Willow grinned at her flight of fancy. The forest’s pulsing heart was a horseman. ‘The rider makes no effort to conceal himself,’ Willow observed, as the soldiers gathered about them with pistols drawn. ‘He intends us no harm.’ ‘Hullo, the coach,’ the rider shouted, bursting from a forest track. ‘Jeffrey Lytton greets you.’ Dust swirled when he brought his horse to a showy sliding halt. Whipping his tricorn from his head he leaped to the ground and bowed before them. The soldiers grinned and moved their startled mounts aside. No more than a youth of about fifteen, Jeffrey’s smile was as wide as it could get without splitting his face in half. His eyes twinkled with merriment as he poked his head over the coach door. ‘Welcome Grandmother. I have come to escort you in.’ ‘Then God help us,’ Edwina snorted, ‘for you make enough noise to alert every highwayman this side of London.’ Willow’s dowry had been sent ahead by messenger just before they’d left London.
