Miss Gabriel's Gambit (7 page)

Caroline gave her cousin a tight-lipped nod. “Mama says that you ought to whip him and I am beginning to find myself thinking her almost right. He is growing quite insolent.”

Sylvia did not trust herself to reply, afraid that she might say that Miles had given his sister as much as she deserved. Sylvia cantered off in the direction that the boy had taken, fairly certain that Miles was heading for his usual favorite spot out toward Buckingham House. Still, once she was out of sight, she deliberately slowed her horse’s pace, determined to enjoy some semblance of an outing despite Caro's tantrum.

Sure enough, Sylvia found the boy waiting for her upon the wide open field.

“Syl!” he called, waving at her cheerfully. “I hoped that it would be you coming after me.”

“You were very naughty, Miles,” Sylvia said, mustering as much anger as she could. “You should not have provoked Caro so.”

“Someone ought to,” Miles said, walking his horse toward her. “I daresay she has become the veriest prig since we came to Town. She sounds more and more like Mama every day. Besides, didn’t you get to ride?” He smiled mischievously.

“At what cost?” Sylvia asked as she dismounted. “You know very well that this morning’s events will get back to Aunt Ruby one way or another.”

“I’m sorry, Syl. I didn’t think of that,” he said.

“Well,” Sylvia said, relenting at the boy’s crestfallen expression. “I ought not to say it, but I was glad of the ride.”

The two walked their horses together in companionable silence for a moment, delaying their return, when suddenly, a magnificent mare raced into the clearing. Astride her was a man in white, his costume contrasting vividly with the animal’s coat of stark black.

“Cor!” Miles whispered in awe. “A Hindoo!”

“No, Miles. ‘Tis a Sikh. You can tell by-” But before Sylvia could finish her sentence, a large, spotted dog burst from the brush in a blur of speed, nipping at the heels of the mare. The horse reared in fright, kicking at the mongrel with flaying hooves while his rider struggled to retain his seat.

To Sylvia’s dismay, the Sikh flew from the saddle, landing in a crumpled heap at the edge of the wood, while his mount galloped away in terror, pursued by the cur.

“Miles, go get the groom and Caro, quickly,” Sylvia ordered, helping the boy up into his saddle.

“I shall go after the horse,” Miles declared as he caught up the reins.

“You shall not!” Sylvia commanded in a voice that brooked no contradiction. “Not when a human being needs help. Now, off with you.” She swatted his horse’s rump and leaving her own mount to graze, raced toward the fallen man.

She knelt down beside the Sikh, noting in relief that he was still breathing, but other than chafing his hand, Sylvia was totally at a loss. She had never tended anything more serious than a scrape. He moaned and stirred slightly and Sylvia was reassured.

“Do not worry,” she said in Hindi. “Soon someone will come. Soon.”

The liquid brown eyes flew open. “The horse?” he whispered. “I must seek my master’s mare,” he declared, attempting to raise himself, but he closed his eyes once more as dizziness overcame him.

Sylvia rose to her feet, praying that Miles would soon arrive with the groom, but instead the dog burst from the bushes once more, racing toward her. Frantically, Sylvia looked about her for some weapon. In desperation, she snatched up a fallen branch and placed herself between the animal and the man lying senseless upon the muddy ground. The dog stopped short, ears flattening against his head as he growled at her menacingly.

“Get away!” she screamed, waving the stick. “Go home!”

But the hound only bared its teeth in reply and lunged forward.

“Spots!”

Sylvia heaved a sigh of relief as the dog turned and raced toward a short, heavyset man who was striding out of the woods. As he came closer, his shabby coat and tattered boots became apparent, but his uncouth appearance was far less fearsome than the speculative look on his face as he drew near.

“Well, well. What have you brought to ground here m’boy?” the man said eying Sylvia with a lascivious leer. 

Sylvia shivered as his words confirmed what his expression had told her. She was little more than prey. A glance at the prostrate Sikh made clear that there was no hope of help from that quarter. As Spots’ master devoured her with his gaze, Sylvia prayed that Miles would put in a quick appearance. Until then, Sylvia swallowed hard as she brought up her make-shift club once more, there was only herself to rely on. In a timed match, sometimes delay was the only means of winning.

“No need for that, m’beauty,” the man said with a gap-toothed smile. “Just a liddle kiss to thank me for calling the ‘ound off.”

