"Let me go, you great brute!" Emma kicked and clawed.
"I won't go back, I won't! You'll have to kill me first!"
"Madam, at the moment I have no intention of taking you anywhere, back
to wherever you're referring to included. And I definitely have no desire
to murder you."
She looked up at him. She saw only the black silhouette of a tall, broad-shouldered
man wearing a long, dark riding cloak. Water sprouted off the wide brim of
his hat. His face was hidden by the darkness.
Emma's thought began to clear. If he wasn't one of the squire's men, then
who was he? A highwayman. That was it. Surely no one else would be abroad
at midnight in a raging storm. But if he was a highwayman, and she told him
who she was and why she was trying to escape, he would sense a reward for
returning her. She must keep her true identity a secret. It was her only hope.
"I was at a fete," she said, pushing tangled, wet curls from her
forehead. "I chose not to wait for a carriage when I decided to leave
before the others."
"An interesting tale. And, where, pray tell, are you going alone on foot
in a storm?"
"I'm going to London."
"To visit the Queen?" His tone was jesting.
"Hardly. I'm taking passage on a ship that will be leaving the docks
for the Caribbean."
"With no luggage? Not a single portmanteau? You intrigue me, madam. Allow
me of offer you a ride to the nearest inn. It's a most inhospitable night
and from what I can discern, you're not dressed for it. Perhaps when we're
comfortably settled before a roaring fire, you'll see fit to tell me the true
story of your adventures - - - - - - - - - - "