As inconceivable as it was, she was more shaken by her brief physical contact with Godric than her brush with death. Although that might be exaggerating matters, it was possible she might have been injured.
“Eva?”
She moved the coat aside slightly and looked up. He’d opened the door and was leaning through, holding out a hand. “Shake the glass off the coat and then hand it to me.” When she had, he tossed it over one shoulder and held out both hands. “Take my hands.”
Eva reached out, realizing only when she felt the warm damp leather of his gloves that she’d taken off her own earlier.
He lifted her with ease, the rain pelting down on her as he raised her from the confines of the carriage and then set her carefully on the ground before holding the coat over her, sheltering her.
She was staring up into his darkened eyes, and he down into hers, when somebody cleared his throat. They both turned to find one of the postilions. “We’re ready, sir.”
Godric nodded and then explained to her, “One of the wheels broke just before the carriage hit the ditch.”
“The horses—”
“Are fine.” His lips curved into a smile—different from his usual smirk. “The lads are going to ride them to the next village and bring back help.”
Eva wanted to say she could ride one of the leaders but knew that wasn’t true. The postilions wore special wooden boots to avoid having their legs crushed; it would be foolish to ride the horses without such protection.
“What are we going to do?”
He leaned closer and said, “Once they’ve gone we’ll get out your other clothes and you can put them on—you’ll need top boots to walk in all this muck,” he said in response to her look of surprise. “When you’re dressed, we might as well follow them as the carriage offers no protection in its present condition.”
Eva nodded.
“You can go,” Godric said to the waiting men, who wore oiled slickers that made them look just like seals.
“Aye, my lord. We’ll be quick about it.”
Godric waited until they’d cantered off before turning to her. “I’ll fetch the bag from the boot.”
When he returned, he balanced the new leather bag—which he must have bought in Doncaster along with their clothing—on the side of the carriage and handed Eva her breeches first.
She held them a moment, staring at her hands.
“I won’t look.”
Eva heard the amusement in his voice and it prodded her just as she suspected he knew it would.
It was an arduous, damp, miserable process, but at the end of it Eva was wearing breeches, warm boots, three coats—her waistcoat, clawhammer, and drab benjamin—a shirt, stiff new York tan gloves, and a neckcloth tied sloppily around her throat.
“Here.” Godric handed over her tall beaver hat while he held up his now-soaked cloak with the other arm.
Her short hair was far easier to tuck under her hat than it had been before, and she was soon ready. She looked up to find him examining her with a bemused expression. “What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing.”
“Your cloak is soaked”
“Yes,” he agreed, lowering the heavy garment and exposing them both to the weather. “Luckily it’s not terribly cold.”
Eva begged to differ, but kept her mouth shut. It wasn’t as cold as last year—which people had taken to calling the Year Without a Summer—but it was still well below average.
Godric tossed the sodden garment inside the carriage, shut the door, and then picked up both of their bags.
“I can carry mine,” she said.
He just looked at her. “Come, let’s—”
“Drop those bags and turn around very slowly.”
* * *
Godric’s first thought was, You’ve got to be bloody joking! It was as if the universe was conspiring to keep them from the Scottish border. Perhaps that should tell him something? Perhaps—
“This is no jest,” a youthful male voice said, the tone unnaturally high. “Turn around.”
“Don’t say anything,” Godric muttered to Eva, who gave him her usual glare.
When they turned, Godric couldn’t see their assailant at first. He began to lift his hand to shield his eyes.
“Don’t move!” This was practically a shriek.
It also helped him locate the voice’s owner. Godric squinted, not sure he could believe what he was seeing.
“Good Lord, are you wearing a dress?” Eva’s voice dripped with amusement and disbelief.
Godric bit back a groan.
“That’s none of your affair,” their captor snapped at her, coming out from under the foliage that hung close to the road. Yes, it was a young man and he was indeed wearing a dress, as well as spectacles that appeared to be missing one lens and were perched unevenly on his nose. He was also carrying a long, odd-looking rifle.