“’Twas your cur that caused all the difficulty,” Sylvia declared, her voice shaking. “If you do not leave immediately with your dog, I shall have you hauled before the magistrate.”

“I’m quakin’ in me boots,” he chortled, sneering at what was clearly an idle threat. “Would ye like t’see Spots do some o’ ‘is tricks? Y’ev already seen ‘is best. Got ‘im trained to bring down any rider likely to ‘ave a goodly purse on ‘im. Put down yer stick, missy.”

Miles, where are you
? Sylvia wondered desperately, her heart racing as her attacker advanced, the unpleasant sound of his laughter sending a shiver of foreboding up Sylvia’s spine. Raising her knout high, she prepared to swing.

“Spots!”

At the sound of his master’s voice, the dog lunged forward, jaws snapping. Sylvia felt a stab of white hot pain as sharp fangs raked her fingers, causing her to release the branch and clutch her throbbing hand.

The man laughed as Sylvia backed away, stumbled and fell to the ground. Through the haze of pain and fear, she saw a gleam in the Sikh’s sash. Her right hand was useless, but she reached with her left to pull at the jeweled handle of the ceremonial khanda that all Sikh men wore. The wicked blade gleamed in the sunlight as she pushed herself to her feet, awkwardly swiping the air before her.

“Now you son of a cur, now I shall spit you and your accursed animal on one blade,” Sylvia waved the weapon wildly, hoping that her attacker would not realize that she had not the foggiest notion of how to use the dagger. She hurled Hindi curses at him, howling and dancing about like a mad-woman. “I shall send you to your vile ancestors,” she threatened. “I am Kali, the she-demon!”

The man started to back away, but the dog was unimpressed. Perhaps sensing the core of fear at the center of Sylvia’s lunatic display, the animal lunged at her once more only to veer sharply to the side as the report of a pistol echoed through the clearing. Whining piteously, the dog returned to his master, who clutched at a suddenly spreading redness about his shoulder. The wounded man turned and ran, stumbling into the woods, the dog following close on his heels. There was the sound of hoofbeats as a horse sprang from behind Sylvia in pursuit of the animal and his master.

Sylvia’s legs seemed to melt beneath her; she sank to her knees, weak with relief. The residue of fear left her scarcely able to breathe, her heart hammering as if it would beat itself from her breast. The khanda slipped to the ground as she clutched at her aching hand.

The Sikh’s eyes had opened and he was regarding her in confusion. “A beautiful warrior defends me,” he said in Hindi. “Is Kali now an Englishwoman?”

Suddenly, she heard a twig snap behind her, but before she could turn, a hand touched her shoulder. Her fear returning full force, Sylvia attempted to twist away, throwing herself flat upon the ground to grab at the fallen khanda, unwittingly taking her new assailant down with her. Stones dug into her stomach as she fought to free herself from the weight upon her back. Her throat produced nothing but a ragged choking sound as she tried to scream.

“A warrior indeed. Easy, easy, Kali,” a somehow familiar voice said. “Calm yourself. He is gone.”

Abruptly the weight shifted, then disappeared. The restraint removed, Sylvia rolled, grabbing the dagger as she staggered to her feet. Breathing raggedly, she attempted to focus through the haze of terror.

“You can put the khanda down now, Kali,” David urged softly, cursing himself for a fool. He should have known better than to come at her from behind and startle her so. Primal fear had pushed her beyond reason; the feral instinct of self-preservation was all that he could see in those green eyes . He doubted that Sylvia even recognized him in her present state. “The cur and his dog are gone and there is no need to cut my Weston coat to shreds, however you might deplore the fit.”

Memory at last penetrated the curtain of shock. Her arm slowly dropped to her side, the blade slipping from suddenly lax fingers with a soft thud as its point embedded itself in the muddy ground.

“Much better,” David said with relief as he watched the awareness return to her face. “You are safe, Kali. Foolishly brave, with that temple dance of yours, but you are safe now.”

She stood watching him in a trembling quiet, far more disturbing than any tears or female frenzy. David moved toward her, uncertain. His senses urged him to gather her into his arms, to hold her, comfort her, but any move on his part might drive her into panic once more. So, as the moments passed, all he could do was watch and wait for the inevitable onset of hysteria

“You - called me - ‘Kali.’” Sylvia whispered, her voice coming out in something of a croak. “If you heard that much - milord, why in Heaven’s name - did you not chase the devil off sooner?”

