A Fatal Illusion by Anna Lee Huber EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
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- Author: Anna Lee Huber
- Language: English
- Genre: Historical Mysteries
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- Size: 2 MB
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AUGUST 1832
YORKSHIRE, ENGLAND
Wait, Kiera,” my husband, Sebastian Gage, called as he guided his
horse to the edge of the road. “It’s best to let the coach go first
down this hill.”
I pulled up on Figg’s reins, bringing the strawberry roan into line with
Gage’s chestnut gelding as our carriage lumbered over the crest of the ridge
with our coachman skillfully handling the ribbons as it began its descent.
Though not as treacherous as it had once been, the slope leading down
into the gorge was still quite formidable. I well remembered my first
journey south on the Great North Road some ten or eleven years past,
before a new road had been cut out of the limestone rock through which the
River Went flowed.
We’d clung to the walls of the coach as we’d been
driven down the precipitous path into the narrow valley, and then been
forced to walk alongside the carriage as we ascended in order to alleviate
some of the burden for the horses as they toiled back up the other side. In
the years since, I’d been exposed to some colorful curses by the coachmen
of the passing mail and stagecoaches who regularly drove this route, all of
whom despised the nuisance of this stretch of road as much as the rest of us.
My lips quirked at the sight of our coachman’s lips moving as he passed,
and I couldn’t help but wonder what curse he was muttering to himself. But
my amusement vanished when I recalled that my infant daughter was
ensconced inside the carriage he’d been entrusted to drive, along with
Emma’s nanny, Mrs. Mackay, and my maid, Bree. Once the dust had settled
from their passing, Gage and I urged our mounts to follow.
The sun shone hot on our backs as we left the shade of the old-growth
forest behind us to navigate the steep, rutted road. I trusted in Figg’s surefootedness to manage the descent. There wasn’t much more I could do, for
it took most of my concentration to maintain my seat in the saddle. I might
have remained in the carriage, but having spent nearly a week inside its
confines on the road from the Highlands, I’d begun to relish any
opportunity I could to escape. When we’d broken our journey in the
Borders at Blakelaw House—my childhood home, which now belonged to
my brother—I’d seized the chance to requisition the strawberry roan, who
for all intents and purposes had always been mine, from the stables.
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