The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

Her eyes closed, and she drifted into a peaceful sleep.

  Blowing out a long breath, Samuel gripped Emma tighter and stood, hauling her up along with him. Her basket lay overturned on the floor near the door, and her bag of belongings spilled out clouts and tiny gowns onto the table. Samuel scooped both up in his empty hand and strode to the door—just as it opened.

  Tim stood on the threshold, blood dripping a trail from his nose to his upper lip, then smeared across his cheek where he’d obviously been swiping at it with his sleeve.

  “Best be on yer way, sir.” He ran his arm across his nose once again. “My father’s not far behind.”

  Fury throbbed a vein in Samuel’s temple. No doubt the boy had his cullion of a father to thank for that bloody nose. He set down the basket and crouched, keeping a good hold on Emma. Then he fished in his pocket, pulling out the last of his coins and the end of his hope to purchase any land in the near future.

  “Hold out your hand, Tim.”

  The boy sniffled and cocked his head, but slowly he obeyed. Good boy. Too good for the likes of Gruber.

  Samuel pressed the money into the boy’s hand and held on.

  The boy’s blue eyes searched his, questions creasing his forehead as blood continued to ooze from his nostrils.

  Samuel squeezed his hand. “Take this money and hide it. It’s a tough truth, but you need to know. Your mother isn’t long for this world. She’ll be lucky to make it another day. When she’s gone, leave here. Immediately. Use these coins to take a coach to Warrington. When you get off, seek out Farmer Bigby, about six miles from town. Tell him you have my recommendation. You’ll be safe there. Do you understand?”

  Slowly, the boy nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  “Good.” Samuel released him and snatched up Emma’s things. Indeed, no place this side of heaven was truly safe, but that never stopped God from being a protector. And maybe—just maybe—God had allowed him, a tired, worn-out lawman, to make the world a little safer for one young boy.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Eyes watched them—and had been since they’d left Manchester two days ago. Close but unseen. Ever present. Samuel couldn’t prove it, despite his best efforts, but the queer twist in his gut was all the evidence he needed.

  So he alternated between scouting ahead of the carriage, then doubling back and trailing behind, as he now rode. To his right, fields stretched just beyond an abrupt dip that led to a small river. To his left, death. In what had been a vibrant pine forest, charred trees stood like skeletons. The larger ones, at any rate. The rest scattered the blackened ground like dead men’s bones, eerily rising up from the grave in spots where boulders lifted the ends of them into burnt pikes.

  Pilgrim’s ears twitched, and Samuel bent forward, patting the horse’s neck. “Easy, girl. That fire’s long gone.”

  He straightened and continued plodding along. Prudence demanded he up his pace, but even so, he held Pilgrim to a slow and steady stride. Within the hour, the manor home of Sir Jonathan Aberley would loom large on the horizon and steal Abby away from him. Forever. The thought of it cut deep in his soul. While it would be a relief to deliver her safely, he could not make himself hasten to that hideous end. He wasn’t ready to part with her—and never would be. He’d grown accustomed to the woman, and he’d miss her as sorely as he would his arm or his leg. Somehow over these past weeks, she’d scaled his best defenses and become a part of him.

  But in his heart he knew it was time to let her go. Release her into God’s care and that of the baronet He’d provided for her. True, the man hardly knew her and likely didn’t love her—yet—but he soon would once he learned of Abby’s family background and saw how precious the woman truly was.

  Shadows stretched longer as the sun sank lower in the sky. Would that he could stop time from passing, that he wouldn’t be traveling this same road tomorrow in the opposite direction with Emma shored up in front of him. After a quick stop at the Bigbys’ to check on Tim—for surely the lad would be smart enough to go there—he’d make the trek back to Hawker’s. And when he dropped off Emma, he’d be alone.

  More alone than he’d ever been in his life.

  Ahead, the carriage stopped, and he pressed his heels into Pilgrim’s side, shooting forward. The way the road bent, this was not a good place to loiter. Any manner of danger could come at them with little warning. Half-wit driver! He’d had reservations about the postilion’s aptitude the first time he met the fellow. It was a foul twist of fate that the fellow had been the only available postilion.

