The Highlander's Forbidden Mistress - Anna Campbell Page 0,53

her.

"You would give me that?"

"Gladly." She gripped his hands hard. "But there’s Gerald. You can’t ask me to put what we have above what I owe my son."

"I don’t." He paused. "But hearing those words is something I’ll always treasure."

She blinked back idiotic, useless tears. "So you must see why I can’t stay with you."

His expression remained intent. Over the creak of the carriage, she heard distant shouting, but it couldn’t penetrate the fraught atmosphere inside the vehicle.

"I honor your devotion to your son." She knew he must think back to his own mother. The shouts outside grew louder. "But you’re a woman as well as a mother. What about you and what you need?"

Feeling stupid, she stared at Brock. "I…"

The sentence ended in a sharp cry, as the carriage slewed to the left. Battling to keep her place on the seat, she heard confused yelling, the screams of frightened horses, and the crack of the whip.

"What the devil!" Brock surged forward to wrap her in his arms so when the coach swerved again and tilted onto its side, she smashed against him and not unforgiving wood.

"Brock?" she screamed, as the world turned topsy-turvy. Her ears rang with the crack of shattering wood.

His body was the one solid thing remaining. She clutched at him, as the carriage tipped even further and came to rest at a drunken angle.

When she caught her breath enough to open her eyes, she and Brock were huddled against the door. Broken glass showered them. Outside, it sounded like utter chaos reigned. Angry voices and neighing horses.

Brock’s embrace tightened. "For God’s sake, Selina, are you all right?"

"Yes, I think so. Are you?" She raised her head and through her dizziness, she saw that his face was stark with worry as he stared down at her. "You’re bleeding."

From under his disordered black hair, blood trickled down his forehead. "Am I?"

Dear God, let him be all right. Let him not be hurt.

Her shaking hand touched the sticky wetness. His quick thinking had saved her from injury. But she couldn’t bear to think that in protecting her, he’d sustained serious harm. "Does it hurt anywhere else?"

"I’m damned uncomfortable, but I think I’m fine. Some of the window glass must have caught me. I’m sure it’s just a scratch."

"Head wounds can be dangerous. Did you black out? Any double vision?"

The carriage lurched and settled further on its side, pitching Brock and Selina harder against the door which creaked in protest. She dared a glance out the shattered window and saw a muddy ditch below them. Her stomach dipped with vertigo.

Before she could right herself, the door on the other side slammed open and a stranger wearing a thick greatcoat stared down at them. "Are you hurt, maister, mistress?"

"Nothing serious," Brock said with admirable coolness. "What happened?"

"You were coming toward me, when you hit a patch of black ice and slid right across in front of my team. God’s blood, I thought we were all a goner."

"Is Erskine safe?" Brock asked.

"If that’s your coachman, sir, I do believe he’s broken his arm. He was thrown clear in the accident."

"Bugger," Brock muttered. "Poor sod. What about the horses?"

"Better news there. I’ve released them. They’re frightened, but no injuries."

"That’s something."

"Can I help you out of there?"

"Aye, please. Take the lady first." Brock bent his head to speak into Selina’s ear. "Can you move, sweetheart?"

"Yes, I’m sure I can," she said, although letting go of Brock soaked up most of her remaining courage.

"Stretch up toward me, my lady, and I’ll haul you out."

Tentatively Selina pushed away from Brock and held out her hands. She’d jarred her shoulder in the crash and her arms hurt when she shifted, but she suspected she suffered nothing worse than bruising. She was able to move, at least, so she doubted she’d broken any bones. Brock’s condition worried her. He’d taken most of the impact of the crash.

The man’s hands closed around hers with reassuring firmness. Brock flattened his hands on her rump ready to push. All this movement inside the cabin made the carriage rock in a most alarming fashion. She bit her lip and told herself that a fit of hysterics would do nobody any good.

"My name is Plaistow," the man said in a calm voice. "Lord Derwent’s coachman."

The coincidence of his identity barely registered. She was too frantic to escape the carriage before it overturned.

"Are you ready?" the man asked.

"Yes," she said, sounding surer than she felt.

Between Plaistow pulling and Brock pushing, she managed to climb