Each halt lasted only long enough for the occasional quick trip to the outhouse and a cup of strong tea. I drank standing up—well, walking around, to be more precise, doing my best to dodge piles of horse droppings while I eased my aching bottom. Ethan walked also, whenever he got the chance, his limp growing more pronounced as time wore on. These breaks never lasted more than scant minutes. I’d slurp down my tea as the hostlers harnessed the fresh team, then we’d be off again.
At one such stop—I have no idea of the name of the village as, by this time, towns and landscapes all ran together—the weather took a turn for the better. I begged Ethan for the privilege of riding topside.
“Please, oh, please,” I said, and while I’m sure I looked every bit as bedraggled and piteous as I felt, I’ll admit I laid the despair on pretty heavy. “My rear hurts, I’m bored with my own company, and I swear, if I’m stuck in that rolling box just one more minute I’m going to quit breathing and die. I need air.”
“Air there is in plenty,” Ethan said with a wry grin. “Although I can’t imagine why you think the seat is any softer up there. Quite the opposite, I should think.”
From where I stood, the driver’s perch did appear to be nothing more than a board set across a brace. Daunting. “Umm, that might be true, but at least you have more to think about than how flat your butt is going to be when you stand up.”
“That’s true,” he said. “I can’t say as I’ve thought over much about my backside going flat.”
He didn’t let on like my language bothered him. Then I remembered it was the Victorians who never had legs, let alone butts, so maybe I hadn’t sunk completely beyond reproach. Not that I cared anyway because he climbed up ahead of me and reached out a hand. “If you’re coming, let’s go.”
I guarantee he didn’t have to ask twice.
Perched high atop the carriage, drawn now by four matched grays even taller and with bigger feet than the last team, the view encouraged a whole new perspective. Had we been set down in the background of one of Constable’s darker landscapes, we’d have blended right in.
Heavy black clouds skimmed the tops of wind-tossed trees, barren in their leafless winter state, while at the distant horizon a massive stone barn nestled into the earth.
I took a deep breath, savoring the bitter-sharp odor of fallen leaves and clean, rain-washed air containing, I fancied, just a tang of salt sea flavor.
“This is more like it,” I said.
Ethan glanced at me. “More like what?”
“Oh, a slower, less complicated lifestyle. What I’ve always thought life in these days should be like. Freedom from the rat race, taxes, air pollution. Wait. I take that last item back. Lord knows the air around any group of people leaves a little to be desired. So does the inside of this coach.” I ignored a mud dollop slung from the hindmost horse’s hooves that landed on the hem of my gown. Actual dirt didn’t bother me.
Ethan snorted. “You do come up with the most curious expressions.
If you can tell me how your brother avoids paying taxes, I wish he’d tell me. And just what the devil is a rat race? Not an actual race between rats, I assume.”
“Uh, no.” Way to go, Boothenay, I told myself. Better be careful what you say or the next thing you know they’ll be wanting to burn you at the stake. Although I rather thought so drastic a punishment for the practice of magic dated from earlier times, which I figured was fortunate for me.
I tried to explain rat race to him in terms suitable to a nineteenth century soldier. He nodded, as if he understood, although I think he was only trying to humor me.
“Oh, forget it.” I said. “Sometimes I don’t make sense even to myself.”
That drew a slight quirk of his lips.
“All I know is the aroma is a lot better out here,” I added. “And I plan on enjoying it. Store this fresh smell up for a time when I’m in a crowd.”
This time he laughed. “Really,” he said.
“Yes, really,” I said, then subsided, resolving to keep my mouth shut since I found it impossible to talk without using twenty-first century slang.
Over and over, I’d made mistakes. I just couldn’t seem to control my unruly tongue, maybe because, when I looked at Ethan, I saw Caleb. And when I saw Caleb, I saw a contemporary man with whom I felt at ease. Comfortable enough, in fact, that I let myself rattle on, trusting him to understand the nuances of my conversation. Sometimes I thought Caleb and Ethan were in the process of melding together just as Belle and I had, a process still incomplete in his case. And until then…
Like most of my resolutions during the trip, I soon broke this one.
