“You’ll have to push the horses. We’re running late. Jesus,” Caleb said faintly, as he drew his head back in. He swallowed a couple of times like he was choking back nausea. I hurt for him as, his face drawn, he set both of his feet flat on the floor. From there, he conjured up a smile as he met my eyes. “Damn this fricking leg.”
Somehow, he’d put Ethan in the background once again.
I coughed in an attempt to ease a thickening in my own throat, a clog made of the tears I dare not let start, let alone fall. “Yes,” I agreed.
“Damn leg. Isn’t this most rotten luck anybody ever had, for Ethan to be wounded just now?”
Caleb took my hand, turning the palm down and lacing our fingers together. With his other, he wiped moisture from the corner of my eyes.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Wordlessly, I shook my head. I’d thought I had that problem under control.
“Hey, sweetheart, don’t worry about me. I’ll be all right.” His mouth crooked a little, as if he didn’t quite believe his own words.
“I know you will,” I said. But I was losing faith.
“This a strange quirk of fate, by the way.” Caleb leaned forward, moving his leg restlessly as if to take the pressure off. He kept hold of my hand. “I’ve been wounded in that leg before. I’d say in the exact same spot.”
“Really? When?” I wondered if his mind was wandering to come up with such an unlikely story.
“Yep. Medics are non-combatants, and as such, shouldn’t be a target, not for anyone. Sometimes, though, the bullets start going every which way, and in my case, well, I guess I just walked right in front of one. It happened during the peacekeeping mission in Bosnia.” He cocked an ear, listening to Sergeant O'Malley, tooling the horses along at a lively clip, say something to Jonathan, his words an indistinct mumble. “I don’t want to hurt O'Malley’s feelings, but in comparison, battlefield first aid as practiced in this day and age leaves a lot to be desired.”
“It might be best if Sergeant O'Malley doesn’t hear of Bosnia at all,” I observed.
“I don’t think you need to worry about him showing an excess of curiosity.” Caleb’s lips twisted. “There’s a lot of places he’s never heard of…and doesn’t care either, one place being much the same as any other. I doubt geography is his long suit. His only interest in a place depends on how good the fighting is there. And if the women are cooperative.”
I sighed. “Don’t you feel odd, Caleb? If odd is the word I’m looking for. It always seems so strange to me, how I can step into another person’s skin and live their life, even for a while. How can we be Ethan and Annabelle, whom we know died nearly two hundred years ago?
How can we have their memories, their feelings, their foibles, and still be ourselves, too? Magic is a wondrous thing. Power is a wondrous thing. If only I had more talent at working it.” If the magic was mine to work.
Caleb looked thoughtful. “I forget I’m anyone other than Ethan a good part of the time. If it wasn’t for you reminding me, I think Caleb Deane might just disappear.”
Which was the exact thing that scared me.
“I’m still wishing for medicinal magic, you know,” he added. As if to prove it, his face suddenly burst with sweat like a middle-aged lady in the throes of a hot flash.
“I’ll practice,” I said. “Just as soon as we get home, I promise you I’m going to practice.” For all the good that did him now.
Chapter 21
“Sor!” O’Malley’s tense cry reached through the walls of the carriage. “I see the militia, no mistake. They’re after us, sor, and moving up fast.”
“Damn.” Caleb twisted his head then hammered a fist on the panel blocking his line of sight. “Might as well be cooped up in a frickin’
box,” he muttered. “Can’t even see what’s happening. Piss poor way to plan your strategy.”
Somehow, I knew Queen Charlotte’s traveling carriage was properly called a barouche. Perhaps my split persona was feeding me this information. Anyway, I visualized the coach as a kind of convertible because ideally the top can be folded down, rather like on an old Corvette—or maybe the lowering the top of a baby carriage is a better simile.
Easy, I thought. I soon had reason to doubt this one had ever been opened within the lifetime of the vehicle, positive the damn thing was stuck down with devil’s glue. And to make the simple chore more difficult, we jerked and swayed on the bumpy road until I nearly was tossed off the seat. My teeth clacked together once, jarred as we bounced over a rut.
“How does this suit you?” I was wheezing nearly as loudly as the horses when I succeeded in getting the top down.
