Free Swift Runs The Heart by Mary Brock Jones

Probably some kind of trader or bank official. Did the man realise how obvious he was when he checked what had to be a money belt?
    Bas paused in the shadow of a store, awaiting the coach’s departure she supposed, before they moved. There was no way to pass by it by without attracting attention. Then Bas made his move. Why? The driver was still completing his final check on the luggage. Surely he could have waited a few minutes more? For a space, she thought of staying where she was. It was only fear of being left behind that drove her to follow him.
    Bas seemed not to notice her hesitation, taking her by the arm to steer her past the pile of boxes stacked outside the next doorway.
    Then suddenly his arm clamped down on hers. Before she knew what she was about, he had steered her into the open street and right up to the coach door.
    â€œHere’s your last passenger, Joe.”
    â€œIs that you, Bas?” the man said. “Was wondering where you had got to.”
    Geraldine tried to swing around, scarcely able to believe what was happening, but Bas kept a tight hold on her, tossing her bag up to the driver and then hustling her into the coach.
    â€œOne day you’ll thank me, sweetheart,” he said. Then she was pushed down on a seat, the door was shut behind her and the coach had moved off before she could so much as catch her breath.
    She tried to sit up, just as the coach gave a mighty lurch forward, throwing her back into her seat. The driver had kicked the horses to a gallop. No doubt bribed to by Mr Bas Deverill, she fumed. She struggled up again, getting her head out the window of the bouncing coach enough for a backwards glance. A lone figure stood in the street, staring after her. One arm began to lift in farewell, but then she saw him thrust it down, ramming both hands into his pockets as he stood there, legs braced, watching her leave.
    Another bump and she was flung back into her seat. When she finally managed to struggle up again, the couch had passed the last of the tent shanties and rounded a corner. If he had been still there, she could not see. The one street of Dunstan town was gone from sight.
    She slumped back. She had lost her dreams, her hopes of independence, and something else she dared not put into words. Something – or someone.
    Her fellow travellers were quiet. The young man and the trader sat opposite, leaning back into each seat corner and already slipping back into sleep. The trooper sat beside her, eyes scanning the countryside out the window, but he was as silent as the two sleepers. She shut her eyes. Sleep was an impossibility, but mouthing polite nothings to complete strangers was beyond bearable right now.
    How long she sat, a prey to despair such as she had never given way to before, she could not say. Why this feeling of utter defeat, she knew not. She had lost her mother, then her father and home in all but name after his second marriage, yet always some part of her had refused to lie down. It had made her life with Aunt Shonagh difficult, but that she had expected. Both aunt and niece possessed a stubborn and independent core. It was the only thing they shared, and at least gave a sense of belonging that had buoyed Geraldine through the wearying days in that oppressive household. Now, she seemed to have nothing to hold to. Bas had cast her adrift and she did not know now where to turn for hope. He had won.
    The words blasted a shock through her. Her eyes snapped open and she glared out at the passing flats. Bas had won? What an idea. There was nothing personal in the man’s actions. He had merely done what seemed most sensible and convenient to him. She was a magnet for trouble in the town so he had put her on a coach, no doubt telling himself that it was in her best interests and she needed to leave for her own safety. Well, she had not given him the right to make such decisions and he would soon find out what she thought of such cavalier action.
    Or maybe