Dusk gathered in the shadows along the tree-lined road, a minute-by-minute expansion that surrounded us in gloom. I sat forward on the narrow board of the seat, unaccountably made uneasy by our solitary progress. When I thought back over the afternoon, I only remembered seeing two other, smaller carriages, and three or four farm carts. There had been a couple of men on horseback who I thought had eyed our carriage with suspicion. Other than that, the only people sharing the road with us had been men and women dressed as laborers, plodding from here to there on foot.
“There isn’t much traffic on this road, is there?” I asked, wanting verification of this observation.
Ethan shrugged. “Seems quite average to me.”
I peered forward into the twilight. “It’s getting hard to see. I suppose you have good night vision, though, since apparently you can see where you’re going. It would be easy to have a head on collision in this light, wouldn’t it? Except I guess you can hear other vehicles approaching. I imagine the horses can sense other horses, too, so they shouldn’t run into each other. Are you going to hang out the lanterns soon?”
“Now which of those observations should I address first?” Ethan asked rhetorically. “Yes, it is getting harder to see, and yes, I do have good night vision. I’m quite sure we could both see and hear any other team coming in time to avoid them. Finally, I trust you will be eased to know I already planned on hanging out lanterns at our next stop. Is that all, Miss Winthrop?”
“Oh,” I said in a small voice. “That’s good. I’m sorry I asked.”
I don’t know what had made me think I had to do all the planning and directing of this adventure. From the moment the magic had sent me back for Caleb, I had known his inclusion was an essential part of the story. So let him do what he is meant to do, whatever that is, I told myself, and mind your own affairs. He had been perfectly adequate in his role so far. After all, as Ethan he had risen to the rank of captain in the British Army. He must be quite competent if his superiors trusted him to look after not only himself, but also a troop of men.
Not that I expected him to look after me.
As daylight waned, I became chilled and began to long for the relative warmth inside the coach. The only thing that prevented me from asking Ethan to stop was that meant halting the team, clambering around in the mud and causing a delay. I hoped we were not too far from our night’s lodging.
The ground fog that rose writhed around the horses’ legs until they looked like indistinct bodies floating in a swirling gray sea. The sound of their hooves grew muffled in the layers of mist. What had been an annoyingly persistent squeak in the right front wheel grew fainter.
Yet even as the noise in our immediate surroundings faded, I was conscious of birds twittering in the bushes alongside the road. I heard the rush of a stream or a small river some distance ahead, and disconcertingly, the sound of horses trotting along in our wake, swiftly gaining ground. Somehow, I knew they were after us, although where this knowledge came from, I can’t begin to guess. Lack of evidence did not deter my certainty.
I half-turned my head, the better to listen, shivering with a sudden tension. “Sherlock Holmes would enjoy this atmosphere,” I said, just under my breath. “Suit him down to a T.”
Ethan, with his sharp ears heard me. “Uh-hmm,” he agreed and I glanced at him in sudden hope because there w
as no way for him to recognize the Sherlock Holmes character—except as Caleb Deane.
Then I saw he had his head cocked, listening to the beat of hooves behind us and probably had no idea what I’d just said. Still, I’d wager he felt the same subliminal call to danger I did.
Our eyes met. “Can you outrun them?” I asked.
“I’m afraid not.” He shifted both sets of reins into his left hand and made as if to pass them over to me.
I shook my head vehemently and clutched my hands tight in my lap.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, his voice not much above a whisper. “I just want you to hold the lines while I ready the gun.” He pointed down at the blunderbuss, Caleb’s blunderbuss, sheathed in a leather boot close by his knee.
“No horse stuff, thank you. I'll take care of the gun.” I didn’t want to be responsible for steering the critters. I whispered, too.
“The gun?” he breathed. “You?”
At my insistence, he shrugged, pulled the gun out of the boot and passed it to me. A little rag cap covered the frizzen, but with the rain and fog, I wouldn’t want to bet my life on the priming being dry. I blew on the powder. It clumped together under my breath, and I grimaced.
