The Noble Guardian

by Michelle Griep

  He reached for the door—then drew back his hand. “Most guests?”

  Willy flinched at his voice, for he’d already turned to grab another mug. At least this one stayed in the man’s meaty paw. Breathing out curses that would redden a smuggler’s ears, Willy swung back to the bar where Samuel had backtracked. “Aye, most. Had a few ladies set off not long ago, headed north.”

  “Who accompanied them? Harcourt?”

  “Nay. He were employed by one o’ the two coaches what left afore ’em.”

  Samuel frowned. “Any men with them? Husbands? Escorts?”

  Willy shook his head. “Only Shambles.”

  Scarpin’ bodgers! Those women would be easy prey should Shankhart be on the prowl. He tipped his hat and headed for the door.

  Willy’s voice followed. “And next time, rattle the doorknob or stamp yer feet. I’m done with yer slinking about!”

  Samuel waved him off as he strode outside. Willy nagged more than a fishwife. Grabbing hold of Pilgrim’s lead, he swung up into the saddle and turned the bay around. Once past the tollhouse, he cut loose onto the northern road. With any luck, he’d find old Shambles and the ladies in one piece.

  Gusty breezes tried to steal his hat, but Samuel tucked his head into the onslaught, his worn black felt as much a part of him as his arms and legs. The heath whooshed past. Green. Yellow. Brilliant. Mornings didn’t get any better than this.

  Or did they? What would it be like to finally trade in his tipstaff for a hay rake? How much more peaceful? No more chasing cullys and killers. No more blood. Or death. As the world rushed by in a smear of green and gold, a small smile tugged his lips. Soon, God willing. Twenty-five pounds more and he’d have enough to—

  A gunshot fractured the air, violating the summer morn. Judging by the echo of the report, not too far away. He dug in his heels, urging Pilgrim to top speed.

  The wind whipped. Grit blasted his face, and his eyes watered. Samuel dropped closer to the horse’s neck, cutting resistance and letting Pilgrim take the brunt of the breeze.

  Leaning into a curve, he rounded a stand of gorse bushes, then spied a black lump ahead. Man-sized. Unmoving. Sprawled at the side of the road like a dumped heap of rubbish.

  Samuel slowed his mount only long enough to identify the unmistakable face of Mr. Shambles. Part of it, at least. Blood hid the rest, having poured from an entry wound gaping at the side of his temple.

  Yanking out a gun, Samuel urged Pilgrim onward, righteous fury burning in his gut. Either this was Shankhart Robbins’s day to die…or his.

  Lord, grant mercy.

  Again the road curved, skirting a small rocky rise. When the trail straightened, Samuel growled. Twenty yards ahead, horses screamed to a stop. Barely. Whoever handled them didn’t have the sense of a gnat. Another man stood at the side of the chaise like the grim reaper about to call. One hand on the door handle. The other gripping a pistol.

  Samuel yanked on the reins. The instant Pilgrim stopped, he sighted the man with the barrel of his gun and fired.

  The scoundrel fell. The horses bolted. And the carriage lurched into motion.

  Pushing air through his teeth, Samuel jabbed his heels into Pilgrim’s side, but truly neither was needed. After ten years, the horse knew the routine.

  The chaise bounced like a child’s toy dragged by a tether. Samuel sped past it, gaining on the blackguard who drove the lead horse.

  “Stop!” he roared.

  Dark eyes swung his way.

  So did a gun.

  Chapter Four

  She could die here, in this rocking four-wheeled casket—and Abby wasn’t ready. Not yet. Not now. God, please!

  The wheels hit hard, and Abby’s teeth snapped shut on her tongue, filling her mouth with the taste of copper. She could barely breathe, let alone cry out.

  Next to her, Fanny shrieked, her flailing elbow punching Abby in the cheek. The carriage jolted faster, tilting one way, then back the other. Flying up. Crashing down. Abby’s fingernail tore as she scrambled for a hold on the seat, the side, anything.

  Despite her desperate clutching, her shoulder smacked against the wall, and her bonnet slipped forward, covering her eyes. She batted it away in time to see the galloping hooves of yet another horse streaking past the window. Atop it, a man in a muddied black cloak brandished another gun.

  Dear God, is there no end? Save us!

  But the chaise rumbled on. The men roared. So did the crack of a shot. The man driving the carriage listed sideways. With a yank on the reins, the man in the black cloak veered his horse into him, knocking the driver to the ground. Before Abby could suck in a breath or Fanny could scream again, the newcomer leapt from his saddle to the carriage horse. The wild ride slowed and, an eternity later, stopped.

  That’s when the shaking started. Somewhere deep and low. Spreading up Abby’s legs to her belly to her arms. As the black-cloaked man dismounted and stalked toward the door, she trembled harder with each of his steps. What was to become of them?

  She scrambled like a cat across the seat, crashing into Fanny, both shrinking away from the door. Fanny whispered a ragged rendition of the Lord’s Prayer, her breath hot against Abby’s ear. Abby bit her lip—heedless now of the blood—wishing she could pray, scream, run.

