Bride of the Solway. Joanna Maitland

of them lay the Solway with its quicksands and unpredictable tides. Unless the horse stopped of its own accord, it would probably kill itself and its rider. The odds were against him. But Ross knew he had to try.

      Another huge lightning flash, followed immediately by thunder. This time, Hera’s only reaction was a nervous twitch of the ears. Ross was almost sure that he had seen the girl, a long way ahead. There was something white up there, certainly. He urged Hera to move faster.

      Now they were in the eye of the storm. The thunder was almost constant. Lightning forked to the ground. The storm seemed all around them, and very dangerous. The sudden drenching rain of high summer had started, too. Ross could feel it soaking through his clothes and running down on to his saddle. He gripped the slippery reins more tightly. He was sure, now, that he was gaining on her. Her horse must be tiring. In that last glimpse, she had seemed much nearer than before.

      There was another bright flash and a huge crack of thunder, directly overhead. Ross saw the girl about fifty yards ahead of him. Her horse reared in fright, unseating her. Then it started off again, pulling the white-clad figure behind it.

      Ross breathed a curse. She must be caught in the stirrups! The animal must slow now, surely, with such a weight dragging behind it? But the girl… How would she survive such an ordeal?

      It seemed to take an age before Ross caught up with them. He reached out to grab the horse’s bridle and force it to a steaming halt. Only then was he able to do anything about the fallen rider.

      He threw himself out of the saddle and knelt by the sodden body on the ground. The girl was not moving. Perhaps she was dead? He put a hand under her shoulders to raise her inert form.

      ‘I can shift for myself, thank you, sir,’ said a sharp voice from underneath the mass of wet hair.

      Ross sprang back as if stung.

      The girl sat up and tried to push the hair from her face. Then she thrust an arm up in triumph. ‘He thought he had the better of me,’ she cried. ‘Ha! As if I would ever let go.’

      In her right hand, twisted round her palm, were the horse’s reins.

      ‘You could have been killed,’ he said, aghast. ‘Why did you not let him go?’

      ‘Because I need him,’ she said simply, looking up at Ross through her unkempt mane of hair. ‘Without him, I could never escape.’

      Ross shook his head. Perhaps she was mad, even though she did not sound it. ‘Hold my horse,’ he said sharply, thrusting Hera’s reins into the girl’s free hand. ‘Now…’ He jumped to his feet, hauling the girl up after him. Then he took off his coat and placed it round her. She was shivering with cold. And she was wet through.

      ‘You must not, sir,’ she said crossly, trying to push the coat off her shoulders. ‘I am perfectly well as I am. I was only—’

      ‘Nonsense,’ he snapped. ‘You will get the ague if we do not get you warm. Now…I presume you are from these parts? Is there any shelter to be had hereabouts?’

      ‘Well…there is old Shona’s cottage, I suppose. I was going there when Lucifer bolted.’

      Ross laughed shortly. ‘He is well named. What on earth made you try to ride such an animal? And dressed as you are, too?’

      ‘You sound like the dominie. Why is it that every man I meet wants to tell me what to do? I am perfectly capable of making my own decisions.’

      Ross quirked an eyebrow. She was clearly a lady, but she looked anything but capable. Besides, she was probably no older than fifteen or sixteen. She was soaked to the skin, and her garb was barely decent. And she was riding an ungovernable horse. She clearly needed someone to take charge of her.

      ‘I am not a schoolmaster, ma’am, even if I sound like one to you. My name is Ross Graham, and I am a stranger in these parts. If you will permit—’ he sketched a hasty and inelegant bow in her direction, which provoked a hint of a smile ‘—I will escort you to safety. Perhaps you would…er…point me in the right direction?’

      The girl shook her head at him. ‘Any man who can remember the courtesies of the drawing room in the middle of a raging thunderstorm must be addled in the brain.’

      Ross put a hand firmly on her shoulder and squeezed. He had had enough of courtesies. They were getting wetter by the second. ‘Which way, ma’am?’ he demanded sharply.

      ‘Oh, very well. Help me to mount, and I will show you.’

      ‘You don’t mean to ride that animal again, do you?’

      ‘Of course I do! It will be much quicker than walking, you know. And I shan’t let him get away from me again, you may be sure of that. Besides, the storm is passing over. He will be calmer now.’

      ‘Good grief!’ said Ross to himself, but he threw her up into her saddle, none the less.

      The girl set off at much too fast a pace. Unless she knew every inch of this ground, she risked her horse at every step.

      ‘Have a care!’ Ross cried to her retreating back. ‘You will kill your horse at such a pace in the dark!’

      ‘Not I!’ she retorted over her shoulder. ‘Follow me if you dare!’

      For ten minutes, he did, wondering all the while whether he was right to risk his mare in such conditions. She had carried him through the final two years of the Peninsular War. It was no fair recompense to risk her on the links of the Solway.

      ‘There!’ cried the girl, pointing to a tiny building, almost hidden against a slight rise in the ground. It looked to be little more than a ruined wall from this distance. ‘Come on!’ She set her heels to Lucifer and pushed him to even greater speed.

      Watching her, Ross realised that it was no longer quite so dark. The storm was indeed passing. The rain had almost stopped. He could see the girl quite clearly ahead of him. Her white skirt hung down below the borrowed coat, gleaming against her horse’s dark flanks in spite of the many mud stains upon it. And her legs and feet were bare.

      Reaching the tiny cottage, she threw herself from the saddle and began to pound on the door. It opened just as Ross climbed down from Hera’s back and started after her.

      From the doorway stepped a tall, black-browed man, grinning fiercely down at the girl. ‘I thought so,’ he said shortly, seizing her by the arms and pushing her roughly towards one of the three men who had followed him from the hut. Ross’s coat fell from her shoulders to the ground. The speaker took no notice. ‘Take care of her while I deal with this blackguard.’

      ‘Let her go!’ Ross cried. The girl’s captor simply grinned and put a filthy hand across her mouth, muffling her scream of outrage. Ross reached automatically for his weapon. He had none. He had not worn a sword since he had put off his regimentals, and his pistols were snugly holstered by his saddle. He had nothing but his fists. He squared his shoulders. Even one against four, he would show them what a man could do.

      The dark man must have sensed something. From nowhere, he produced a pistol and casually pointed it at Ross’s heart. ‘So you’re the man, are ye? Y’are good for nothing but poetry, it seems. Well, we shall see how many lines you can compose among the rats. Take him and bind him, lads.’

      The other two men grabbed Ross by the arms and, in spite of all he did to resist, Ross soon found his hands tightly bound behind his back with rough hempen rope, and a dirty piece of sacking tied around his mouth for a gag.

      ‘Put him on his horse and bring him,’ ordered their leader. ‘Ned, fetch the horses.’

      Perhaps, in the dark, they had not noticed the pistols by Hera’s saddle? If only Ross could free his hands, he might be able to—

      ‘There are pistols here, maister,’ cried one of the ruffians, pulling one from its place and brandishing it in the air.

      ‘Give them to me. And those bags of his as well. I’ll look through them when we