The Defiant One (26 page)

Presently the shadows became oppressive gloom.  Amy put her sewing aside.  At a coaching inn near Maidenhead, they stopped to change horses and take a quick meal and decided to press on toward Rosebriar.

The lights of the coach were lit, and before long, the sway and rock of its movement made them both drowsy.  Celsie looked out the window at the stars riding high over the dark rolling hills.  She felt content.  At peace.  The ever-present threat of highwaymen didn't worry her; not with the dogs here with them, and Andrew and Charles, both of whom were well armed, flanking their coach.  Andrew was a peerless swordsman.  And no road robber in his right mind would dare harass a stern, competent army major with a sword and two pistols at the ready.

She had just closed her eyes when a sudden stop jolted her awake.  Freckles raised his head from her lap, lifting his floppy ears.  Esmerelda woofed and got to her feet, tail stiff.  Celsie sat up, exchanged glances with Amy, and tried to see outside, where they could hear Andrew talking with Charles.  A moment later, Charles rode Contender up to the window.

"Forgive us for stopping," he said with an easy smile, his cool blue eyes warming as they briefly rested on Amy.  In the darkness, he looked handsome and reassuring in his uniform.  "There's a coach just ahead that's gone off the road.  We think they might have broken an axle.  If you don't mind, Andrew will stay here with you while I ride ahead to offer our help in speeding the poor folks on their way."

"I don't mind," said Celsie, shrugging.

"Neither do I," added Amy.  "I feel sorry for anyone left stranded out on these lonely roads."  She leaned out the window and kissed her husband.  "Go, Charles.  And if their coach is broken down, I'm sure we can make room in ours so they can at least get to the next coaching inn."

He touched his hat to them and rode off.

"That's my Beloved One," Amy said, smiling as she settled back down in her seat.  "Always thinking of others before himself."

As indeed Charles was.  He waited while Andrew moved Newton up to the window and then, one hand on his pistol in case of a cleverly laid trap, urged Contender toward the stricken coach.  It had been drawn just off the road so as not to impede other travelers, its team unhitched and tied to a tree.  Charles frowned, for beside it sat a burly young man with his head in his hands, obviously drunk, obviously unable to deal with such a demanding situation, while nearby, a young peasant woman in tired brown rags struggled to single-handedly push the heavy vehicle against a tree, presumably in hopes of getting the wheel off.

There was no way in God's heaven that she was ever going to succeed.

Charles released his hold on the pistol.  His mouth grim with sympathy, he urged Contender, who had begun to fret, toward the coach.  Immediately the stallion shied sideways, head flung high as he faced the stricken vehicle and blowing hard through his nostrils.

"Easy, boy," Charles murmured, patting the sleek neck and coolly assessing the situation.  He was nothing if not confident, and he was well used to dealing with demanding situations.  This, however, did not look like a demanding situation at all.

"Good evening," he said pleasantly, removing his tricorne in respect to the poor young woman who had given up trying to lift the coach and was now on her hands and knees beneath it, peering up at the axle, a lantern glowing on the ground beside her.  "We couldn't help but notice your rather unfortunate predicament.  Perhaps I can be of some assistance?"

At the sound of Charles's calm, reassuring voice, she crawled out from beneath the coach, fat tears of relief rolling down her dusty cheeks when she saw his uniform.

"Oh, sir, any assistance ye could be givin' us would be much appreciated!  Me 'usband's as soused as a fox and these roads are crawlin' with highwaymen and Oi'm scared to death we won't get 'ome without gettin' murdered!  It's the axle, I think — or maybe the wheel.  Oi just don't know . . ."

"Well then, let me see what I can do here," Charles soothed, instinctively taking control of the situation.  But as he slipped his boots from the irons and prepared to dismount, Contender snorted and shied hard once more, nearly unseating him.  Growing impatient with the normally unflappable horse, Charles vaulted from the saddle and approached the vehicle.

"You don't know how glad I am to see ye," the peasant woman said, getting to her feet.  She wiped her eyes with the back of a grimy hand and brushed the dust from her ragged skirts.  "I think the problem's with the other wheel, or up underneath.  There don't seem to be anythink wrong on this side, least, not to me unknowin' eye."  She picked up the lantern, its light catching her full in the face and revealing vivid red hair and slanting green eyes, before she turned and led him around to the other side of the coach.