  But all she could do was stare at the latch. It jerked down. The bolt scraped back. The door opened. A shadow-faced highwayman jumped up, blocking light and air and hope. His black gaze violated hers, and she quaked all the more.

  He was night, this man. His dark hair hung wild to his chin. His darker hat shaded his eyes, so that all she saw were the sharp angles of his cheekbones, the cut of his nose, the strong mouth flattened to a grim line. Without a word, he stretched out his hand.

  For her.

  This was it, then. The end of innocence. The end of life—and just when love and belonging were within her reach. It wasn’t fair, this ripping away of the gift she’d not yet opened.

  And she’d have none of it.

  She flattened against Fanny, flung out her hands for balance, and kicked like a wild donkey.

  A heel caught Samuel’s jaw, jerking his face sideways. Pain shot to his temple. Sweet blessed heavens! Must every person he tried to help lash out at him? The tear on his hand from the orphan boy was not yet completely healed.

  Lurching back from the thrashing wildcat, he held up a hand. “Peace!”

  The word thundered loud, startling the woman midkick.

  “I won’t harm you,” he murmured, cautious and low, all the while edging slowly toward her. “You need to get out. The horses may bolt again.”

  God help them all if they did.

  Indeed, God. A little help, if You please.

  Keeping track of the woman’s feet, he once again offered his hand.

  Her gaze bounced between his face and his outstretched fingers. Blood trickled down one of her cheeks, marring the porcelain skin. The other woman, ashen-faced and scowling, shoved her forward. And no wonder, for it was a miracle the woman behind the wildcat could even breathe the way she’d been mashed against her.

  The chaise rocked, the horses clearly spooked and willing to charge at the slightest provocation. Blast! He didn’t have time to coddle frightened women.

  Setting his jaw, Samuel reached for the wildcat, prepared for a biting, screaming mass. But she gave way without a fight and, in fact, gripped his hand with nary a complaint. What the deuce?

  He helped her to the ground, then turned back to collect the other woman—yet no need. That lady shoved past him and flew from the chaise like a sparrow set free from a cage.

  He jumped down after her, his boots sinking deep into the softened muck. Stretching out his arms, he shooed the women away from the road, toward the grassy bank, then gave them each a quick once-over for signs of injuries.

  The wildcat stared back at him, quietly indicting him as a rogue, her brown eyes as dark as her scowl. She was a fighter, this one, which was a curious contradiction to her petite form. O
r maybe not. Perhaps she’d learned at a young age to defend herself. Other than a swollen lip and the blood riding the curve of her cheek, she appeared to be unharmed.

  He shifted his gaze to the bird woman who’d flown from the chaise. No cuts. No abrasions. Except for her rumpled gown, she looked well enough. But all the same, she doubled over, pressing one hand into her belly. “I’m going to be ill.”

  Samuel wheeled about and followed the crazed carriage tracks carved into the soft ground. Let the wildcat deal with her sick friend. It might work off some of her fury.

  Ahead, the man he’d shot in the leg clutched his thigh, his moans an ugly blemish on the brilliant June morning. He tried to scramble away, but with that wound, he wasn’t getting very far. The closer Samuel drew, the more frantic his thrashing and the louder his outrage.

  “I’ll kill ye for this! Ye hear me? Yer a dead man.” Groans punctuated the blackguard’s threats, rendering them moot.

  Samuel reached for his neck cloth, and the man flinched. Samuel smirked. Not that he denounced the fellow for fearing a quick choking, but truly, if he had meant to kill him, the man would already be dead.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered.

  He crouched next to the grunting fellow and worked to tie the cloth around his leg, staunching the flow. “Who are you with?”

  “I ain’t talkin’ to the likes o’ you, ye filthy runner.”

  Samuel yanked the knot tighter than necessary.

  “Shove off!” the man growled and followed his words with a host of vile epithets.

  Rising, Samuel planted his feet wide and stared down at the villain, reminding himself that this was why he was out here. Stopping the wicked. Protecting the vulnerable. A noble endeavor. A needed one. But Lord, he was weary of it.

  He turned his back on the scoundrel and continued following the ruts of the carriage wheels. Hopefully the man’s partner yet lay in the dirt where Samuel had shot him in the leg. If he’d missed his mark and only grazed the fellow with a flesh wound, no doubt he’d already hied it out of there to attack again another day.

  Squinting, he scanned the road as far as he could see. Just beyond a slight bend, a mud-splattered shape hunkered. This one not thrashing about. Who knew? Maybe this fellow would be more cooperative and talk—though it didn’t really matter. Whether they admitted it or not, he’d wager his last breath these men belonged to Shankhart Robbins’s gang…which meant that other members might very well be lurking close by. He upped his pace. It wouldn’t be soon enough to his liking to haul in the pair and get the women to safety.

  But his steps slowed as he drew near the other man, his gut twisting. Not so much as a twitch riffled the man’s coat. No curses sullied the air. He didn’t even turn his head to watch Samuel approach. Something wasn’t right.

  Five yards away, Samuel stopped. Blood bloomed around a hole in the man’s calf, where the gunshot had hit. Not a triviality, but also not an injury to keep down such a strapping fellow. Samuel’s gaze followed the deep rut of the carriage wheel—right to where it dug into the man’s neck. That hadn’t been simply a nasty fall from the chaise door.

