She hurried downstairs, remembering only when she reached the hall that she had not brought the things that Maria had laid aside in the sewing room for the poor woman.

There was not time now to go back.

The Prince would be waiting and wondering what had happened. He was quite capable, Gretna thought, of coming over himself if he thought that anything was amiss.

She turned to the woman sitting waiting patiently on the settle.

“There is a message that I have to give to His Royal Highness,” she said. “Would you be kind enough to wait until I return? I will not be long, I promise you.”

“I don’t mind, lady,” the woman answered. “’Tis warm ’ere and peaceful. And peace is somethin’ I get little enough of, I can tell you.”

“You shall have the things the moment I return,” Gretna told her. “I am sure I will not be more than ten minutes.”

As she opened the front door, a guest of wind and rain came bursting over her in a sudden flurry.

She pulled the cloak around her glad that the hood with its warm fur protected her hair from the damp.

She slammed the door and hurried down the little path. She could see the coach waiting, the candle lanterns flickering in the force of the wind.

The door was opened for her.

She stepped forward and, as she did so, something thick, heavy and enveloping was thrown over her head, stifling her, blinding her and making it in her confusion almost impossible to cry out or to struggle.

She felt someone lift her and throw her back against the seat, she heard a hoarse voice give an order and she was jerked backwards as the horses started off.

The coach began to move.

She tried to struggle, to fight for the freedom of her hands and then to scream.

Almost immediately a heavy hand was placed roughly on her face.

“Open your bone-box,” a coarse voice threatened, “or you’ll get a knock in your phyz!”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Gretna felt faint.

The blanket that covered her was thick and suffocating. She felt it grow increasingly difficult to breathe and, what was more, her hands were pinioned and she could only move them a little with great effort.

She ceased to struggle and lay in the corner of the coach fighting against the feeling of suffocation and nausea that came partly from the smell of the blanket and partly from a fear such as she had never experienced in the whole of her life.

After a while one of the men spoke,

“The fancy mort ain’t much of a gabster, Joe,” he remarked. “Do you think she’s dead mutton?”

“Mebbe you gave ’er too much of a lick,” was the reply.