He had just the briefest glimpse of her face—scared, pale, beautiful—before one of the highwaymen shot out the lanterns of the coach and darkness fell over the entire scene. Someone screamed. Another shot rang out, silencing the frightened cry abruptly.
His face grim, the young gentleman knotted his horse’s reins and removed his gloves, pulling each one carefully off by the fingertips. With a watchful eye on the highwaymen, he slipped his feet from the irons and vaulted lightly down from the thoroughbred’s tall back, his glossy top boots of Spanish leather landing in chalk mud up to his ankles. The horse never moved. He doffed his fine new surtout and laid it over the saddle along with his tricorn and gloves. He tucked the lace at his wrist safely inside his sleeve to protect it from any soot or sparks his pistol might emit. Then he crept through the knee-high weeds and nettles that grew thick at the side of the road, priming and loading the pistol as he moved stealthily toward the stricken coach. He would have time to squeeze off only one shot before they were upon him, and that one shot had to count.
“Everybo’y out. Now!”
Holding Charlotte tightly against her, Juliet managed to remain calm as the robber snared her wrist and jerked her violently from the vehicle. She landed awkwardly in the sticky white mud and would have gone down if not for the huge, bearlike hand that yanked her to her feet. Perhaps, she thought numbly, it was the very fact that it was bearlike that she was able to keep her head—and her wits—about her, for Juliet had been born and raised in the woods of Maine, and she was no stranger to bears, Indians, and a host of other threats that made these English highwaymen look benign by comparison.
But they were certainly not benign. The slain driver lay face-down in the mud. The bodies of one of the guards and a passenger were sprawled in the weeds nearby. A shudder went through her. She was glad of the darkness. Glad that the poor little children still inside the coach were spared the horrors that daylight would have revealed.
Cuddling Charlotte, she stood beside the other passengers as the robbers yanked people down from the roof and lined them up in front of the coach. A woman was sobbing. A girl clung pitifully to the old man, perhaps her grandfather. One fellow, finely dressed and obviously a gentleman, angrily protested the treatment of the women and without a word, one of the highwayman stuck his pistol into his belly and shot him dead. As he fell, the wretched group gasped in dismay and horror. Then the last passengers were dragged from the coach, the two children clinging to their mother’s skirts and crying piteously.
They all huddled together in the rainy darkness, too terrified to speak as, one by one, they were relieved of their money, their jewels, their watches, and their pride.
And then the bandits came to Juliet.
“Gimme yer money, girl, all of it. Now!”
Juliet complied. Without a sound, she handed over her reticule.
“The necklace, too.”
Her hand went to her throat. Hesitated. The robber cuffed it away in impatience, ripping the thin gold chain from her neck and dropping the miniature of Charlotte’s dead father into his leather bag.
“Any jewels?”
She was still staring at the bag. “No.”
“Any rings?”
“No.”
But he grabbed her hand, held it up, and saw it: a promise made but broken by death. It was Charles’s signet ring—her engagement ring—the last thing her beloved fiancé had given her before he had died in the fighting at Concord.
“Filthy lyin’ bitch, give it to me!”
Juliet stood her ground. She looked him straight in the eye and firmly, quietly, repeated the single word.
“No.”
Without warning he backhanded her across the cheek, and she fell to her knees in the mud, cutting her palm on a stone as she tried to prevent injury to the baby. Her hair tumbled down around her face. Charlotte began screaming. And Juliet looked up, only to see the black hole of a pistol’s mouth two inches away, the robber behind it snarling with rage.
Her life passed before her eyes.
And at that moment a shot rang out from somewhere off to her right, a dark rose exploded on the highwayman’s chest, and with a look of surprise, he pitched forward, dead.
Only one shot, but by God, I made it count.
The other two highwaymen jerked around at the bark of Gareth’s pistol. Their faces mirrored disbelief as they took in his fine shirt and lace at throat and sleeve, his silk waistcoat, expensive boots, expensive breeches, expensive everything. They saw him as a plum ripe for the picking, and Gareth knew it. He went for his sword.
“Get on your horses and go, and neither of you shall be hurt.”
For a moment, neither the highwaymen nor the passengers moved. Then, slowly, one of the highwayman began to smile. The other, to sneer.
“Now!” Gareth commanded, still moving forward and trying to bluff them with his display of cool authority.
And then all hell broke loose.
Tongues of flame cracked from the highwaymen’s pistols and Gareth heard the low whine of a ball passing at close range. Passengers screamed and dived for cover. The coach horses reared, whinnying in fear. Gareth, his sword raised, charged through the tangle of nettle that grew dense at the side of the road, trying to get to the robbers before they could reload and fire. His foot hit a patch of mud and he went down, his cheek slamming into the stinging nettles. One of the highwayman came racing toward him, spewing a torrent of foul language and intent only on finishing him off. Gareth lay gasping, then flung himself hard to the left as the bandit’s pistol coughed another spear of flame. Where his shoulder had been, a plume of mud shot several inches into the air.
The brigand was still coming, roaring at the top of his lungs, already bringing up a second pistol.