“Very nice.” He grinned at me and pulled my bonnet straight where it had slipped to one side.
I made a kissy face at him, rather pleased with myself. I know for my part, the effort had been worthwhile, for I felt far less isolated when Sergeant O'Malley and Jonathan Harriman sat within sight. And Caleb should be happy, too. He had an open view of our surroundings—
including the road unrolling at our rear.
“Shit!” he said, after his first long look back.
“Righto,” O'Malley agreed.
Funny. The view didn’t seem to please Caleb as much as he thought it would. Maybe because the five riders, their horses spurred into a ground-covering trot, were bent on shortening the distance between us.
As for me, I hoped it was only the work of lowering the barouche’s top that made my head swim, but I really feared the sensation had to do with the sudden terrifying thought that struck me. We—Caleb and I—
were what could be called visitors from another dimension; Jon, an escapee from Dartmoor prison; and Sergeant O'Malley, an Irishman guilty of aiding and abetting at the very least, had as a defense among the four of us, one lousy single-shot blunderbuss. Forget the Winchester 73, the venerable 30-06, or even a Remington semi-auto 273. I wanted an Uzi.
Jonathan clutched the blunderbuss to his bosom like a best girlfriend. He kept glancing nervously to the rear as if he expected to see the militiamen roaring down on top of us at any second. Finally, he darted a look at his cousin.
“Feeling better, cuz? You had us pretty damn worried. I must say you do look a trifle green around the gills.”
Funny, I thought uncharitably. He hadn’t seemed worried to me.
Not about Caleb—about Ethan—anyway.
“I’m fine,” Caleb said, making the quintessentially male reply.
Jon nodded, hearing what he wanted to hear.
“Miss Winthrop, have you found those pistols? I think we may need them very soon.” He no longer pretended to watch the road ahead. He must have decided Sergeant O'Malley could do that well enough on his own, while he kept watch on our back trail. His head was permanently swiveled toward the rear. In response to his tense tone, I looked back, too. The distance between us was no longer comfortable as the soldiers lifted their horses into a gallop.
“Uh-oh.” Without so much as glancing at him for permission, I snatched up Caleb’s bag. After all the to-do over its retrieval, I’d almost forgotten it in my concern about Caleb. Now I jerked the bag open, rummaging through shaving things, extra shirts and whatever other items he deemed essential for a trip. I came close to panicking before I found the guns stowed in their fitted case at the very bottom of the bag.
“Here they are.” I yanked the gun case out, strewing his clothes every which way. “Thank God. I was beginning to think you’d left them at the inn.”
“I’m not in the habit of leaving my things lying around,” he said with a wry look at his scattered belongings. “Of course I put the pistols away after I cleaned them the other night. I told you I preferred my own firearm.”
We had not been quite as defenseless as I’d thought, for he took the pistol from his pocket and examined the charge. “I’m still hoping we’ll get out of this without having to fire a shot,” he added. He watched the pursuing militia riders for a moment, than called out, �
�O'Malley, see if you can get a little more speed out of these horses.”
Sergeant O'Malley’s whip teased the back of the right lead horse at Caleb’s request. “They’re doing all they can, cap’n. Don’t you be forgettin’ they’ve come a fair stretch already today.”
“They’re good for another five miles,” Caleb said, after a quick glance at the countryside skimming past. “Don’t be afraid to whip them up. They’re a good team. They can take it.”
I fancied I heard a bit of wishful thinking in this statement.
“And after five more miles?” I asked. My hands were busy pouring a charge into a pistol, ramming in the ball down tight, and resetting the flint. The powder was the maximum, bordering on explosive. I wanted the most power I could get, with the greatest distance possible and optimum velocity. I finished the first gun and began on the second, trying to ignore the slight tremble in hands that shook a dollop of the powder onto my skirt.
“After a few more miles, we’ll be in Plymouth. We’ve got to catch the afternoon tide. In, oh, say—” He pulled his watch out again and eyed it thoughtfully. “—half an hour.”
“Half an hour, huh?” I dusted the powder off my dress. “That’s cutting things a little fine, wouldn’t you say?”