He shifted the gun so that he could hold it with one hand, propping it none too steadily on his hip. “I’ll take your money and—and the bag with your clothes.” He gestured to Godric with something that bore a striking resemblance to—
This time it was Godric who couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “Is that a blunderbuss?”
“It’s an arquebus, actually.” The young man sounded pleased. “One of the oldest on record. There is quite detailed scrolling on the bronze work near the hammer. It is possible it once belonged to Donatello Visconti, a Viennese lord.”
Godric could only stare.
Eva, predictably, laughed. “You sound like my old governess. You don’t need that arky-whatever; you could just bore your victims to death.”
Godric briefly closed his eyes.
“You’d better shut up,” the gun expert shouted. “I’m not afraid to use it.”
Godric opened his eyes. “Now, there’s no—”
“Why don’t you make me shut up?” Eva demanded. “I’ll bet that thing isn’t actually loaded. Even if it is, you don’t look as if you’ve ever fired a weapon in your life. I could probably hurl a stone with more accuracy. I could—”
Godric slid one hand around her shoulder, covered her mouth with the other, and pulled her close to his body.
“Here, take the bag.” He jerked his chin toward the bag that contained his clothing. “And if you allow me to reach into my coat, I can give you my purse.”
Their captor was red-faced and glaring at Eva, the bodice of his rather revealing gown rising and falling quickly. “You’d better keep him quiet,” he warned as he gathered up his sodden gown with one hand and stumbled through the mud toward them.
Eva’s jaw began to move and Godric tightened his hand slightly, not surprised when she bit his finger.
Godric yanked his hand away. “Goddammit, that hurt,” he muttered through clenched jaws.
“Keep your hand off my mouth,” she growled, sounding remarkably like a badger.
“Then keep it shut.”
“I will.”
Godric would believe that when it happened. He casually lowered both his hands to his sides.
“Stay still,” the boy’s voice quavered as he came close enough for Godric to see that he was not a boy, but probably Eva’s age. He was small, only a few inches taller than Eva and almost as slender. Godric could tell by the way he was shaking that he was more than a little nervous. One long, elegant finger was poised on the ancient firing mechanism—or at least Godric assumed it was the firing mechanism. What he knew about arquebusses—arquebussi?—could fit in a thimble, with room to spare.
The boy snatched the bag and staggered back. And then realized he hadn’t gotten the money yet. His jaw worked so that Godric could see the tendons moving below his pale skin. “You needn’t give me all your money, just—just half.”
Godric’s eyebrow shot up at that, but he hardly wanted to argue. Once the boy had taken half the money—a decent sum since Bertie had advanced him a pony at Doncaster—he took a wobbly step back, his expression suddenly uncertain.
“I’m—I’m sorry about—”
Eva snorted.
The boy’s eyes swiveled from Godric to Eva, and Godric instinctively took a step toward her, preparing himself to thrust his body between her and the gun, if necessary.
Their robber’s eyes widened comically. “Why, you’re a girl!”
She opened her mouth.
“Eva.”
She cut Godric a sharp look and then, to his eternal surprise, shut her mouth with a snap.
He turned back to their robber. “You’ve got what you want. Why don’t you be on your way.” It wasn’t a question.
The boy stiffened at his tone, his face flushing at whatever he saw in Godric’s eyes. He lowered the gun slowly, careful to keep it from touching the mud, and then shook his head, lifting the bag at the same time. “I-I can’t do this,” he said, almost to himself. “Here.” He shook the bag. “Take it back.” His jaw trembled. “I’m sorry,” he said again.
Godric took the bag, embarrassed for the boy, who he was sure was crying. If Eva noticed, she would—
“Are you blubbering?” she demanded in open disbelief.
The boy’s mouth tightened and he began to raise the gun.
