop and whipped the team into a dangerous frenzy.

Something inside him snapped. A fury and fear unlike any he’d ever experienced before flared through him, and he focused every ounce of his being on saving Belle.

“Let her go!” he shouted at Bletchley.

In answer, the man gritted his teeth and yanked on the ribbons to send the curricle careening at Quinn, the tall wheel spinning dangerously toward his horse.

With a curse, Quinton reined in. The well-trained gelding darted out of the way just seconds before the wheel cut across their path.

Quinton dug his heels against his mount’s side, and the horse surged forward again. This time, before Bletchley could swerve toward him, he reached out to snatch the ribbons from Bletchley’s hands.

“Damn you!” Bletchley struck back with the whip, cracking it at Quinn’s horse, who jumped to the side just far enough to put Quinn in reach of the whip.

Bletchley smiled wickedly and snapped it again. The metal tip struck Quinn’s cheek and sliced through his skin, drawing blood from a painful gash. Belle screamed.

Growling and furious, and increasingly terrified for Belle, he ignored the sting of the whip as he rode in close. When Bletchley let fly another snap of the whip, Quinn grabbed at it, catching it and ripping it from Bletchley’s hands.

But Bletchley still had control of the ribbons and the team, and he pulled sharply, turning again toward Quinn’s horse. The gelding darted away from the spinning wheel, safely out of danger, butdamnation! The weaving carriage kept him too far away to stop it.

“Annabelle!” he shouted, needing her help.

She looked up, and for one heartbeat, they locked gazes. In that instant he saw the terror leave her, replaced by a fierce determination.

Carefully keeping hold of the seat, she moved closer to Bletchley, whose attention was still set on running Quinn down beneath his wheels. With a cry, she drew her right hand into a fist and swung with all her might. The glancing blow caught the tip of Bletchley’s chin and flung his head back. Not enough to make him stop the team but enough to distract him while Quinn charged again toward the lead horse.

From the corner of his eye as he moved up even with the team, Quinn could see Annabelle slapping at Bletchley, kicking and clawing at every part of him she could reach.

His chest warmed with pride. The Bluebell was no shirking violet. Bletchley had made a terrible mistake by attempting to abscond with her.Thank Godthat he’d gone after her, that he’d ridden into view at the far end of the lane just in time to see her climb into the carriage and ride off, that he’d gotten close enough when the curricle had turned to the north to see Bletchley grab her by the throat.

When he caught them, he’d murder the bastard for that.

Quinn leaned far to the right, dangerously hanging off his saddle by only a single stirrup, and reached toward the lead horse’s head. He glanced back at the spinning wheel just behind him, the ground rushing past beneath them. If his horse stumbled and he fell, if his stirrup snapped—he was as good as dead.

Belle cried out, and white-hot anger and fear for her drove him on. He lunged for the rein near the bit, grabbed it, and held tight as he slowed the team.

Behind him, the wheel smacked a large rock jutting up from the road. The curricle jumped, both wheels coming off the ground. When it landed, it careened out of control to the right. The rein yanked from Quinn’s hand.

His horse darted away as the carriage tipped. The axel broke with a splintering crack, and the wheel snapped. He watched helplessly as the carriage bounced into the air before slamming into the hard-packed road. Annabelle flew from the seat and hit the ground with a dull, sickening thud that stopped his heart with a soul-shattering jolt. The team ran on, dragging the wrecked carriage behind it with Bletchley clinging to the dashboard. When it hit another hard bump, he was flung to the road, where he lay moaning, too hurt to scramble to his feet.