Page 19 of Not a Fine Gentleman

Chapter 5

Seated inside the bumping, swaying stagecoach, Margaret vowed she’d never again take a well-sprung conveyance for granted. Each bump aggravated the pain in her head and formed another layer of bruises on her backside. The coach ran over another large rut in the road and Margaret nearly lost her seat. Gritting her teeth, she hung on, determined to bear it in silence. Nothing was worth losing one’s dignity.

She glared at that insufferable Connor Jackson sitting across from her. Drat the man. He’d assaulted her, sneered at her, gave her far too much to drink—how much had she drunk anyway?—slept in the same room with her, and then insulted her by declaring her undesirable.

That was just fine. She found him wholly undesirable as well. He was rude. Rough. Unmannerly. His low birth revealed itself in everything he did. Why, she wouldn’t have him for a footman!

His head rested against the seatback, his arms folded, his eyes closed as they had been for the past hour. Honestly, the man could probably sleep through a war with cannons blasting next to his ear. Either that, or he had perfected the art of pretending. Next to him, a middle-aged woman slept, putting a blessed halt to her incessant chatter with the woman next to Margaret who also dozed. How could they stand it?

Absently, Margaret reached for her bracelet to toy with it. It was gone.

She gasped, “My bracelet.”

Connor Jackson opened one eye and stared at her.

Then she remembered. Sheepishly, she explained, “For a moment, I forgot that I pawned it.” She traced her naked wrist. “I seldom went without it.”

He lifted one brow.

“My sister gave it to me as a gift during… well, a very difficult time. I always felt when I wore it that she was somehow with me.” More quietly, she added, “It feels strange and a little lonely not to wear it.”

Why on earth she had shared something personal with this dolt was anyone’s guess. She pressed her lips together and looked out the window, squeezing her naked wrist. Rachel would understand, of course, and possibly offer to have a new one made for her, but sentimental gifts were irreplaceable.

A shout rang out. Horses screamed. With a deafening bang and a hard jolt, the carriage lurched to a halt. Margaret flew sideways, landing hard. Pain roared through her head and shoulders. Spots flared before her vision. Cries and shouts and strange buzzing noises faded in and out.

“Margaret,” a male voice called.

She pushed herself up from a hard surface. A pair of hands reached for her. The hands, attached to a pair of arms, helped her to a seated position and held her steady. They were strong, gentle. A sensation akin to safety enveloped her.

Her vision cleared, and her pain faded to an ache. She blinked at the sunlight pouring in from a jagged hole above her where the carriage door had been. To either side, the seats stood on end, and she sat on what was once a sidewall. The conveyance had tipped over and lay on its side.

Next to her, holding her upright, crouched Connor Jackson. What was she doing? Leaning away, she pushed him back. Just like a man, to take advantage of her disorientation, to… well, he’d only held her, but it had been entirely inappropriate. And unwanted.

Next to her sat one of the other passengers, sobbing and wringing her hands. The woman’s companion stood, bracing herself with the seat cushion, her bonnet so askew she probably couldn’t see.

“Are you hurt?” Mr. Jackson remained next to Margaret, eyeing her carefully, oblivious to a trickle of blood at the side of his face and a rapidly swelling lip.

“No, I don’t think so.” Her voice sounded high-pitched and breathy.

He held out a hand. “Can you stand?”

She accepted his help and climbed to her feet. Nausea left her clinging to Jackson’s hand. The woman sitting on the ground rocked and cried. In a daze, the other woman pushed her bonnet back, crouched down, and picked up pieces of broken glass and splintered wood.

A wail came from outside the coach. “He’s dead. Oh, merciful heavens, he’s dead!”

Poor soul. Margaret breathed slowly until her nausea subsided.

“Are you well?” Jackson asked.

With a jolt, Margaret realized she still had hold of Jackson’s hand.

She snatched her hand out of his. “I believe so.”

A man peeked in the doorway overhead and reached downward. “Come on then, I’ll help you out, those what can move.”

Jackson laced his fingers together like a stable hand offering to help her mount her horse and glanced at Margaret. “I’ll boost you up.”

Margaret gestured to the woman picking up glass. “Help her out first.” She took the woman’s hands and said in a no-nonsense tone, “Come, it’s time to go.”