Tarnished, Tempted and Tamed. Mary Brendan

these folk would be nervous of strangers; since Thornley’s daughter had told him of smuggled spirits coming ashore, he’d heard from other sources, too, that the Collins gang were busy.

      At the window of the coach he could see a round male face and a woman’s pop-eyed stare beaming cross the fellow’s shoulder. Dismounting, Luke gave a friendly salute, then tethered his stallion to a low branch and squelched through mud to the far side of the lopsided carriage to assess its damage.

      As soon as the rain had started hammering down, he’d rued his decision to travel, but he’d set out in fine weather that afternoon, travelling west, with the intention of visiting Drew Rockleigh who had a hunting lodge in the neighbourhood. He’d visited the place before, then under far more pleasant circumstances than drew him there now. But if a fight between the two men were unavoidable, then Luke would as soon get it over with than it hung over them both like the sword of Damocles.

      He squatted, saw the axle was in two pieces and stood up almost immediately. It would be quicker and simpler to get another coach out to rescue these unfortunates than try to repair the sorry contraption. He sensed he was under close scrutiny and through a blur of water dripping off the brim of his hat saw a woman’s indistinct features.

      ‘Where were you heading?’ A hand swiped the worst of the wet from his face as he walked closer and got a better view of her. She was younger than he was by some years, although not as youthful as Becky, and her severe expression made her look plainer than she probably was.

      ‘Dartmouth...’ Fiona knew to be careful with her answers. They didn’t yet know anything about this fellow to be able to trust him. Mr Jackson’s instinctive alarm at knowing a stranger was in their midst had made Fiona suspect the area was populated with criminals. ‘Where were you heading?’ she countered, blinking to get a better look at him. When she did focus properly on his lean, rain-sleek visage her breath caught in her throat. He was the most disturbingly handsome man she’d ever seen.

      ‘Lowerton...a village a few miles distant,’ Luke explained hoping to put her at ease. One of her hands was holding the open window ledge and he could see the tension in her grip.

      ‘Has somebody gone to fetch help?’ Luke angled his head and included the others in the coach in his request for information.

      ‘Our driver has and is expected back at any moment. Would you introduce yourself, please, sir?’ Mr Jackson insisted, peering across Fiona’s shoulder at him.

      ‘My apologies... Luke Wolfson...at your service...’

      ‘I am Peter Jackson, and this is my wife and these two ladies are the Misses Beresford, and the lady nearest to you is...’

      ‘Miss Fiona Chapman,’ Fiona quietly introduced herself as Mrs Jackson’s coughing drowned out her husband’s voice.

      Fiona was feeling more relaxed than she had moments ago. Mr Wolfson had spoken just a few sentences, yet there was something about his tall, imposing presence that now seemed reassuring rather than threatening. He spoke in a calm, cultured way and was dressed in expensive clothes, so would indeed be an odd highwayman—although she’d heard that wily miscreants sometimes garbed themselves in stolen finery to mislead their victims as to their true characters.

      She sensed that her fellow travellers were becoming equally glad that Mr Wolfson had happened by. Another man—especially one of Luke Wolfson’s age and muscular stature—could only be of help, if he stayed around. Fiona wondered if he might soon bid them farewell now he knew help was on its way.

      Bert had trotted around the coach to stand by the newcomer’s side and gaze at him deferentially, the blunderbuss pointing at the ground.

      ‘Are you cold?’ Luke had seen Fiona huddle into her cloak and pull the hood forward over a bonnet.

      ‘Very cold, sir. We all left the coach earlier so the driver might better attempt to mend it...alas, to no avail.’ She gave a small shake of the head. ‘Toby Williams has given up on it and returned to the Fallow Buck for a wright with better tools. The trees gave us little shelter from the storm and we all got drenched through.’

      ‘I’d say this one’s beyond quick repair and out of action for a while. Your driver should bring out a fresh vehicle.’

      A groan of dismay from Mrs Jackson met Luke’s bad news about their transport. Fiona nodded acceptance of his verdict, she’d come to a similar conclusion herself.

      ‘I hope that Toby will return very soon.’ She glanced in concern at Mrs Jackson as the woman again started to cough.

      ‘I’ll light a fire—you could gather around it and dry your clothes while you wait for your man to show up.’ Luke frowned at the nearby copse as though assessing its suitability as a shelter.

      ‘Fire?’ Peter Jackson left off thumping his wife’s back to bark an incredulous laugh. ‘I’d like to think he might manage it, but I doubt it somehow.’ He gazed at Luke’s retreating figure. ‘He’ll not find a stick of dry kindling about anywhere.’

      ‘It’s good of him to try,’ Fiona murmured, also watching Mr Wolfson’s impressively broad back.

      * * *

      Twenty minutes later the farmer was eating his words. The driving rain had slowed to a drizzle and meekly Mr Jackson followed the ladies towards the trees where a welcoming blaze could be seen. In a clearing, further into the wood than the little party had previously ventured, a fire was steadily taking hold, protected by a tent of evergreen branches that Luke had propped over the flames. Intermittently there was a hissing sound as raindrops slithered through ivy on to glowing embers.

      ‘I should get out of these wet things—I will be laid up for weeks, I know I will,’ Betty Jackson grumbled through chattering teeth.

      ‘Stand close to the fire, my dear, to keep warm.’ Mr Jackson took off his greatcoat and used it to shield his wife from view as she shed her sodden outer layers. The Beresford sisters took up position on the opposite side and performed similar tasks for one another, Ruth giggling the while.

      Fiona moved away to allow them some privacy while they juggled their coats and shawls and attempted to pat dry their damp bodices. She held out her hands to the flames, but now being a distance from the fire she gained scant benefit from it.

      ‘You’re soaked, too—take off your cloak and wear my coat while it dries.’

      Startled by the mild command, Fiona stuttered, ‘Thank you...umm...for the...kind offer, sir. But it would hardly be fair—it is still drizzling and your shirt will get wet.’ She gave Luke a fleeting smile, averting her gaze as his dark eyes bored into her. She turned up her face to the heavens, shivering as a chill mist bathed her complexion. ‘I will take this off, though,’ she added lightly, removing her bonnet and giving it a thorough shake by the brim to remove rain that had settled in the straw.

      Her heart had begun to pound at an alarming rate and confusingly she was uncertain whether she wished he would go away. Yet he’d been unfailingly polite and helpful. Without turning to check if it was so, she was sure their Good Samaritan was still watching her while he removed the long leather riding coat he wore.

      ‘Here...take it... I’m used to braving the elements,’ Luke said firmly, settling the garment around Fiona’s shoulders before walking off.

      With no time to properly protest Fiona pressed together her lips and held on to the garment by its lapels. It trailed on the ground, so long was it, and she tried to hoist it up a bit to prevent the hem collecting mud. The leather held a scent redolent of her dear papa’s study. Once the room had been crammed with cracked hide sofas and cigar smoke, but all had been removed and sold since Cecil Ratcliff had married her mother.

      Jerking her mind to the present, Fiona quickly slipped out of her soaked cloak and, with Mr Wolfson’s replacement garment about her narrow shoulders, she gave her own a good shake to dislodge water from the woollen surface.

      The two gentlemen and young Bert were hanging the ladies’ outerwear on sticks they’d rammed