Gamely, Gareth tried to get to his feet and reach his sword. He slipped in the wet weeds, his cheek on fire as though he’d been stung by a hundred bees. He was outnumbered, his pistol spent, his sword just out of reach. But he wasn’t done for. Not yet. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He lunged for his sword, rolled onto his back, and sitting up, flung the weapon at the oncoming highwayman with all his strength.
The blade caught the robber just beneath the jaw and nearly took his head off. He went over backward, clawing at his throat, his dying breath a terrible, rasping gurgle.
And then Gareth saw one of the two children running toward him, obviously thinking he was the only safety left in this world gone mad.
“Billy!” the mother was screaming. “Billy, no, get back!”
The last highwayman spun around. Wild-eyed and desperate, he saw the fleeing child, saw that his two friends were dead, and, as though to avenge a night gone wrong, brought his pistol up, training it on the little boy’s back.
“Billeeeeeeee!”
Gareth lunged to his feet, threw himself at the child, and tumbled him to the ground, shielding him with his body. The pistol exploded at close range, deafening him, a white-hot lance of fire ripping through his ribs as he rolled over and over through grass and weeds and nettles, the child still in his arms.
He came to rest upon his back, the wet weeds beneath him, blood gushing hotly from his side. He lay still, blinking up at the trees, the rain falling gently upon his throbbing cheek.
His fading mind echoed his earlier words. Well done, good fellow! Well done.
The child sprang up and ran, sobbing, back to his mother.
And for Lord Gareth de Montforte, all went dark.
Chapter Two
“Help him!” Juliet cried. She thrust Charlotte into the other mother’s arms, picked up her skirts and ran headlong through the weeds toward the fallen gentleman. “Dear God, he saved us all!”
Still in shock, the other passengers stood milling around like sheep; but Juliet’s words penetrated their daze, and before he could flee into the woods, the last highwayman was subdued and others were charging through the weeds after Juliet.
“Is he all right?”
“Bles
s him, he saved that little boy, that dear, sweet little boy—”
Juliet reached him first. He lay on his back, half-concealed by a canopy of dripping nettles—broken, bleeding, still. She plunged to her knees beside him and grabbed his hand—so lifeless, so smooth—and shoved her finger beneath the lace that draped it, trying to locate a pulse.
More people came rushing up behind her.
“Is he dead?”
“Sure looks like it to me, poor fellow—”
Juliet looked up at them over her shoulder. “He’s not dead, but I fear he will be if we don’t get help, and soon!”
Ignoring the commotion behind her, she squeezed his fingers, willing him to hold onto life as more people came running to his assistance. She saw the blood soaking through his fine clothes, the paleness of his cheek beneath the crescent of dark lashes that lay against it. Wet stinging nettles were crushed beneath the other. Tenderly, Juliet reached down, flinching as those same fiery weeds stung her own tender skin, and lifted his head so that his face was clear of them.
His cheek was already puckered and angry. Juliet looked up at the circle of faces above. “Someone, please give me a coat, a cape, anything!”
His breath smelled of spirits. His head was a heavy, lolling weight in her hands, his damp hair coming loose from its queue to spill in soft, tumbling waves over her fingers. Someone thrust a jacket beneath him, and she gently eased his head back down to it as more people came hurrying toward them.
“Let’s get him out of these nettles and into the coach,” Juliet said, instinctively taking charge. “You, take his feet. You there, help me take his shoulders. Hurry, let’s go!”
Their fallen savior was a tall man, lean and honed with muscle, a dead weight as they struggled to lift him. They rushed him across the road to the coach, where two people were already spreading a blanket on the grass for him while another hastily began clearing the vehicle’s interior of broken glass. The other mother stood nearby, pale and silent, trying to quiet Charlotte while her own children, seeing the injured man, hid their faces in her skirts.
Juliet shut her mind to her baby’s distress. “Right here. Easy with him. He’s been hurt, badly.”
People pressed close, eager to help. This gallant gentleman had saved their lives, and everyone seemed to want to touch him. Hands reached out to support him beneath his arms, his body, his legs, though so many were not needed and only got in the way. Gently, they lowered him to the blanket while the coach was made ready for him. Kneeling beside him on the wet grass, the other passengers crowding around and above her, Juliet quickly loosened the flawlessly knotted, elegant spill of lace at his throat. Then she began unbuttoning his waistcoat, her fingertips going wet and slippery with blood as they neared the wound in his side.
You can’t die, she willed him, working furiously now and calling for some light. Not after what you’ve done for us!
Charlotte, still in the stranger’s arms, began to wail, only adding to Juliet’s sense of urgency.
Someone found a candle and flint. Suddenly, feeble light danced over worried faces and threw Juliet’s shadow across the injured man. As she gingerly undid the last button, his head began to move weakly on the blanket. He groaned in pain, his skin as white as chalk, his eyelashes fluttering.
“The child,” he said, thickly.
“The child’s fine. Be still. Relax. You’re going to be all right.” Out of the corner of her eye, Juliet could see movement, shadowy and silent, as the dead were placed side by side and covered with a blanket. Please God, don’t let this poor gentleman be joining them. She slid her fingers beneath his waistcoat, peeling it away from his blood-soaked shirt and feeling a wave of nausea at the sight that met her eyes. In the dim glow of the candle, blood was everywhere.