  Drawing near, Samuel rolled his shoulders, vainly trying to ease some of the tension eating at him. A felled tree blocked part of the road in front of the coach, a valid enough reason to slow the horses—but not stop them. The man could easily have driven around the impediment. And why the deuce had he dismounted and was even now walking away from the carriage, toward him?

  Samuel halted Pilgrim in front of the fellow. He was a jittery man, like too many nerves were bundled inside his skin and were wild to break free. Or maybe it was because the man’s lanky arms and legs didn’t quite fit his stub of a body, and the spidery feel of it drove him to constant movement. Either way, Samuel didn’t like it.

  Samuel stared down at him. “What’s the trouble?”

  The man flicked a glance over his shoulder, indicating the felled tree. “Road’s blocked, Captain.”

  Pilgrim shied sideways, and Samuel heeled her in with a jerk on the reins, irritated more at the man than the horse. The driver could try the patience of a frock-coated saint. “I see that. I can also see there’s enough clearance to go around it.”

  “Yes, but…” His arms jerked up in an overzealous shrug.

  Samuel shoved down a growl. “But what, man? Drive around it! This is not a good place to stop.”

  The driver stepped closer, putting distance between himself and the back of the carriage. “I’ve, um…” He cleared his throat, then lowered his voice for Samuel alone to hear. “I’ve some personal business to attend to down by the riverbank, if you know what I mean.”

  Sudden understanding flared. No wonder the man seemed particularly animated—which only peeved him all the more. He gave the fellow a sharp nod and edged Pilgrim aside. “Be quick about it.”

  The man darted off and skittered down the embankment.

  “Why are we stopping?” Abby’s head poked through the carriage window, her brown eyes seeking his.

  Samuel eased his horse ahead several paces, keeping the riverbank in his line of sight. “The driver needed a respite.”

  The words, spoken aloud, circled back and slapped him in the face. Any postilion worth his salt wouldn’t need to stop, especially this close to arriving at their destination—even one as half-witted as their particular driver.

  He reached for his gun.

  “Captain?” Alarm pinched the edges of Abby’s voice. “Why are you—?”

  Two shots cracked the air. Blistering pain ripped into his upper arm, and his gun flew from his grip.

  “Get down!” he shouted. He turned Pilgrim toward the wood line, reaching for his knife with the only arm that worked.

  Too late.

  A blade sliced into his thigh and a demon from hell reached for his arm, yanking him down.

  The world exploded, spattering Abby’s cheek with hot droplets. Blood. The captain’s blood. Her heart stopped. So did her breath. She froze, helpless, staring at a living nightmare outside the window.

  A grey-cloaked monster of a man pulled the captain from his horse, and he whumped to the ground. Another man stood a few paces back, trading his gun for a knife. Fear stabbed her in the chest. The captain could die here, now, right in front of her eyes.

  God, no…please!

  A screech rang in her ear, and it took her a moment to realize the echoes weren’t from her own throat. She ripped her gaze away from the fight outside to a tearful Emma. The girl had pulled herself up on Abby’s arm, standing on the seat, eye level with her—and a clear target
if another shot should fire out.

  Grabbing the child, Abby plummeted to the floor, huddling them both into the small space. Curses blasphemed the air. A growl. Several grunts of fresh pain. Abby clung to Emma as tightly as the girl dug her fingers into Abby’s neck.

  “Shh,” she breathed out, hoping to calm Emma. What a farce. How could she expect the girl to settle down when chaos clashed and gnashed just beyond the thin carriage wall?

  The captain roared—and Abby’s heart sank. For all she knew, that could be his death cry…and she’d done nothing to help him. What kind of coward trembled in a heap on a floor when the man she loved—loved!—was in the fight of his life?

  She pried Emma’s fingers off her neck and tucked the girl into the corner. “Stay!” she ordered.

  Turning away from the child, she swept a desperate gaze around the carriage, ignoring the crazed beat of her pulse and the madness of what she intended to do. What could she use to help the captain? What might serve as a weapon?