“Are you getting cold, Miss Winthrop?” he asked in what seemed a louder than ordinary tone of voice. I jumped, staring at him in astonishment. Even the horses flinched, before settling again under his soothing, “Whoa, boys.”
He didn’t need to write me a book. I got the idea and replied out loud, “I am, indeed, Ethan. And hungry as well. Will we reach the inn soon? I do hope they’ve waited supper for us.”
Ethan fished a powder flask from a cranny in the floorboards and grinned when I took it from him and pulled the cork with my teeth. I knocked the damp primer from the frizzen, shook a fresh charge into the flashpan, closed the cover and reset the flint. He took the blunderbuss back and propped it between his legs.
I made a gesture, two pointed fingers denoting pistols, a silent query asking where he’d put the queen’s gift.
“Under the seat,” he whispered. “Unloaded, I fear. I confess I hadn’t thought I’d need them. Not yet.”
Raising his voice, he made a comment regarding the imaginary dinner on order for us in Exeter. We had an inane conversation about food, weather, and inns at a decibel count appropriate only to the hearing challenged. Presumably the riders, close upon us now, found our views entertaining. I have no exact memory of what we said.
The words were meant to fill a vacuum as I took the first of the dueling pistols from the casket. With a turn of speed which did not do justice to the craftsmanship of the smith who made them, I rammed a spit-slicked ball down the barrel and slopped powder in any which way.
My hands shook. I’d never before loaded a gun with self-preservation as the serious intent for doing so.
If the two, whose presence I now sensed almost beside us, passed by, I could pull the charge and do the job right later on. Perhaps Ethan and I could laugh at our play-acting. I prayed the men were simple, innocent citizens, yet even as this hopeful thought crossed my mind, my gut feeling told another story. They were too quiet, too furtive.
Well, then, could be they were in for the surprise of their lives.
One drew abreast of Ethan, at his right side. The other came up on my left, so I turned my head to look at him.
Ethan made a little sound, something like a dog’s warning growl, at the back of his throat.
“Oh, hell,” I said.
The man on Ethan’s side reined his horse closer. He wore a droopy leather hat pulled down so far he had to tilt his head back to see. He held a very large dag pointed at Ethan’s chest and I feared at this distance, he couldn’t miss. At his gesture, Ethan pulled the team to a halt.
The scrap of cloth swathed around the lower half of his face muted his voice to an indistinct mumble. “I guess you know what this means,”
he said, his eyes on the closed case I still held on my lap. Within was one empty pistol. A corner of my cloak hid the loaded one. “This is a holdup,” he added.
“Holdup,” the other man echoed from under his identical mask.
“You gentlemen are making a big mistake,” Ethan said, very calm and reasonable. He was so controlled his free right hand didn’t make so much as a wiggle toward the blunderbuss at his side. Not yet. “We don’t have a thing you’d be interested in. I assure you I don’t have any money—coachmen never have any money—and, of course, the lady knows better than to carry anything of value with her.”
“Argh,” said the one at Ethan’s right. He studied Ethan through narrowed eyes. “Coachman, is it? And I’m King George of Hengland.”
“Not a coachman? Be sure and let me know if you see anyone else holding the reins, Your Majesty.” As if by accident, Ethan fiddled one of the lines, causing the left rear animal to snort and paw at the ground with one hoof.
“I didn’t say you wasn’t a prime whipster, sir. I jest beg leave to doubt you be a coachman.” The highwayman didn’t appear unduly concerned either way, just a bit amused that a gent would try to put one over on him. “Your money, sir, or your life.”
I thought they only said that in stories.
The robber’s politeness didn’t get in the way of the standard warning, and for all of his apparent good cheer, both his eyes and the weapon leveled at Ethan’s midsection held steady.
“Ladies always have good stuff on ’em,” said the man on my side of the carriage. He had ridden his horse in near enough the animal nuzzled at my arm. I drew closer to Ethan. “Always got little gewgaws—ear bobs and rings and little fur hand warmers.”
