Our transport pushed forward at a slow crawl. I swiftly glanced at the door, considered my options, and then rose from the seat. “Don’t you get out of a moving carriage,” Mr. Hayes snarled. “Sit down.” I pushed the door open, managing to take a hold of my purse, and scrambled out, tripping over my skirts, my arms windmilling to keep balance on the dirt road. Behind me, Mr. Hayes said, “Bloody hell.”
