Page 19 of The Princess and the Rogue

“Get down? We’ll do no such thing!” the dowager said imperiously. “It’s raining.”

Anya gasped as the door was wrenched open.

“I said, get out!” The man reached in and grabbed her by the arm. She reared back, struggling.

“Unhand her!” The duchess took a swing at the manwith her cane, but it was no use; Anya was pulled clear from the carriage. She half fell onto the road and gave a gasp of pain as her ankle twisted beneath her. Her foot slipped in an icy puddle.

“This her?” the leader rasped, glancing over at the other two riders as if for confirmation. He caught the hood of her cape and tugged it back to expose her face and hair. Confused, Anya glanced up at the nearest man, but all she could see was a pair of pale eyes between hat brim and scarf. The eyes narrowed on her face, and he nodded briefly.

“Da. Is her. We go.”

Anya’s stomach plummeted as she placed the man’s accent. Russian. These weren’t footpads. They werekidnappers. How in God’s name had Vasili known where to find her?

“Come on, then! Take her.”

The leader tugged Anya to her feet and thrust her toward the second man. She began to fight in earnest. She swung her fist and made contact with her captor’s jaw. He cursed and stumbled back, and she pressed the advantage, clawing at his face. His scarf fell away, revealing a swarthy, ugly face she’d never seen before.

He gave her a shake that made her teeth rattle in her skull. “Stop, woman!”

The mounted Russian reached down to pull her up onto his horse, but they were interrupted by the third man’s warning growl.

“Quick! Someone comes. A rider!”

The relentless beat of hooves reached Anya’s ears and a thrill of hope tightened her chest. She squinted back down the road.

A black horse came thundering around the bend, its mane and tail flying. The rider was a dark shape hunchedlow over the horse’s neck. His greatcoat streamed behind him like wings, like some hell-sent rider of the apocalypse. Anya’s breath caught in her throat.

The rider straightened in the saddle; he had a rifle in is hand. Surely he wasn’t going to try to shoot from a moving horse? No sooner had the thought formed than Anya saw him take aim—straight toward her—and her heart lurched to a stop.

The man next to her cursed. She heard a crack and saw a puff of smoke rise from the rider’s weapon. The hold on her arm slackened, and she turned to find her captor sprawled on the ground at her feet, his eyes wide and staring. A red trickle of blood seeped from the hole in his chest into the muddy puddle next to him.

One of the mounted brigands fired his weapon, and the leader’s loose horse bolted away down the road. The approaching rider ducked and fired again, from a second gun, and the Russian slumped dead in the saddle. His mount reared, confused by the suddenly unresponsive weight on its back, and the body slipped sideways. The terrified horse raced for the trees, but the corpse’s foot was still caught in the stirrup; it bounced along, caught by the leg, as it went.

Anya could barely comprehend what she was seeing. She glanced up at the third and final footpad. His scarf had fallen from his face, and she got a good look at his features. With a harsh shout, he kicked his heels to his horse’s sides and thundered off up the hill after his fallen brethren.

Anya turned—and suppressed a scream as her savior’s enormous horse clattered to a stop directly in front of her. It reared, pawing the air, almost threatening to trample her, but the rider kept his seat with consummate skill, and she felt a surge of admiration. As a horsewomanherself, she knew the strength it took to control such a gigantic beast.

She peered up at the rider, her heart pounding, trying to see the man who’d come to her rescue, but he was silhouetted against the grey sky and rain obscured her vision. Then, the dry voice of the dowager came echoing from the interior of the coach.

“Well, Sebastien. That wasquitethe entrance. Still, better late than never.”

Chapter 10.

Seb’s heart thundered against his ribs as he brought his lathered mount under control.

What the bloody hell had his great-aunt got herself into now?

He’d spurred Eclipse into the fray without a thought. After so many years in the Rifles, it had been second nature to ride toward the enemy when shots had been fired, and he’d dealt with the footpads swiftly and efficiently. He was only sorry he hadn’t been able to reload his Baker quickly enough to finish off the third man.

He glanced up at his aunt’s coachman, who was in the process of tying a handkerchief around his bleeding forearm.

“You were hit, John? How badly are you hurt?”

“Nothing too bad, milor’. Just a few pebbles o’ shot. Good thing them rascals had fowling pieces and not rifles like yersel’. They ain’t half so accurate.” He sent Seb a wide grin of admiration. “That were some fine shootin’, sir, from a movin’ horse.”

Seb sent him an answering smile. “Well, I should hope so. I spent three years in His Majesty’s Rifles. Never thought I’d need the skill in England, though.”

Reassured that the coachman wasn’t seriously injured, he turned his attention downward. Dorothea was peering out of the carriage with a faintly amused expression, but it was the woman standing beside the carriage, the one in the pale blue cloak, who caught Seb’s attention. Recognition, swift and hot, speared through him.

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