Page 10 of Lady Mary's May Day Mischief
The carriage pitched up, then down like a ship at sea.
And then it was still.
Blake reached up and with his friend, the man of the escutcheon, Lord Charlton, stopped the roll.
Blake held her attention. “Birdie. Do not move. They free the horses.”
She put a hand to Fifi’s, who whimpered, and one to Welles, who squeezed her own in sympathy.
He glanced away to check the doings with the horses—and of a sudden he was back. Grinning, he seemed a force of nature, huge and in command, his brown hair burnished golden in the rays of the sun. “Good to see you, Birdie! But not here. Not like this! And what in hell are you doing in a public coach?”
“Turning arse over tea kettle,” she replied.
“Still telling a story much too baldly, I see,” he said, rueful.
A man shouted at him.
“Ah, horses secured. Let’s get you out of there, little finch!”
Chapter 3
Within minutes, she was tucked into Blake Lindsey’s embrace, carried to his coach like a prize of war. Being saved, dare she say treasured, gratified her as little else had in years. Beneath her hands, she felt his strength. Two years ago, she’d danced with him in London. But he had not held her in his arms like this since the day she’d fallen in the woods near home. His embrace left her giddy and appreciative of his strength.
He deposited her on the supple black leather seat of Charlton’s travel coach. All around them was frantic activity. The coachmen and his footmen to secure their horses. Blake’s and Charlton’s men to take down the women’s trunks and strap them aboard. Charlton’s young tiger to clear the public coach of items in the cab.
Blake checked her eyes for signs of distress, her pulse too. As if he had a script, he asked her about the condition of her heads, arms, fingers, and legs. She was well? Unhurt? She was certain? He went on to do the same for Welles. Thankfully, her maid incurred no injuries either.
He and his friend had pulled Welles out first, because the maid was nearer the door. Mary came next because she was more mobile than Fifi.
But Fifi was injured. When the lead horses slipped their reins and the coach took a corner it did not manage well, Fifi had jammed her foot to the opposite bench. She was in pain, biting her lip against it. Blake and his friend had extracted her ever so carefully from the wreck. But she was unable to stand on her foot. Charlton—whom Blake had hastily introduced to all—caught Fifi up in his arms to carry her away and place her in his coach.
“Sprained your ankle. I know the signs,” Charlton told her. A strapping tall fellow of severe dark good looks, he had been adamant that he treat Fifi. There he sat opposite her and raised her skirts.
“Stop!” She grabbed his wrist. She might be in pain, but she was also in her right mind. “You can’t do that! It’s shocking!”
“I’ll tell you what’s really shocking.” Charlton had no patience for niceties and pointed at her foot. “You want to walk on this, Lady Fiona? Ever again?”
“Of course.”
“Then I will see your ankle.”
White with pain and pique, she slowly lifted her skirts. And glared at him.
“More.”
She fumed.
He untied his cravat, slipped it off and said, “Your boot and stocking, too.”
“No.”
“Fifi,” Mary pleaded with her.
Blake put a hand to his friend’s wrist.
Charlton was not deterred. “Three choices, my lady. One, you remove your boot and stocking now. Two, I cut them off you myself. Three, we wait, in which case, you will never get them off because your ankle will be too swollen. What then is your decision?”
“Are you such an ogre to everyone?” Fifi snapped.