Fortunately, the sound of horses distracted all three of them and they turned toward the bend in the road where the postilions had ridden off a scant quarter of an hour earlier, although Godric had to admit it felt like a thousand years.
A team of horses rounded the corner at a trot and Godric frowned when he saw they weren’t connected to a carriage.
“What in the—”
“Good afternoon, lady and gents,” a lazy voice drawled behind him. “Nobody make any sudden movements. You’ll want to lower that firearm young, er, lady.”
* * *
It was the most exciting day of Eva’s entire life. A near-death carriage wreck and being robbed twice—and there was still half the day remaining.
Their first robber reluctantly handed his blunderbuss or whatever it was to the gaudily dressed highwayman who’d come up behind them. A handful of men spread out around them and Eva realized these were not of the same caliber as the first robber: these were hard, desperate-looking criminals.
“Keep your mouth shut,” Godric murmured beside her.
Eva swallowed as she saw one of the robbers—a man wearing a battered top hat with a large emerald pin fastened to the crown—staring at her. He was grinning, exposing a mixture of brown and black teeth along with several empty sockets.
“Now what manner o’ gun is this?” the head robber said musingly as he turned the gun this way and that.
“It’s an arquebus. One of the oldest on record, dated—” Robber One paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Er, it is possible it once belonged to Donatello Visconti, a Viennese lord.”
The robber’s eyes opened comically wide, and he turned to his crew, who were all grinning broadly at him. Except the man with the hat, who was staring at Eva.
“Is that so,” the main robber said. “Now ’oo would ’e be when ’e’s out and about—this Donatello Vis—Vis—”
“Er, Visconti, sir. Well, um, he’s actually, that is, he wouldn’t be out and about. He’s dead, you see.”
“Ah,” the robber said after a long, uncomfortable pause, his gaze moving from the boy in the dress to Godric and Eva. He squinted and then frowned. Eva couldn’t blame him; what a trio they must make. He appeared to have been rendered temporarily speechless. And then he turned to his men, scowling. “’Ere then, what are you lot doing lazing around when there’s work to be done? Get that carriage hooked up!”
The men surged toward the tipped carriage like a single organism, the two riding the leaders—not their postilions—joining the others.
“Where are the postilions?” Godric asked.
“Don’tchu worry, lad, we don’t ’arm honest working men,” the leader said, his grin back in place. “We trussed ’em up, but the boys’ll check on ’em later and cut ’em loose.”
Eva glanced up at Godric, to see if he believed the other man, but he didn’t meet her gaze.
While they’d been talking, the other thieves had surrounded the carriage and now began to set it upright, the action involving lots of grunting and cursing as the men slipped in the mud and lost their footing.
It was better than a pantomime.
The carriage had just slid back into the ditch for a third time when the most decrepit wagon Eva had ever seen rumbled toward them. The man in the driver’s seat wore a soldier’s coat and pulled the wagon to a halt not far from the carriage before leaning awkwardly on the side of the wagon and then hopping down on one leg.
“Why, he’s a—”
“Shhh,” Godric whispered.
The one-legged man studied the post chaise for a long moment before slipping a cane from beneath the board he used as a seat and limping to the back of the wagon, which she saw was heaped with all manner of rubbish.
Meanwhile, the men had pushed the post chaise upright. One of their number, the smallest, crawled beneath and shoved something—a block of wood that appeared to have come from nowhere—beneath the axle of the broken wheel. When the men released their hold, the carriage shuddered but stayed in place.
The one-legged man limped toward the coach with a carriage wheel slung over one shoulder and a wooden toolbox hanging from the hand not employing the cane.
They all appeared oblivious to the pounding rain.
The leader of the band of thieves ambled toward them. “That’s Donny,” he said in a confiding tone. “’E’s forgotten more about carriages than most men will ever know.”
Indeed, Donny did seem to be quite handy and set about attaching the new wheel—slightly smaller and wider than the original—in a matter of moments.