“Unfortunately, with all your moving about it was difficult to get a clear shot,” David said, his face splitting into a relieved grin at this unexpected scold.

“Capering about like a lunatic was the only defense I could muster,” Sylvia admitted. “I can barely carve a chicken.”

The attempt at humor was surprising. A most remarkable woman. How had he ever thought her deficient in wit? Although her voice and demeanor were still strained, there would likely be no sobbing or weeping. “You gave a masterful performance, Miss Gabriel. Most frightening.”

“Was I, indeed?” she said, taking deep ragged breaths. Although the sun was on her back, she felt horribly cold. “Sh- shall I consider the stage then?”

“I am sure that you would put Mrs. Siddons upon her mettle,” he said, trying to keep his voice soothing.

“You should see to your servant,” Sylvia said, “He took a bad fall.”

When David made a tentative move in his servant’s direction, Harjit shook his head. “I am well enough,” he said, rolling to his knees.

“Would I match Mrs. Siddons’ excellent Lady Macbeth, do you think?” Sylvia asked. “The morning has grown chilly, don’t you agree?”

“You would make an excellent murderess, but a most untidy one,” he said, deliberately emulating her tone of gallows humor in an effort to erase the terror from her eyes. Her face was still stark white and her words were almost coming in gasps now. She was starting to shiver violently. He had seen much the same reactions in soldiers after a battle, when they came to the realization of the consequences that “might have been.” Peeling off his jacket, David draped the garment over her trembling shoulders.

Sylvia pulled the jacket close about her, grateful for the warmth. In her still-agitated state she found the scents of horse and man that rose from the fabric were curiously comforting. Even the frantic thump of her heart seemed to slow. “You milord, are something of a mess yourself,” Sylvia declared, smiling at last.

Despite a coating of dirt on her cheek, there was something about that smile that made his heart skip a beat. “That is most unfair of you, Lady Macbeth, or should I say ‘Kali?’ You are responsible for my roll in the mud. But then, there are some, including my friend Petrov yonder, who claim that untidiness is my natural state,” he said wiping ineffectually at his breeches and noticing the familiar scarlet shade of ... “Blood!” he exclaimed. “You are bleeding, Miss Gabriel.”

Immediately crossing the space that separated them, David laid gentle hands upon Sylvia in an effort to discover the location of her wound. She stood quiescent as he examined her, finally finding the source of the bleeding.

 “’Twas where Spots scratched me I believe,” she murmured. “’Tis nothing.”

“Your pardon if I differ, Kali.” He gently spread the hand upon his, shaking his head, his insides clenching at the sight of the jagged bite-wound. A rapid fumble through his pockets revealed no trace of a clean handkerchief. With impatient hands, he managed to unwrap the linen stock from his neck, using an end to wipe away the cake of mud and blood.
Neckcloths did have some justification for existence after all
, he reflected.

“It looks far worse than it is,” David said, looking up at Sylvia in relief. To his dismay, he saw a worried look in her green eyes. “It will heal Sylvia, I promise you. The dog only nipped you, although I suspect that you may carry a scar of this day’s work.”

“It is not my hand that troubles me, milord. It is - ” Her eyes perused him from head to foot, disturbed by the fact that she had ruined his elegant clothing. He was half covered in mud from the lawn of his shirt to the tip of his Hessians. “I am so sorry about your garments, milord.”

“My clothes,” David said in surprise. He had been more than certain that it was the prospect of the scar that was the source of her serious expression. “Do not give them a thought, Lady Macbeth. Why, it will be but a small matter to clean them. ‘Out damned spots!’” he intoned, as Petrov rode up beside them.

“‘Out damned spots’ indeed! Oh!” Sylvia began to giggle helplessly

“While you are standing here quoting your Shakespeare, the evil one got away. I am losing him in the woods. Is still my thought that you should have been shooting to kill,” Petrov said as he dismounted. “Is she having the hysteria?”

David looked at Sylvia, who was chortling so hard, that the tears were beginning to fall. “It would seem so,” he said.

“No,” Sylvia declared, between giggles. “‘Spots’ was the name of wretched cur.”

But David did not smile as he cut away a clean section of the neckcloth with the khanda and carefully wrapped the wounded hand. “You are right, Ivan. I should have killed him,” he said, with quiet menace as he looked at Sylvia’s blood streaked habit.