  Her eyes landed on the curtain rod just above the window on the door. If she snuck up behind one of the captain’s attackers, one good wallop with that iron bar could dent the brute’s skull. It might work. No, it had to work.

  She shot toward the door—then gasped. A horse and rider tore up from the riverbank, riding straight toward her. Behind her, Emma’s cries crescendoed. Abby bit the inside of her cheek, stopping her own scream.

  The captain would have to hold his own for now.

  She dropped back down, shoving Emma aside and sorry for the harshness. Propping her spine against the wall, Abby curled up her legs, prepared to kick wildly and slam open the door at the slightest hint of movement on the handle. Timing was key. Too soon and she’d open the thing wide, giving the man access without an effort. Too late and he’d grab ahold of her, pulling her out for whatever wicked deed he had in mind. Either way would not be good.

  She fixed her gaze on the brass door handle, watching for movement. Narrowing her universe down to a small hunk of metal that, at the slightest quiver, would mean life or death.

  And prayed as never before in all her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Samuel’s face mashed into the ground, gravel cutting his cheek. Fire burned in his arm, and life seeped out of his thigh. But he couldn’t give in to pain now. Lying there meant death, for him and for Abby and Emma.

  Harnessing momentum, he rolled, then slashed his blade in a wide arc as he rose to his feet. The knife caught. Slicing through flesh and muscle. Coming away slick and sticky.

  His attacker stumbled back and fell, spewing out curses and clutching his belly—or what was left of it, anyway.

  Ten paces behind the felled man, a guttural cry tore across the afternoon, from a cavernous mouth on a misshapen head.

  Shankhart.

  Samuel sucked in air. So this was it, then. Kill or be killed…unless he could get the better of the man and haul him in.

  Oh Lord, make it so.

  The brute barreled forward, his gaze narrowed on Samuel. “You’re a dead man, runner!”

  “God numbers my days, Robbins. Not you.” He charged to meet him, knife at the ready, and at the last minute before contact, swerved sideways, forcing Shankhart to spin toward him—leading the villain away from the carriage and toward the charred wood line.

  Putting most of his weight on his good leg, Samuel pivoted and crouched, grasping the hilt of his knife tighter. Already he felt his strength draining down his leg and spilling onto the ground. He’d not last long. That gash on his thigh had to be deep, but he dare not pull his gaze from Robbins.

  A little help here, God, if You please.

  Curses belched like hot tar out of Shankhart, and he edged sideways. Samuel did too. It was a macabre dance, this circling of mortals and murder, working their way off the road and into the ruined woods. Each of them took measure of the other. Looking for an opening. Ticking off weaknesses. If he could strike Shankhart on the upper part of his body, find the place where that bullet of a few weeks ago had torn flesh, he might gain the advantage. And judging by the way the man favored his left arm, up near that shoulder would be the best place to thrust his blade.

  Robbins lunged. Samuel threw himself back, and his boot hit a rock, knocking him off-balance. With a wild swoop of his arms, he caught himself before a sharp spire of pine sticking up from the ground could skewer him through the back.

  He barely recovered when Robbins slashed again, carving into him, the metal snagging the flesh of his arm—the same one the bullet lodged in.

  Samuel roared.

  Shankhart struck again. The beast was unstoppable, his blade cutting through the air like lightning. Samuel feinted one way, then as Robbins lurched forward, he darted back the other, slicing the man on the meaty part of his shoulder.

  They both spun, exchanging places, and before Shankhart could strike again, Samuel stabbed upward.

  Shankhart jumped back, just as Samuel had moments before, and the man’s foot hit the same rock. But the force of Robbins’s recoil was too much. The ungainly bulk of him too off-center. Flailing his arms for balance came too late. The notorious highwayman arced backward.

  And the blackened point of a charred pine branch speared through his back and jutted out his chest, just below the rib cage.

  Sickened, Samuel spun away, shutting out the grisly sight—but not able to keep from hearing the last gurgle of Shankhart’s final breath. That awful death rattle would haunt him for years to come.