He shrugged. “We’ll make it.” He lifted his voice to be heard over the rattle of the carriage. “O'Malley, shake ’em up. We’re dying in the middle of the road here. We have to make better time.”
O’Malley’s whip cracked with serious intent. Freeze-dried dust blew out behind us, catching the five oncoming riders in the wake.
They rode through the cloud, nearer and nearer. I clutched a pistol in a hand wet with terrified sweat. I couldn’t imagine firing a gun at another human being when, in all of my experience with firearms, I’d never in my life shot at a living creature. Not when I was consciously me—
Boothenay Irons.
I had the impression the hills were becoming less steep, the land beginning to flatten as we neared the coast.
Caleb leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes, as though this were a pleasure drive and he without a care in the world. Only his hands did not relax, lying with the fingers rigid and half curled so I knew his posture was deceptive. He rested for this moment, regrouping his resources, priming himself for the final rush to the sea. Three other pairs of eyes kept a close watch on the approaching enemy.
I called the militia our enemy. I had the feeling Caleb, or Ethan, called them men doing their job—in this case, the recapture of an escaped prisoner and his accomplices. Of course, Caleb and I were only doing our job as well, both as a service to the queen, and to the magic that had sent us here. Sergeant O'Malley and Henry, if ever I met him, blamelessly followed Ethan’s orders, while the reason for all of this, Jonathan Harriman, served his honor in the escape from Dartmoor prison. So who was the enemy?
Five minutes passed, seven minutes, while Caleb rested. Sergeant O'Malley drove the horses hard, calling encouragement and snapping his whip over them, while Jon sat, pasty faced and rigid, whispering to himself over the beat of hooves on the long, straight road. He leaned forward, looking as if he hoped with his posture to move the carriage that much further ahead.
As for me, I watched the red of the militiamen’s coats change from the dark, indeterminate red of distance, to a brilliant crimson as they closed. I watched, unblinking, until wind-whipped tears blinded me. I smelled the rank, salt tang of the sea.
And then I found out about the enemy.
The first shot plowed through the back of the carriage and buried itself exactly halfway between Caleb’s shoulder and my head.
I squeaked—or maybe shrieked.
Caleb’s eyes flipped open.
Jonathan made a wordless cry.
Sergeant O'Malley gave a surprised grunt. “Holy Mary, cap’n.
Somebody back there has a long rifle.”
“That was pretty good shootin’ considering they’re on horseback.”
Caleb sounded very collected, as if this was a part of his normal day.
And perhaps, considering Ethan was a professional soldier, it was. “I must say I’d just as soon they didn’t have a rifle,” he added.
“Especially when all we have are weapons for when we can see the whites of their eyes,” I said, borrowing from a future tale of heroic defense.
Caleb grinned with appreciation. “I’d rather not get that close, thank you.”
“I just hope I live long enough to pull the trigger on that fat-assed guard. The one who took such pleasure in kicking me in the kidneys.”
Jonathan had no doubt he knew the enemy. “I ain’t forgetting who threw me in solitary!”
“That’s the boyo.” Sergeant O'Malley applauded the sentiment, while doing his best to see we stayed ahead of the pursuing horsemen.
A crackle of musket fire and a cloud of smoke, already dissipating in a ragged streamer, encouraged his efforts. The oncoming militia began a steady fusillade, these first bullets falling short.
“Boothenay, why don’t you get down on the floor? There’s a little more protection there.” Caleb moved his legs aside, shifting the wounded one with his hands, and gestured for me to kneel alongside his feet on the dirty floorboards
I didn’t move. “No way! No damn Somerset militiaman is going to find me with my butt in the air while I’m hiding my eyes. Not this girl!
I agree with Mr. Harriman.”
“Bravo, Miss Winthrop.” Jon flicked me a glance of approval.
“Come on, Boothenay. It’s much safer there. Do as I tell you.”
Caleb frowned. He must have thought he was giving the orders here.
“Even if they kill every one of us, we three men, I mean, they won’t do anything much to you. The queen will see to that.”
“Oh, hey, that makes me feel a whole lot better.” I wasn’t above using sarcasm.
“Stubborn little wretch.” He glared, his green eyes glinting.
“I don’t think they can kill me,” I said to him, soft-voiced. But I feared they could kill him, while I wasn’t watching.
