Anyone But a Duke

by Betina Krahn

  She got in several solid kicks and at least one more good face punch before a shotgun blast jarred the scene and the frantic conflict froze. Bascom charged into their midst, his formidable double-barrel shotgun leveled at the miscreants.

  “I told you lot to get out,” he ordered. “You ain’t welcome in my tavern nor the rest o’ Betany.” He gave the closest fellow—the one cradling a bloody face—a shove.

  “She broke my damned nose!” the rogue howled, stumbling to the side.

  “Out. Now.” Bascom stalked closer and shoved again, harder. “Pick up yer friends, an’ clear out.”

  For a moment it looked as if he might turn on Bascom, but instead he looked past the innkeeper to Sarah, with eyes burning.

  “Ye’ll be sorry, duchess. You an’ yer mangy mutt.”

  Sarah’s heart hammered. She gulped a breath as the ruffian stumbled over to his closest comrade, helped him to his feet and braced him upright as they staggered off together. She looked around to find Nero sitting primly between two figures sprawled and motionless on the ground.

  Behind him stood a man in shirtsleeves, vest, and riding breeches, with his booted legs spread and his arms crossed. His hair was long enough to brush his shoulders and his face was sun-bronzed. But his eyes—for a moment, across that space, she could have sworn there were white-hot sparks in his eyes. She looked away and blinked to clear her vision. When she looked back, he had turned and was disappearing down the bend in the village road.

  Trembling, she turned to Bascom.

  “Who are those men?”

  “The same lot wot’s been around this past month or two. Always trouble. Drunk half the time, fightin’ the other half. Tearin’ up shops and market stalls. Jus’ plain mean, the lot of ’em.”

  “Ugh.” She made a face and stuck out her tongue. “I think I might have bit one of them. I have an awful taste in my—” She headed straight for the pump at the nearby trough, gave the handle a few pumps and flushed her mouth out with cool water. Looking up, she found Bascom cradling his gun and watching her with a wry expression.

  “Well, Lord knows where they’ve been,” she said defensively.

  He chuckled and gave her injured hand a nod.

  “Better see to that.”

  She winced as she gave her throbbing fingers a couple of exploratory touches that made her draw a sharp breath. “Nothing seems broken. A soak in some Epsom salts and some willow bark tea will fix it up.”

  “You know best. Jimmy Donner tells one and all how you saved his arm after he got it broke in the thresher.” He frowned as he watched her wrap her hand in a handkerchief. “But, now, will ye take a bit o’ advice and chain up that beast o’ yours?”

  She cradled her injured hand against her middle, reluctantly considering that advice and wishing there were another alternative. She looked around for Nero, and caught sight of his rump escaping around the corner of the tavern.

  Annoyance ignited to full anger as she took off after him. Bascom wasn’t far behind as she raced to catch Nero. The dog ran pell-mell to the rustic stable behind the inn that served the guests’ horses. She lifted her skirts and ran faster, muttering between breaths when she saw him dart inside the shedlike stable. She stepped inside and found it darker than expected and she had to pause a moment to let her eyes adjust. She called for Nero, but there was no response.

  In a far corner, she found him braced in a guarding stance—body taut, ears up—beside one of the empty stalls. He watched her approach with a wariness he had never displayed toward her before.

  “What the devil?” She moved cautiously forward. She knew Nero wouldn’t harm her, but clearly he intended to keep them from—

  She stopped beside the stall. There was something dark on the straw . . . another dog. Something beside it was squirming. Soft mews reached her.

  Puppies.

  In the stall lay a female dog with a young litter, no more than a week or two old. Sarah grinned and gave Nero a stroke down his back as she edged past him, into the stall. At her gentle touch he relaxed visibly, then hurried to the mother dog and nosed her as if assuring her that this human meant no harm to her and her babies.

  The mother lifted her nose to Nero’s muzzle in acceptance of his presence. It struck Sarah as she watched her troublesome pet settle beside the female’s head that this was what Nero had been doing these last few days: visiting this dog and her puppies. There was probably only one reason he would do so.

