A Lady’s Secret by Jo Beverley

She’d be bruised tomorrow.
    If she lived.
    She pushed to her feet, looking for Robin’s fire. It must have died, but there was one faint light—a candle in one coach lamp, she thought. She tried to sprint across the dark yard, but within feet, her sandals sank in mud. The best she could do was slip and slog as Robin had done when carrying her.
    Sweet, wicked Cock Robin. He was doubtless destined to rake coals in hell, but please God, not yet.
    At least the darkness hid her. The kitchen shutters must still be closed, and the moon was mostly behind clouds. She remembered she’d taken off her veil and pulled her hood over her white cap, then labored forward, focused on the coach lamp like a ship on a harbor light, ears stretched for sounds from the house.
    Finally, her feet found firmer ground. She was under the overhang and took a moment to catch her breath. No movement from the house. She shuffled toward the lamp, trying not to trip over anything.
    Then behind her, the farmhouse door opened.
    Petra froze, praying she was beyond the range of any light. She turned slowly to look behind.
    Madame Goulart stood in the doorway. She made no move forward, but the women were coming, coming, and Petra hadn’t woken anyone or found a weapon. Trusting to her gray cloak, she edged toward the coach, watching the woman.
    Her back hit a wheel, almost making her gasp.
    She looked left and right, able to make out some details in the darkness. They’d propped the coach pole on the side of the horse’s stall so it was level. Because Robin was sleeping in it, she remembered. She couldn’t see any of the other men, so she’d try him first.
    With her back to the wheel, the door was to her right, but high. Still watching the silent woman, she stretched for the handle. Got it. Did the door creak when opened? Nothing must steal her element of surprise.
    Someone in the house spoke, and Madame Goulart went back inside. She left the door open, but was no longer watching and listening.
    Petra turned and eased the handle down. It made only the dullest click. She pulled the door open. No noise. Thank you, God! The floor of the coach was at the level of her waist, but Petra didn’t want to risk noise by climbing the steps.
    “Are you awake?” she breathed.
    No answer. Her voice was too quiet to wake someone in a normal sleep, never mind a drugged one. She needed to poke or shake. She climbed up one step. The coach dipped a bit and let out a squeak. She froze, but a glance behind showed no one.
    Her cloak was getting in the way, so she unfastened the clasp and let it drop, trying to visualize the interior of the chaise. The seat was to her right, but it was far too short for Robin to lie along it, so he’d be slouched in one corner or another, his long legs crossing the space in front of her. Had he taken off his boots? She couldn’t wake him with a poke through boots.
    Where was Coquette? She must be drugged, too, or she’d be yapping welcome or alarm.
    Petra was reaching out carefully when she heard low voices behind her. She thrust her hand out—and hissed when she jarred her fingers on something hard only inches away. What? Quick hands found a solid barrier. He’d barricaded himself in already?
    Muttering under her breath, she climbed higher and tried to reach over—but it was a solid surface. A box? Covered with some thick cloth? An improvised bed! The clever man, but he’d be a clever corpse if she didn’t wake him. She scrabbled over the surface, seeking a man’s body, trying to see through her fingers.
    Cold metal.
    A cylinder.
    A pistol! She curled her hand around the butt and lifted it against her breasts, thanking the universe. Armed, she turned to face danger.
    There they were, Madame Goulart and her daughters, coming, but making slow progress in the mud. Perhaps they were also cautious, even afraid, and so they should be. Of damnation, if nothing else.
    Madame Goulart carried a lantern. No light reached the coach yet, but it