“Do you know it for a fact?” he asked, just as softly. “I haven’t forgotten that the first time I met you, you were covered in blood.”
“Not my blood,” I said for what must be the ninetieth time.
Truthfully, the spilling of blood was our best chance of getting out of here, if I only knew whose blood to utilize. Certainly not Caleb/Ethan’s own—he’d spilled enough. Not Jonathan Harriman’s, or this whole adventure became moot, and not poor Sergeant O'Malley either, doing his best to do his duty as he saw it.
I believe I knew the enemy, too.
Then a ball plowed into the carriage boot, low, with a dull, muffled thud that said not only the rifle, but the muskets had found the range, if not quite the target.
Cold as the wind whipping around my ears was, with the afternoon temperature already dropping, my sweaty hands slipped on the butt of the pistol I held. Once, while Caleb had his eyes fixed in the distance, I wiped first one and then the other on my coat. How, I wondered, could a person’s hand be wet with sweat, yet also cold enough for the fingers to stiffen into unbendable steel rods?
“Here’s Plymouth.” Sergeant O'Malley gave notice as we neared our destination. We came off the dirt road, skewing in the ruts, onto a cobbled street where the carriage wheels clacked on stone. The horse’s hooves struck in harsh syncopation, the raucous pitch of their labored breathing mingled with the sound of surf.
The militia kept up a spasmodic gunfire, ignoring the possibility of hitting one of the bystanders who gawked and ran as our cavalcade came in sight. I’ve never seen a street clear so fast in my life.
I looked up and saw the masts of sailing ships filling the harbor. A stone jetty marched into the bay, holding small boats tied to hooks embedded in the rock. They bobbed and danced on the white-capped waves. I saw the sun ready to drop beyond the horizon and knew this day was nearly done.
O'Malley was standi
ng now, urging the horses in a final effort.
They were nearly as done as the day, and he was calling on the very last of their reserves. Foam blew from their sweating necks and shoulders like miniature white clouds set adrift in a storm-tossed sky.
Caleb knelt on the carriage seat where, with a turn of his head, he could watch either the militia, who now measured only a couple of hundred yards away, or the promise of the ships at sea.
“There’s Henry,” Caleb said. He pointed at the tall, stick thin man stepping into one of the dinghies tied up mid-way out the dock. The man waved, motioning us to hurry.
Another bullet ripped past, close enough to burn my ear in passage.
Jonathan swore as a piece was torn from his coat.
O'Malley’s whip cracked again with no noticeable result except one of the team faltered. We slowed as if someone had put on the brakes.
We’ll get there, I said to myself—I think to myself—I may have been screaming. We were so close. Our safety was measured in feet.
Then Caleb yelled, “Move it! Get moving, for God’s sake,” and I realized we had stopped. We had reached the jetty.
Caleb pushed me, willy nilly, out of the carriage. He ignored a long tearing sound as my skirt caught on something, ripping further as he jerked the fabric loose. I stumbled and fell to my knees when I jumped out. I had no hand free to catch myself because I was clutching a dueling pistol in each one. Miraculously neither gun went off into Sergeant O'Malley or Jonathan Harriman’s backs as they retreated down the quay. Both of them, in that moment, stood in as much danger from me as from the militia.
“Go on, Boothenay,” Caleb urged as he slowly, oh, so slowly, scrambled from the carriage. A red stain spread across and down his leg. His old wound had split open, whether from the swelling of infection or exertion, I don’t know. I didn’t think he’d been shot again.
“Don’t wait for me. Go!”
“Not without you, lover,” I said, yanking my stupid bonnet loose and casting it aside. I pushed my shoulder into his armpit for him to lean on. “Get your butt in gear.”
Yet I wanted to go. I wanted to leave him there, wanted to run away and save myself, because I was afraid. How lowering it is to spend your whole life thinking how brave you are, or can be, only to find out you are nothing but the lowliest of cowards. At the last minute, though, I found the promise I’d made to him even stronger than my cowardice. It was a promise I’d vowed to keep. The vow Belle, in my dream, had told me I must honor.
In The Service Of The Queen (The Gunsmith Book 1) Page 26