  “You rascal,” she muttered as she bent to look at the little ones. Their eyes were just open and their bellies bulged as they rooted for more milk. They were mostly black or gray, like their parents, and it was hard to say which parent they would favor as they grew. A soft chuckle made her look up. Bascom was leaning against a roof post, wagging his head and grinning.

  “Looks like yer boy’s got hisself a family.”

  “Looks like.”

  “That’s a sheep dog—one o’ them borderland collies. From up north country. Ain’t much work for a sheep dog if there ain’t no sheep.”

  Sarah scowled. “No sheep? The farmers up there are selling off their flocks?”

  He nodded and frowned. “These are bad times, milady. Price o’ wool is so low. Not much work, but plenty o’ mischief about these days. Strangers ramblin’ here and yon. It’s got so ye don’t know who to trust.”

  A flash of memory brought one specific stranger’s face to mind: the man with the sparks in his eyes. She recalled a blur of motion and the sound of struggle behind her while she was dealing out a nose-breaker. After Bascom’s warning shot, there were two bodies on the ground and the man stood over them, chest heaving, as he watched her. He wasn’t part of the group that had abused her dog—he’d somehow rendered two of the wretches unconscious.

  “That other man—the one with the long hair and steely eyes—who is he?” she asked Bascom.

  “No idea,” Bascom said on a heavy breath. “Like I said, lots o’ strangers about in these parts.”

  She took in that response and then looked back at the dogs. Nero was licking the mother dog’s ears and muzzle with surprising tenderness. “Any guess where we might find her owner?”

  “Aw, she’s a stray. Some sheep herder couldn’t feed her no more, so he turned her out . . . or she run off.”

  She nodded at his logic.

  “Well, I can’t have Nero coming here to see her every day and getting into trouble.” She pursed one corner of her mouth. “I’ll send Young Eddie back with the pony cart to pick them up and bring them to Betancourt.”

  She looked down at the now sated and drowsy puppies.

  “We always have room for a few more babies at Betancourt.” She smiled in spite of the pain throbbing in her fingers. “I can’t wait to get my hands on them.”

  * * *

  “How much for a room tonight?” the long-haired stranger asked as Bascom placed a tankard of ale on the tavern table in front of him that evening.

  It was just past sunset and the taproom was barely half full. It was planting season, and folk from surrounding farms were too tired to go into the village after a day’s hard labor. The rains and spring storms were past, and village folk were taxed by planting gardens and repairing winter damage to houses, barns, and shops. Bascom had greeted the few patrons by name and served most without having to take an order.

  There was one patron in particular that drew his attention: the stranger from earlier in the day, the one who helped deal with the wretches baiting the duchess’s dog. He had stabled his horse at the inn and had spent the better part of the day strolling the village and hiking the rolling hills around Betany and Betancourt.

  The man had returned not long ago and chosen a seat at a table in the corner by the cold fireplace. He ordered some dinner and ate like it might be snatched away at any moment, and then propped his feet on the stone hearth beside him. Bascom, like a good tavern keeper, remembered his choice of drink and after a while brought him a fresh tankard of stout.

&nbs
p; “Two shillings, even.” Bascom answered the query, studying the man and his deep voice. “Two an’ six if ye be wantin’ a bath.”

  “Just the room will be fine,” the stranger said with a wry twist to his mouth as he pulled coins from his pocket, sorted out two, and handed them over. The slight rasp to his voice piqued Bascom’s curiosity. “But answer me a question, if you will.” The innkeeper’s pause and the way he adjusted the towel hanging over one shoulder encouraged the man to continue.

  “Who was that woman this morning . . . with the dog? They called her ‘duchess.’”

  “The duchess? She come from Betancourt—th’ Duke of Meridian’s seat.” He glanced around the taproom and lowered his voice. “House folk up there say she’s th’ duke’s sister.”

  “She could hardly be the duchess, then,” the stranger said, taking a sip of his ale. “Being the sister of a duke.” His angular face tightened into a scowl. “And . . . I wasn’t aware the duke had a sister. I understood there were just a pair of brothers in the Graham family.”

