“Good thing you’re not any thicker,” he said, looking at the shallow indentation into which she’d flattened herself in a wild bid for self-preservation. “Whose motor is this?”

“I have no idea,” she replied, then, in the absence of the indication of any forthcoming assistance, she returned to sawing away at the corner of her frock in an effort to free herself.

“That was a very close call,” Bradford said, shining the torchlight onto the part of her dress that had somehow been caught between vehicle and the jutting crenelation that had acted as a barrier to keep her from being crushed. “Very close. Another inch closer and it would have been you pinned there.”

“I’m well aware of that,” she responded.

“Lucky for you it was a Morris, with a flat front end, instead of something like a Rover or an Austin, with an angled one, otherwise. . .” He made a quiet sound of dismay.

She’d thought of that, of course, but only after the fact. There hadn’t been time to consider the design of the front of the motorcar during the chase and her ensuing efforts for escape.

Bradford was still standing there, arms folded, surveying the situation. “Do you want that I should move the motor so you don’t have to cut your dress?”

“That would be an excellent plan,” she replied from between clenched jaws. “Mr. Bradford.”

She thought she heard a little chuckle, but he moved immediately to dig around inside the motorcar. She heard a soft thunk and a click, but the motor didn’t start—which wasn’t surprising, as the vehicle had been coming at her so wildly, it had crashed its front end quite thoroughly.

Bradford emerged from inside the motor and after picking up the barking beast and shoving it into the driver seat—for what purpose Phyllida couldn’t imagine—he gripped the open door and steering wheel and began to pull the vehicle away. To her surprise, the motorcar actually moved, rolling back silently. The corner of Phyllida’s skirt fell free and then all at once her knees buckled.

She barely caught herself from falling, having been unaware of how much support the motor had been providing her.

“You all right?” Bradford asked. Apparently, he’d seen her near collapse.

“Yes,” she said, but her voice came out as shaky as her knees felt. Fortunately, it was only one syllable, so perhaps he didn’t notice.

“Let me help you.” Bradford’s tone was softer than it had been, and she allowed him to lift her clear over the hood.

Unfortunately, when he set her down, her knees gave way again, and she had to cling to his arms to keep from collapsing.

“All right, then, Mrs. Bright?” he said, taking his time steadying her.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she said briskly, releasing her grip on his solid forearms.