While they’d been watching Donny, the two men riding the leaders had hooked the horses to the carriage.
Donny stood and then limped a few feet away before calling out, “She’s good.”
The chaise began to roll. The too-small wheel gave it a rather drunken gait as it rumbled down the narrow, rutted road, but it didn’t seem to slow it down too much and soon the chaise had disappeared around the bend.
“So, that’s that,” the leader said with a huge grin, coming close enough that Eva could see he wore something that might have once been a soldier’s coat.
“Now, let’s have what’s in your pockets without any fuss, eh?” He looked from Godric to Eva. “You too, girlie.”
Eva scowled up at him as she detached her watch and chain and handed it to him. “That’s all I have.”
The man with the hat, who had been hovering in the corner of her eye, came closer at her words.
“She’s a girl, Flynn,” he said to the older thief—Flynn, it seemed.
“Aye, Matthew, that she is.” Flynn pulled out the most disgusting handkerchief Eva had ever seen and brushed the rain off his face before leaning toward her, as if to get a better look. His eyes crinkled at the corners but Eva saw no amusement in them. “And she’s a beauty at that.”
Eva felt Godric’s body move closer. “She also happens to be my wife.”
Flynn turned at the sound of Godric’s voice, which was soft but carried all the menace of a cracking whip.
Flynn’s eyebrows jumped up in mock surprise. “Is she now?”
One of the men who’d been loitering with the others—a tall, hulking blond man—spoke up. “Don’t you recognize him, Flynn? It’s Fleming—Colonel Fleming.” The man’s cold, flat stare made it clear that the memory was not a pleasant one.
Flynn’s eyes widened. “Is that right? Why, I’ll be, Paul, I believe you’re right. Colonel Fleming hisself—a real live war hero, lads.”
The men behind him chuckled and Eva chanced a look at Godric; she’d thought he’d looked hard when he’d gone after her brother, but clearly she’d been mistaken. Right now he looked like the grim reaper come to collect his latest victim.
“And you must be Gentleman Flynn.” Godric’s eye
s seemed paler, his pupils mere specks, their color the glinting gray of a freshly sharpened axe.
Flynn put his splayed hand across his chest. “Why, I’m flattered you’ve ’eard of me.”
Again his men laughed.
Eva was surprised she’d not guessed the man’s identity sooner. Gentleman Flynn and his band of deserters had been in the paper for months as they ransacked the countryside. She knew robberies as far south as London and as far north as Leeds had been attributed to them.
Her mind spun to recall all she’d read, but there was likely a healthy amount of rumor blended with fact. Had his band of merry men ever killed anyone?
“Here.” Godric’s voice pulled her from her thoughts. He’d drawn his heavy gold signet ring off his pinky. “I’m going to get my purse.” Flynn nodded and held out a hand. Godric slapped both money and ring in his palm. Hard. “Take this and be on your way.”
Something in Flynn’s eyes kindled and he took a step forward, pushing his face into Godric’s. “Your sort no longer gets to order me around, my lord.” He made a hawking sound in his throat and then spat at the ground near Godric’s feet.
Eva flinched back at the disgusting gesture, even though the phlegm had come nowhere near her boots. When she looked up from the muddy road she saw Godric holding a cocked pistol to Flynn’s temple.
She gasped, her jaw hanging open. Where in the world had that come from?
Of course her surprise was nothing to Flynn’s.
“Now then,” Godric said coolly, “tell your men to lower their weapons or I’ll blow a hole through your head bigger than a twelve-pound shot.”
The small hairs on the back of Eva’s neck stood up at the barely leashed violence in Godric’s tone.
A muscle in Flynn’s jaw flexed and his eyes flared with hatred. But the look was gone in an instant, tucked back behind his jovial mask. “You ’eard ’im, boys.”
Most of the men hadn’t been holding weapons as they’d been too busy working on the carriage. Only two of them had guns: the one called Matthew and another man.
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