I can take a hint. I tossed him my—or more properly—Annabelle’s lovely ermine muff and a pair of pearl earrings, along with a softly whispered imprecation at the thievery. I’d grown rather fond of the fur over the course of this cold, rainy day.
He caught the muff in mid-air, and before he stuffed it into the waist of his trousers, passed it back and forth under his nose a couple of times like a hound dog taking the scent.
“Ah,” he said. “Bless you ladies with your pretties and your perfumes. I’ll be having a look in that box you’re holding now, missy.”
I sighed, aware of Ethan sitting tense beside me. “No,” I said.
The robber laughed with a sound like a hysterical hyena.
Incongruous, in a man of his calling. Perhaps he wasn’t very experienced. I only hoped the noise wasn’t a signal of incipient kill crazy lust.
“No, she says, Bert. Watcha think? Shall I shoot her?” He solicited his partner for advice as he waved his old horse pistol around. Even from my perch and in the foggy twilight, I could tell the gun was a shoddy affair. I fully expected this beastly weather had gummed it up enough that it wouldn’t fire. Still…
If I was any proper kind of mage, I knew I’d have been able to tear the pistol from his grip with no more than a twitchy thought. By rights, the mere blink of my eyes should have caused the air in front of his horse to erupt into fire and brimstone and exploding lights. I should have scared his horse so Ethan and I could gallop away to safety. With a simple little spell, I ought to make the two of us invisible—if I were a proper kind of mage.
Damn it! I didn’t know how to do any of those things.
In the end, the only explosion I managed was the one from the dueling pistol I snatched from under my cloak, cocked and fired, all in one motion. I wasn’t much surprised when the ball went wide. But by magical means or not, the highwayman’s horse took exception to the noise and the stench of powder blowing up in his face. It threw a complete tizzy, bucking and jumping all over the road. Proof, if I’d needed it, that one’s own quick action and strong reaction were more dependable than half-baked magic spells.
“Hell.” The breath gushed out of the highwayman’s lungs as the rearing horse flung him into the mud. He landed on his back and lay, beating at the ground with his arms and hands, unable to either speak or to breathe. I thought I saw his
gun fly into the bushes alongside the road. The riderless horse made all speed back the way it had come.
“William! William, for God’s sake man, get up.” Bert shouted at his partner, keeping minimal control of his own panicked horse by making the animal spin in circles. He raised his old pistol, trying to get off one good shot.
“Now you’ve done it.” Ethan pulled strongly on the reins he still held in his left hand, curbing the team’s plunge. “Whoa, boys. Easy there.” In one smooth motion, he raised the blunderbuss and, propping the butt on his thigh, pointed it in the general direction and let fly, sending the scatter of balls over Bert’s head.
Bert’s horse had had enough. Taking the bit in his teeth, the animal thundered in his stable mate’s wake.
Only one minor problem marred the retreat. The parting shot from the highwayman’s gun, whether by aim or by accident, skimmed our left front carriage horse, burning the horse’s hide a little before splitting the checkrein in half. If Ethan hadn’t had superlative reactions, I’d have been dumped in the mud alongside William. Or worse.
“Oh, oh,” I said, an understatement if I’ve ever made one.
“Oh, hell,” said Ethan, taking his turn to swear. He stared in open-mouthed disbelief at the severed line dangling from his hand. “Whoa, boys,” he shouted.
Too late. The horses had already taken the first stride of their mad run.
Chapter 13
Ethan poked his elbow into my gut. The air gushed out of my lungs and left me gasping for air. His arm pressed me up tight against the body of the coach—all that kept me from toppling off the seat onto the road. I made a mental note to thank him if I ever regained my breath.
With his long legs braced against the wild plunge of the horses, he feathered the one remaining line that guided the two right-side animals in an attempt to balance the runaways. A shriek burst from me when a rut big as a canyon jounced me a few inches off the seat. I guess I’d gotten my breath back.
In The Service Of The Queen (The Gunsmith Book 1) Page 15