"Here.  Allow me."  Charles took the lantern and calmly surveyed the coach.  It wasn't a large vehicle; between him, Andrew, and the servants, they should be able to lift it in order to make whatever repairs the situation demanded.  He knelt, peering up underneath it and inspecting the undercarriage with a critical eye.  "So what seems to be the problem?"

"Oh, it's probably this silly wheel . . . we just 'ad it replaced, and now there's this awful rumblin' noise comin' from up underneath and I'm a'scared to droive it any farther for fear it's going to come loose and make us 'ave an accident!"

"I see," said Charles, going down on one knee beside the wheel and taking off his gloves.  "Well, if you could just hold the lantern so I could have some light, I'll see what I can do."  He smiled reassuringly.  "Probably just needs a little tightening, and then the two of you can be on your way."

Her eyes gleaming, Eva de la Mouriére picked up the lantern and watched as he began to examine the perfectly fine wheel and axle. 
Ah, yes
, she thought in satisfaction, as she gazed haughtily down at his pale, wavy hair, so neatly caught in its tidy black queue.  Every man had a weakness, and she had correctly discerned this one's.  The gallant Lord Charles de Montforte was too much of a gentleman to pass a hapless traveler without stopping to offer his help.  He was too unimaginative in his thinking to ever even consider that danger might come in the form of an apparently helpless young woman.

And he was going to have one hell of a headache when he woke up.

She waited until he was down on both knees, one hand supporting himself on the grass verge, the other reaching up beneath the coach to examine the axle.  And then, exchanging a glance with the all-too-sober servant who was posing as her drunken husband, she made a rigid blade of her hand, raised it high, and brought it down hard on the back of the major's neck in one ruthless, vicious chop.

She knew right where to hit a man to render him unconscious, and she revelled in her power to do it.

He crumpled without a sound.

"Right," she said, straightening up and brushing her hands together in tribute to a job well done.  She pulled a pistol from the pocket of her skirt, priming and loading it with ease.  "Now that one obstacle is out of the way, I think it's time to collect what we've all been sitting around waiting for."  She stepped over the officer sprawled senseless at her feet, sparing him an amused little grin.  "Nighty-night, Major de Montforte.  Sleep well!"

And then, still smiling, she, the servant, and the three other lackeys who'd been hidden within the "stricken" vehicle headed for the lights of the coach.

Chapter 22

Andrew's spine prickled with uneasiness.

He sat astride his horse, bathed in the lights of the coach and making small talk with the women.  He was half watching Charles, who had dismounted from Contender and was now going around to the other side of the stricken vehicle to help the unfortunate travelers.  Celsie was saying something; Andrew turned his head to listen.  And when he turned it back again to look toward the coach, he heard the driver up on the box suck in his breath and saw a woman and four men walking toward him from out of the darkness.

The woman had a pistol and she was pointing it straight at his heart.

"Hello, Andrew.  I
am
sorry to inconvenience you, but if you would just hand over the aphrodisiac, we can all be on our way."

Inside the coach, both women gasped.  On the boot, the footman reached for his blunderbuss but froze as Andrew caught his eye and shook his head in warning.  And now Freckles was beginning to growl, the sound deep and ugly and getting louder by the moment.

Slowly Andrew's hand went for his pistol.

"Uh-uh," the woman purred, smiling and shaking her head as though scolding a child.  "You don't want to do that.  Someone might get hurt, and we wouldn't want it to be you.  Or the ladies."

"Where's my brother?" Andrew demanded.  He looked beyond the would-be thieves, his eyes narrowing.  "What have you done to him?"

"Oh, well, it's past his bedtime, you know.  I daresay he's taking a little nap."  The woman's smile never wavered at Amy's cry of alarm, but her slanting eyes narrowed with deadly intent.  "Now, hand over the potion, Andrew sweetie, or I'll put you into a much more
permanent
kind of sleep than I did your too-gallant-for-his-own-good brother."

Andrew tensed, his body screaming for action.  It cost him everything he had to hold himself still as the four lackeys, also toting pistols, surrounded the coach, preventing escape.

His angry gaze clashed with the woman's.  "And just who the devil are you?"