  God, have mercy on that man’s soul…but even as he prayed it, Samuel knew it was too late for the black-hearted sinner—and that was a fate worse than death.

  He staggered from the thought as he wiped off his knife. It was always like this, the heave of his stomach, the squeeze in his chest, every time a criminal died unrepentant, no matter how abominable their offenses.

  Sucking air through his teeth, he hobbled from the gruesome scene, spent and worn. Darkness closed in at the edges of his vision, and he blinked, desperate to remain conscious. But he had to. If he fell here, he’d never stand again. All he had to do was get to the carriage. Stumble or crawl the distance if he must. Once Abby tied up the gaping flesh on his leg and staunched the flow on his arm, he could think more clearly. Assess what action to take next. Or maybe close his eyes for one blessed moment and rest. Had he ever been so tired in all his life?

  Fighting to remain upright, he pressed on. Every step ignited fresh agony as he worked his way from the wood’s edge. He bypassed the other blackguard lying still on the dirt, permanently curled into clutching a gut that spilled onto the road.

  A movement caught Samuel’s eye, but not from that man. On the river side of the byway, a foreign horse stood on the rise leading down to the water. Four paces away, its rider stalked toward the carriage, the man’s hand rising to yank open the door. His other hand clutched a pistol.

  Sweet blazing stars! Were all the forces of hell against him today?

  Biting back a growl, Samuel used every skill he owned to silently scoop up his gun where it lay in the dirt. Sweat broke loose, dripping down his brow and stinging his eyes. White-hot pain blistered from his knee to his waist. He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out as he fumbled to reload his gun. The fabric of his sleeve stuck to his skin, heavy with blood, and his fingers shook. No, his whole body did, coaxing him to lie down and give up the ghost.

  Focus. Focus!

  He cocked open the hammer and, with a quivering arm, lifted the gun.

  But not soon enough. The man’s hand already gripped the door handle and—

  The door exploded open, slamming into the man’s face and jerking him backward. His arms shot out. His gun plummeted to the ground.

  Samuel took aim and pulled the trigger.

  The man crumpled like a wadded-up rag, clutching his knee and howling on the dirt.

  For the first time in the past eternity, Samuel heaved a sigh of relief as he strode over to the man and clouted him in the head with
the butt of his gun, just to be on the safe side. No sense giving the fellow an opportunity to put a hole in him when he wasn’t looking. Then he stepped back and scanned the area for movement of any more attackers.

  Abby climbed down from the carriage, her skirts giving the man on the ground a wide berth as she raced over to Samuel’s side.

  “Oh Captain.” Her voice was as wobbly as he felt. Tears shimmered in her eyes, wide open with pity and fear. “You are hurt!”

  Despite the effort, he smirked. “A little. Are you unharmed? Is Emma safe?”

  “Yes, but you—” A small cry cut off her words, followed by a gasping breath.

  “I’ll mend.” He wavered on his feet, his own body calling him a liar. “If you could just…”

  Just what? His thoughts scattered like chaff. He swiped the back of his hand across his brow, hoping the movement might straighten out his tangled thinking. “You should…”

  He gave himself a mental shake. Hold it together, man!

  “Captain?” Abby eyed him, fear glinting in her eyes.

  Beyond her shoulder, a dark shape rose from the river embankment. Or was he seeing things? At this point, anything was possible. With another swipe, he shoved the hair from his brow, praying to God it would push away the confusion as well.

  He narrowed his eyes and stared past Abby.

  Blood-smeared and pale, the captain swayed as if he might topple to the ground. He looked over her shoulder as if she weren’t there. Did he know she was? Could he still think straight? Or was his spirit even now packing bags, about to depart?

  Abby clenched her jaw. Not if she could help it. She reached for him, hoping to guide him gently to the ground and get that leg and arm of his to stop bleeding.

  He sprang to life, sweeping her behind him and pulling out his knife, the movement so sudden, she teetered on her own feet.

  “Stop right there!” His voice was a bear’s growl, and she retreated a step from the fierceness of it.

  “Put your hands up where I can see them,” he commanded.