  “All I know is wot I heard. Whatever she is, she runs the place.” Bascom chuckled. “Ain’t much that gets by her. Knows healin’, she does—as good as a city doctor. Gets called for tendin’ man and beast alike.” The innkeeper lowered his head and his voice. “The duke took off. Up and left. Ain’t been seen in years. So, when she come to look after the place, folk were right flummoxed. But she’s takin’ the place in hand an’ helped with the house an’ the stock an’ tenants, so—”

  “Oy—barkeep!” A loud, rough voice split the peace of the taproom. A moment later, a big, roughly dressed man ducked through the open doorway and paused just inside the peaceful taproom. “We’ll have ale—plenty of it!”

  With him were two men with split lips and swollen eyes—familiar injuries. They were the two the “duchess” had bashed in the side yard earlier, during the dustup over the dog. They were back, glowering, and they had brought a big, ugly friend.

  Bascom picked up the empty tankard and made his way toward the men, eyeing the bar and the shotgun behind it.

  “You gents”—he addressed the smaller two—“ain’t welcome at th’ Iron Penny. I told you that this morning. You an’ yer kind keep away from my inn and my village. Folk in Betany don’t stand for bullyin’ and brawlin’.”

  Two of the locals lowered their heads and abandoned their table to make for the door. Those who were left clutched their tankards anxiously and slid chairs back from their table to make way for a quick exit. The stranger took a sip of ale and watched Bascom edge toward the bar.

  “That ain’t sociable,” the big fellow declared without even a pretense of good humor. “We come fer a drink an’ we’re gonna get one.”

  “Or a dozen.” That came from one of the worse-for-wear dog baiters behind the big fellow. The narrowing of their eyes and grim set of their faces made clear that they intended to make good on the old saying, “Down twelve pints an’ start a fight.”

  “I believe you gents have been warned.”

  * * *

  Arthur Graham, now a stranger on his own lands, rose quietly and moved toward Bascom’s back. He curled his hands into fists and felt every muscle in his body tighten with expectation. The threesome hadn’t come to drink, they’d come to get revenge.

  “You should leave. Now.”

  “An’ who’s gonna make us?” the big one snarled, looking him over, assessing and dismissing the threat he presented. “You, pretty boy?”

  Pretty boy? Arthur’s eyebrows rose.

  There was only one way this would end, he thought: with those two lowlifes in a heap and their beefy friend on top. Three against one . . . not the worst odds he’d faced. But then, maybe he could make it one-on-one if he picked the right one.

  The two returning miscreants’ eyes shone with a lust for revenge and an expectation that it would soon be forthcoming. Bascom took one measured pace to the side, glancing at the shotgun behind his bar, and Arthur slid into his place, facing the three. His hand brushed a chair as he moved, then he opened it to slide his palm down the back of the chair. He casually dipped a shoulder to maneuver his hand to grip the back of the seat and the two finally read a threat in his move and growled, “Get ’im, Steig!”

  Arthur came up swinging the heavy oak chair, but not at the pair he had bested earlier—at the brute with the ugly sneer instead. The big man’s reflexes surprised Arthur. The man staggered under the blow, but managed to grab the chair’s leg and yanked hard, trying to wrest the seat from his opponent.

  Arthur had chosen well; once the brute “Steig” was engaged, the others hung back, content to snarl encouragement. When the big fellow couldn’t take the chair from Arthur, he seemed to take it personally. With a roar, he shoved the chair—and with it, Arthur—away. Then out came the knife, a good-sized blade with a bright edge that spoke of devoted sharpening. No doubt that knife had seen and ended many such disputes. The tavern’s remaining patrons, those who hadn’t already fled, scrambled for places against the walls.

  Arthur pulled the seat of the chair to his chest and used it like a shield as the big man attacked. Steig’s moves—short, focused jabs and low, fast arcs of the blade—were classic knife-fighting technique. Arthur was surprised to find himself facing a brute who owned some skill. But in his experience there were disadvantages to concentrating all of your power on an edge of steel. A knife fighter, crouched and braced, was essentially a one-armed man. Very few were as strong and agile as a bare-knuckle fighter who knew how to use his fists, his feet, and his core strength in explosive bursts.

  Bascom had made for his shotgun the minute the big man lunged at Arthur, but didn’t reach it before one of the two miscreants caught him and slammed a shoulder into his side, pinning him against the bar. The other bully joined him, and Bascom, now held fiercely between the two, could do nothing but watch as Arthur battled the brute who came to punish the innkeeper for daring to oppose them.

