Damn it, someone is going to get hurt! Robert grabbed his cane and pounded it on the roof.

Stewart obediently began to slow and Moira’s coach shot ahead. As she whisked by, Robert caught sight of her lips curved in a triumphant smile.

There was nothing he could do but sit back and watch her coach race briskly by. It rounded a corner and—

Crack!

Moira’s coach lurched, one wheel at an odd angle.

It was as if time held still. Robert saw that the wheel had broken, the axle exposed. The horses began to rear, trying to catch their balance as the coach swung wildly behind them. At the final moment, he saw Moira’s white hand clutching the door frame as the coach flipped over into the deep ditch.

His heart thudded sickly and he flung open the door of his moving coach. He was already on the ground and running toward the overturned carriage by the time his had pulled to a halt.

The black coach was upon its side, one wheel still turning. The horses were tangled in the broken traces, whinnying and jumping madly.

A shaken groom was pulling himself out of the ditch, icy water dripping from him, his cheek a bloody mess.

“Leeds, see to those horses!” Robert yelled over his shoulder.

Leeds was down in a trice and running to calm the frightened team.

Robert reached the overturned coach. It lurched drunkenly in the ditch, tilted almost on its top, but it seemed stable, stopped from rolling over by the trunk of a heavy oak.

He climbed onto the tilted carriage, opened the door, and looked inside. Moira was crumpled in the corner, her eyes closed, a streak of blood vivid on her temple. At the sight of her chest moving up and down in smooth rhythm, his heartbeat slowed and reason returned.

He swung his legs inside as Stewart ran up.

“Is she alive, sir?”

“Yes, but she’s injured. Find out where the closest village is. We need a surgeon.”

Stewart hurried off.

Robert let himself down into the coach, carefully setting his feet on either side of Moira’s crumpled form. Her yellow silk gown and pelisse made her paleness seem even more ominous. His heart thudded sickly when he saw that blood had soaked into her hair and spread to the coach cushions. “Damn it! You just had to best me, didn’t you?”

He looked around for a piece of cloth to bind her wounds. The inside of the coach was topsy-turvy, the cushions and the contents of the seat boxes scattered. A foot warmer rested near Moira’s head, the handle matching the shape of the bruise on her temple.

“That had better be all that’s wrong,” he said through gritted teeth. “I won’t have you die at my feet, damn it. Not after I spent so many years trying to find you, and now you just—” His throat tightened and he couldn’t finish the sentence. He wasn’t sure who or what he was threatening, but he meant every word.