He signaled to Christian to take the next turn left. It was another risk, using the narrow trail, but it was their best chance to pull ahead of Hartsinger and ambush him where the trail met the road. With any luck, they could take out the driver from the cover of the trees, avoiding an out-and-out chase that would further endanger Mirabelle.
“There now, isn’t this cozy?” Hartsinger sighed as he settled on the bench opposite Mirabelle. Keeping the gun trained on her, he lifted a hand to knock on the roof, starting the carriage off. “Would you care for a blanket? There is a bit of chill to night.”
If she could have risked opening her mouth without losing her supper, she would have gaped at him.
Was the man being solicitous?
“Oh my, you do look surprised,” he tittered. “And I suppose you have reason. Pity, though, this isn’t at all how I would have chosen things to begin. I’d envisioned a slightly less dramatic homecoming for you. But, well, needs must.”
“St. Brigit’s is not my home,” she bit out between clenched teeth.
“Certainly it is. The contract your uncle signed is legal in every way. You’ll be very happy there,” he assured her, growing excited. “I intend to give you your own room, you know, complete with window and fireplace. And a soft bed, as well…although, I’ll admit,” he added with another giggle, “when it comes to that, I’m thinking of my own comfort as much as yours.”
Seeped in pain, her head pounding mercilessly, the meaning of that statement didn’t immediately register with Mirabelle. But eventually understanding dawned, and with it came revulsion—thick greasy waves of it. Her stomach spasmed painfully, until she feared that just keeping her mouth closed wouldn’t be enough. She pressed herself into the corner, taking shallow breaths until the worst of it passed.
“But business before pleasure, I’m afraid,” Hartsinger continued, as if nothing were amiss. “Tell me what you know of this counterfeiting business.”
Though the movement cost her, she shook her head.
“You don’t mean to pretend ignorance, do you, because it will never work. I was eavesdropping on you and your uncle, you see.” He grinned broadly. “I cannot tell you how much I enjoyed watching you pelt the baron with his own effects. And I would have left you to it, if you hadn’t referred to him as…” He glanced at the ceiling, remembering. “A…despicable counterfeiting…and then you broke off, I believe. So tell me, my dear, whyever would you call him such a thing?”
She had no intention of cooperating with the man. But she was in no condition to fight him either. She tried for distraction. “You’re an accomplice,” she accused.
He frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think I care for that word. It has a sort of secondary ring to it. Let’s just call me the architect. Our little operation was my doing. Which still leaves the question of how you discovered it.”
“Does it matter?”
“Indulge me,” he suggested.
“No.”
“Tell me,” he repeated, raising the gun. “Or you go back in the trunk.”
“I was snooping in the baron’s room,” she snapped. “I found the bills and plate.”
His face went blank. Then cold and hard.
“What plate?”
Mirabelle wasn’t given the chance to answer. Seemingly out of nowhere, the sharp report of a pistol cut through the night air.
The carriage lurched, taking on a sudden burst of speed, and the force of it threw Hartsinger into her. She shoved at him instinctively, using her hands and feet to knock him back…and knock the pistol from his hand. It bounced off the bench to land on the floor.
There was a mad scramble as they both dove for the weapon. By virtue of being closest, she got there first, but the benefits of that were limited, as it gave him the opportunity to land on top of her.
Even hurt and frightened as she was, the notion occurred to her that she had never experienced anything so repulsive as Mr. Hartsinger’s full weight squirming against her back. She threw an elbow out and caught him in the ribs, but that earned her little more than a grunt, and provided him room to sneak a hand under her to claw at the gun.
Certain she wouldn’t be able to throw him off and knowing she hadn’t the space to aim the gun without hurting herself, she did the only other thing she could think of—she curled around the weapon, squeezed her eyes shut, and closed her mind against the feel of his grasping hands.
The carriage was slowing. Wasn’t it slowing? Wasn’t the rattle of the wheels easing? Her heart leapt at the sound of hoof-beats at the side of the carriage, and the distant sound of Whit calling her name. If she could just hold on long enough…
Hartsinger’s hand gripped the gun, slid off when she jerked, and then gripped again.
Her heart sank as quickly as it had leapt. She wouldn’t be able to hold on. She wasn’t strong enough. Hartsinger would have the gun in a matter of seconds. And he wouldn’t use it to shoot his only bargaining chip. He’d aim for Whit.
Without further thought, she twisted the gun, instinctively aiming to the side, away from her face, and with her last ounce of strength pushed herself back as far as Hartsinger’s weight allowed.