  Several swings of that big knife told Arthur all he needed to know. He slammed the chair against a post, broke off a couple of legs, and then wheeled and attacked. His feet were his weapons at first and with the chair bottom shielding his chest, he braved the knife to deliver a crushing kick to one of the big fellow’s knees. The joint buckled and wrenched a roar of pain from Steig as he lurched and stumbled aside. He returned seconds later, limping badly and bent on a more personal kind of revenge. His increasingly wicked slashes and jabs were parried by that broken chair and Arthur’s quick reflexes.

  The tavern filled with growls and thuds and encouragement from villagers. Onlookers shouted “Look out!” and “Get ’im, lad!”

  The odds changed when the big man’s blade tip grazed a nearby post and stuck long enough for Arthur to bring the chair down on his arm like a hammer. The big man howled and the knife went flying. Another of Arthur’s punches hit home, and it was suddenly hand to hand. They came together in a flurry of staggering blows that ended when a chair was swung at Steig’s back by an intrepid villager. That second front of attack, though far from powerful, was enough to break the big man’s concentration. Arthur exploded upward with a blow to his chin that snapped Steig’s head back and dropped him like a wet sack of grain.

  Shocked silence was followed by a cheer, a tussle at the bar, and a roar of anger as the remaining villagers descended on the less-imposing miscreants. The pair was dragged outside and, from the sound of it, given their second thrashing of the day.

  Someone ran for the constable and the big man was soon dragged down the street and locked up in a secure stone room in a nearby barn. A bit of ale-fueled fisticuffs could be overlooked by the law, but adding a knife to a brawl took it to a potentially deadly level.

  Arthur stood in the taproom panting, his limbs twitching with the aftermath of the action coursing through them. His heart pounded as his senses cleared to resume their normal function. As he took stock of his surroundings and injuries—a scratch here and there, a bruised jaw and a sore rib or two—he c
ounted himself lucky indeed. The brute had more skill with that blade than he’d expected.

  He lumbered to the bar where Bascom stood breathing heavily from his belated bout with the two who had held him. The innkeeper held out something to Arthur, who frowned, but then extended his hand palm-up. The innkeeper deposited the two shillings Arthur had given him earlier for a room.

  “On the house.”

  Arthur smiled, then put one back on the bar, sliding it across.

  “I think I need another pint. Or ten.”

  Bascom poured a pint from the tap and set it before him.

  “Yer money’s no good here, stranger. Wot do I call you?”

  There was a slight hesitation in the answer. “Art.”

  “Well, Art, welcome to Betany.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Arthur rose before dawn, grabbed a piece of bread and a hunk of cheese from the cold kitchen, and resumed his rambling exploration of the surrounding area as he breakfasted. Predawn mist clung to the trees as he sauntered along the wooded lane that he remembered well. It led to Betancourt, the Meridians’ seat, and didn’t seem to have changed much in the years since he’d seen it last. He recalled walking that same path one night . . . in the dark . . . his life in turmoil. But, a more recent memory eclipsed that thought and caused a hitch in his gait.

  There she stood in his mind’s eye . . . the duchess . . . wrapped in yellow, looking pure as sunshine . . . sun-kissed hair loose and hugging her shoulders . . . eyes hot with anger. She had stopped him dead in his tracks with her similarity to . . . when they called her “duchess” his heart had quivered for a moment. But her voice, her actions weren’t Daisy’s.

  She claimed to be the duke’s sister, but he knew full well that was a lie. He gave a huff of a laugh. If the Grahams had produced a female, she would have been a strapping specimen with broad shoulders, an aquiline nose, and a voice like a foghorn. Certainly not that curvy bundle of dynamite that broke a man’s nose in defense of—

  He was so focused on that memorable little figure that he didn’t notice the rustle of leaves or the crunch of a fallen branch behind him. The bark of the gun and the punch to his shoulder surprised him, but it was an instant before he felt the white-hot sear of pain from the bullet that entered his body. He managed to look back over his shoulder and take three more steps before his legs gave out and he collapsed on the grass beside the lane.