Page 11 of Not a Fine Gentleman

The man halted in the doorway, his gaze fixed on Margaret. Why did he stare?

Her shoulder blades prickled as if the man’s gaze pierced them. Could he be a lawman seeking her? She went cold all over at the thought of someone like that London night watchman laying a hand on her.

The sooner she could change, the sooner she could board the stage to London. She turned her back on him, said a silent farewell to her sister’s gift, and moved toward the back curtain.

“Lady Hennessy?” the man said.

Ice blasted through her. Margaret picked up the nearest object—a small lamp—and hurled it at him. As he dodged the projectile, she made a break for the door. Just before she reached the exit, she grabbed a three-legged table and threw it behind her to slow his pursuit. A crash shattered the air.

Outside, she tore down the street. At the end of the row of shops, she dodged between the buildings and raced down a narrow alley. Booted footfalls pounded behind her. Her heart thundered in her ears as she ran. Faster. Faster!

The alley led to an open area, muddy from recent rains. A small fenced off paddock next to a stable with horses and carriages lay directly ahead. She skirted the fence and headed for the woods behind it.

“Stop!” the man yelled.

Too close! With a blast of speed, she raced for the woods. Could she lose him there? A determined lawman would not be easily evaded. Still, she must find a way to escape. A canopy of trees muffled town noise and filtered the sunlight.

She darted behind one of the larger trees and pressed her back against it, straining her ears for signs of pursuit. Her heart pounded so loudly that she feared it would unveil her hiding spot.

“Margaret Hennessy!” the man called.

He was a fool if he thought she’d surrender to him. At least his voice revealed his location. Crouching down to let ferns and other undergrowth shield her, she crept deeper into the woods. His footsteps gave him away. Then they stopped. She froze, lest she make her presence known. A stick about the thickness of her wrist lay at her feet, a possible way to defend herself. A heavy thud sounded off to her left, too close for her peace of mind. She dashed to the right and ran smack into a hard body.

Him. He caught her and held her tightly.

A pair of mocking dark eyes looked down at her. “You’ve led me on a merry chase, milady.”

She wielded her stick like a club, slamming it into the side of his head. He let out a grunt and loosened his hold on her as he staggered. He fell to his knees.

Oh, heaven help her, what if she’d killed him?

She couldn’t think of that right now. Her breath coming in half sobs, she charged onward, stumbling over fallen logs and getting tangled in branches and vines. Finally, she broke free of the woods, tripped, and stumbled her way down a hill where she came upon a small brook. She glanced back. No sign of her pursuer, a man she might have mortally wounded…

No. She hadn’t hit him that hard, surely.

The cool water beckoned, and she lurched toward it. Next to a large boulder and sheltered by a weeping willow blowing gracefully in the wind, she fell onto her knees, plunged her hands into the cool water, and brought it to her lips. She drank her fill and bathed her face. Her pelisse parted, revealing the dried stain on her gown. Her husband’s blood stared accusingly at her.

She’d done nothing wrong. Her failings glared at her, the most accusing being her failure in her marriage.

If she’d been more beautiful, more accomplished, more clever, more socially celebrated, her husband would have been so enamored with her that he would have given up his wild ways. He would have been content with her. Later, she had hoped that if she could bear him a son, he’d finally realize how much he cared. But as the years stretched on with no child and no sign of his affections or attentions changing, she’d hardened into numb hopelessness.

Mama had assured her that a man’s wildness was his own choice, but Margaret knew in her heart that she’d failed him. She’d failed them. His death severed all hope for having a happy life with him.

That was it, then. She’d had one chance at love, and she’d ruined it. A life of loneliness awaited her.

But at least it was life. And she must guard hers now.

She pushed herself to her feet. If the man in pursuit were still coherent enough to chase her, he’d surely find her here, out in the open.

What to do now? She looked around. Off in the distance, several columns of smoke rose up—probably the town. She could go back and…

Oh, no. She’d dropped her newly-purchased gown in her flight. Not that it was a terrible loss, but without it, she was covered with the reminder of all she’d lost, and would attract too much attention. At least she still had the money she’d traded for her bracelet. Now, at last, she could eat and pay stage fare.

She’d missed her coach, surely. When another was scheduled to leave, she couldn’t guess. Surely that man, whomever he was, would find her before she caught another coach… if he survived the blow she’d dealt him.

She put a hand over her mouth and tried to shut out the images of him crumpling under the impact of the club. Did he lie in his blood, unable to call for help? Was he already dead?

She must stop thinking about that. She must plan her next move. But where to go?