"Why, your killer, of course" — again, that malevolent smile — "unless you hand over the potion."  She aimed the pistol dead center on his chest.

"Andrew, no heroics," snapped Celsie from within the coach.  "If she wants the potion, let's just give it to her and send her on her way.  It isn't worth anyone getting killed."

"Ah, leave it to a woman to show some sense," purred their attacker, in a faintly amused tone.  "Now, obey your wife, Lord Andrew — or make her a widow.  You have five more seconds to decide, or I will decide for you."

Celsie, one hand on Amy's arm to keep her from flying out of the coach to Charles's aid, the other restraining the growling Freckles, decided for both of them.  She leaned out the window and met the hostile, slanting gaze.  "Why, Eva.  I thought it was you.  For some reason, I should have known you didn't come all the way back to England just to congratulate us on our nuptials."

Andrew started.  "
Eva?
  You
know
this jezebel?"

"She's my cousin.  Of course I know her.  And so do you."

His gaze went from one to the other; suddenly he recognized their assailant, though she had disguised herself in peasant clothes and looked nothing like she had earlier at the church.  "Why, you were with Somerfield at our wedding!"

"And trust me, she is more than capable of murder," said Celsie, in a hard, flat voice.  She leaned out the window, fearlessly meeting the other woman's amused gaze.  "Eva, since my husband here is showing a remarkable inability to make up his mind, I will take charge of this situation and bring the potion out to you myself."

"
Celsie, stay in that coach!
" Andrew roared, his voice harsh with fear.

But Celsie bade a near-frantic Amy to take hold of Freckles's collar, stepped around the whining Esmerelda, calmly pulled the bottle of aphrodisiac out from beneath the seat, and opening the door, jumped down from the coach.  Head high, she walked around the vehicle and up to the other woman, fully aware that the thugs had their guns trained on her as surely as Eva had hers trained on Andrew.

"I wish you hadn't done this," Celsie said, unable to keep the disappointment from her voice.  "I used to admire you.  I used to look up to you.  Why, Eva?"

"My country needs it," she said simply, looking away.

Celsie sighed.  Then she set the bottle down in the dirt and stepped back.  Eva, keeping her pistol on Andrew the whole time, sent one of her lackeys to fetch it, then motioned to someone behind her.  From the direction of the stricken coach, another thug came forward, leading several saddled horses.  Eva kept her pistol trained on Andrew as, one by one, the thieves mounted.  Then, as they covered for her, she, too, mounted, tucked her prize in her saddlebags, and with a mocking little salute, wheeled her horse and set her heels to its sides.

Within moments they were gone, swallowed up by the night.

~~~~

They found Charles just getting to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck and swaying unsteadily.

"Damned witch blindsided me," he muttered, clinging to the door of the coach to support himself.  He let go as Amy flew to him and insinuated herself under one arm to support him.  "Never saw it coming . . ."

"She wanted the potion," snapped Andrew, quickly filling his brother in on their attacker's identity.

"Well, I hope to hell you gave it to her . . .  Confounded stuff is proving to be more trouble than it's worth.  Stick to flying machines from now on, would you?"  He caught Amy's hands as they worriedly explored his face for signs of damage and, embarrassed, folded her to his chest.  "Stop, sweetheart.  I'm all right."

Though his words were gentle, Andrew saw that Charles's jaw was set, his pale blue eyes cold and quietly furious.  Andrew couldn't even imagine how humiliated he must feel.  "Well, there's no sense standing around here all night," he said affably, trying to take the focus of his embarrassed brother.  "You still have that vial Charles?"

"Yes."  Still a bit dazed, he fumbled inside his coat, extracted what was left of the aphrodisiac, and slapped it rather irritably into Andrew's palm.  "Take it, and with my blessings."

Andrew tucked it into his own pocket.  "Much obliged.  Now, let's get going.  I don't know about you, but I've had all the excitement I can take for one night.  You're able to ride, aren't you?"

His brother merely shot him an annoyed glance.

"I thought so," said Andrew, slapping him good-naturedly across the shoulders.  He snared Contender's reins, holding him and ready to subtly lend a hand in case his brother couldn't quite haul himself up into the saddle; but Charles was made of strong stuff, and he was soon astride the tall stallion, grim-faced, a little pale, and very, very angry.