“Oh, dear God, I’m going to faint,” murmured one of the woman passengers, who was quickly escorted away from the grim scene before she could.
And all the while Charlotte’s piercing wails rang in Juliet’s head.
She shut her mind to her bawling daughter. She shut it to the last highwayman, his hands tied to a nearby tree and cursing them in language horrible enough to make her toes curl. She shut it to the people breathing down her neck, to her own queasiness, to her fear that this man was dying and there was nothing that she or anyone could do for him.
“I need a knife,” she said, anxiously looking up at the faces above. “Does anyone have one?”
A small blade was produced, and Juliet deftly slit the injured man’s shirt all the way to his breeches. The fabric was soaked with blood. Gently, she eased it open where the ball had gone in. In the feeble light, it was impossible to tell how badly he was hurt, but there was an awful lot of blood.
“We need to get help, immediately,” she said, hacking a strip of cotton from her petticoats and packing it into his side in an attempt to stop the bleeding. “I don’t want to move him for fear of making his injury worse. Does anyone know where we are, how close the nearest village or town might be?”
“I think we’re almost into Ravenscombe.”
“Is there a doctor there?”
“Don’t know. If not, might be one back in Lambourn, I should think.”
Juliet shook her head. “We can’t go charging all over England with him while we’re looking for a doctor. It would be better if one of you rides for help and brings one back.” Glances were exchanged. “Now!”
Her sharp word jolted everyone into action. Two men ran to the nervous coach horses, but another was already leading a well-bred chestnut steed from out of the surrounding darkness. “Here, take his instead, it’s saddled and ready.”
“I’ll go!”
“No, let me, I insist!”
After a brief debate about who would do the honors, someone swung up onto the tall hunter and the animal was away, thundering off down the road.
And then the little group was alone. Both Charlotte and the highwayman had finally quieted, and now there was nothing but the soft rustle of the wind through the copper beeches, the sound of rain pitter-pattering into the puddled ruts. It was falling harder now, and two of the women stretched a coat over the injured man, trying to protect his face from the wet as Juliet tore another strip from her petticoats and bound it tightly around his torso.
There was nothing to do but wait. In the deep silence of the night none of the passengers spoke, each remembering the shots, the highwaymen, the deaths—and this unknown gentleman’s selfless sacrifice. They gathered close to him, protectively surrounding him, the rain falling softly in the grass verge, the hedgerows, and the field of young wheat beyond.
“Oughtn’t take more than ten, fifteen minutes to bring back help,” someone nervously murmured.
“Aye, fifteen at the most.”
“Provided Hawkins finds a doctor, that is”
A small sound came from the injured man. He was stirring again, groping for the wound in his side and trying to gauge the extent of his injury. Juliet caught his hand, lacing her bloodstained fingers through his. It was a smooth, elegant hand, white as the lace that framed it, a gentleman’s hand. Yet the skill with which he had handled his pistol had been deadly.
He groaned, and his head moved on the wet blanket. “Done for …oh, hell … the child….”
“Easy, there,” Juliet murmured, smoothing the hair back from his forehead. “Help is on the way.” With her other hand, she urgently beckoned the other mother forward. If their noble rescuer was dying, before he left this earth Juliet wanted him to see proof that he had indeed saved the boy.
“The child,” he whispered, persistently. He opened his eyes—long-lashed, beautifully shaped, romantic eyes that looked oddly familiar—and looked dazedly about him. “Tell me the little one is all right.”
“He’s fine and with his mother,” Juliet said softly, just as the man’s searching gaze found the small boy, huddled against his mother’s skirt and staring at him with huge, frightened eyes. Their savior smiled, at peace now, and Juliet did not p
rotest when he carried her hand to his face and laid it against the angry red flesh of his cheek. “You saved his life,” she murmured. “You’re a hero.”
“Hardly. I was just … in the right place at the right time, I think.” His eyes closed, but nevertheless his mouth remained curved in the faintest of satisfied smiles. He turned his head so that his lips were in Juliet’s palm. They moved softly, sending wanton little thrills rushing unexpectedly down her spine. “Heroes do not make bumbling … fools of themselves, as I have done.”
“I think we’d all beg to differ on that, sir,” Juliet said firmly, and was joined by a hearty chorus of agreement from those around them. “Can you tell us your name? Where you live? Your family will be worried and must be notified.”
“My family won’t—”
But his weak reply was lost beneath distant shouts, laughter, and the sound of hoofbeats rushing down on them from out of the night. Riders were coming from the south, and they were coming fast.
“Hail them!” Juliet cried, raising her head to stare down the still-empty road.
Suddenly, galloping horses burst into view, their riders spurring them to reckless speeds in what was obviously a race.
“Stop!” The grandfatherly passenger ran forward, waving his arms. “We’ve an injured man here!”
“Whoa!” The nearest rider hauled on his reins, sending his lathered horse skidding in the mud and rearing in protest. Whoa!
“What the devil’s going on here—”
With This Kiss: A First-In Series Romance Collection Page 144