  It had been a deadly one.

  He stomped around to the other side of the body and stared into the empty eyes of the dead man…then blew out a long breath. By all that was holy, he truly might have a death warrant on his head for this. That glassy gaze belonged to Pounce Robbins.

  Shankhart’s younger brother.

  Closing her eyes, Abby lifted her face to the sun and, for one sanctifying moment, gave in to its warmth while everything in her yet shook. Maybe this was naught but a dream. It might be, especially with all the talk of guns and highwaymen the night before. She could awaken at any moment to the grumbling of the carriage wheels as she had so often done over the past four days. Yes, of course. That was it. This was just a great, awful nightmare. Nothing more.

  “He’s coming,” Fanny hissed. The maid’s clammy fingers wrapped around hers, pulling her back to reality. “I told you we should’ve made a run for it.”

  Abby frowned at her maid. “And go where? We are no match for a man with a gun. It is better not to anger him. We shall lead him to believe we will cooperate. Then when help is near, we will flee.”

  The man in the black riding cloak strode toward the carriage, two lengths of rope coiled in his hand. He pulled something big behind him, and judging by the way he strained with each step, something quite heavy. Two objects, rather flat and long and rustling the grass. He stopped far enough away that she couldn’t quite make them out, but they appeared to be man-sized.

  “Turn around,” he bellowed.

  That didn’t sound good. She didn’t know much about men and violence, but it seemed one ought to always keep an enemy within sight. Just because he hadn’t harmed them yet didn’t mean he wouldn’t. Summoning her courage, she lifted her chin and stared the man down.

  “What are you going to do with us?”

  His dark gaze met her challenge, the set of his jaw stating he’d not be trifled with. “I’ll take you to the next inn. Now, do as I say.”

  She slipped a sideways glance at Fanny, whose brow wrinkled as much as her own. He’d take them to the next inn? As if he were naught but an escort instead of a highwayman? Or was that where he’d meet up with his gang and…

  She swallowed. Better not to think beyond that.

  “I’m waiting,” he rumbled.

  Fanny turned, and with a huff, so did she.

  The man’s heavy steps neared, the grass swishing and crackling beneath his boots. Closer and closer. Then his feet stopped. Some grunts. Thick breaths. A thud, accompanied by creaking leather on the back seat outside the chaise. And again. Then more footsteps—slowly fading.

  Abby whirled to see the hem of the man’s riding cloak swinging in the breeze as he stalked away.

  Next to her, Fanny craned her neck toward the back of the carriage. “What did he…?” She stepped closer, angling for a better view.

  Abby planted her feet. Though trouble often had a way of finding her, there was no sense in hastening toward it.

  “Why, it looks like—Oh! That’s Mr. Shambles.” Fanny spun, slapping a hand over her mouth. She darted back to the grass and once again doubled over.

  Abby turned her back to the chaise, unwilling to witness whatever gruesome sight had sickened Fanny. Even so, the sounds of the maid’s heaving and the thought of what she might have seen made her own stomach churn. With stilted steps, she approached Fanny and slowly rubbed circles on the woman’s back. “It is going to be all right. We have to stay strong. Surely God is watching over us.”

  Her chest tightened. He was, wasn’t He?

  She shoved down a tide of rising doubt and rubbed all the more. “We cannot let that man know he frightens us.”

  Fanny stiffened beneath her touch. “I am frightened!”

  “So am I, but if you show fear, it will only incite him.” A bitter frown weighted her brow. How well she knew that truth, branded into her soul by a stepmother who thrived on fear.

  Fanny shuddered one last time, then straightened.

  Abby reached into her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. Fanny had already ruined her own. “Here.”

  “Thank you, miss.” The woman accepted her offering with shaky fingers and dabbed the corners of her mouth.

  They both turned back to the road when boot steps thudded.

  Without a glance their way, the black-cloaked fellow lugged past them a man bleeding from his leg. Vulgarities spewed out of the injured man’s mouth, especially when he was hoisted atop a mount. The horse stamped and puffed a harsh breath, no happier than he.

  Fanny edged behind her as the other man turned toward them and closed the distance with the stretch of his long legs.

  He stopped near the door, the gleam in his dark eyes a wearied sort of dangerous. A crescent scar marred the skin high on his cheek near his left eye. Not surprising, for he’d certainly shown he was capable of violence. How many othe
r marks did that riding cloak of his hide?

  He tipped his head toward the carriage. “You ladies need to get in the chaise.”

  Abby shook her head. He could take them anywhere. Do anything, for he’d shown what he was capable of. But she’d be hanged if she made it easy for him. “We are not going with you.”

  He rolled his eyes and swung out an arm, indicating the bleeding man who was hog-tied on the horse. “I’m not one of these wretches. If I were, you’d be dead by now.”

  She gaped. That was supposed to be reassuring? “Surely you do not think I am naive enough to fall for such glib falsehoods.”

  His lips flattened into a straight line, and he reached inside his coat.

  Fanny gasped. So did she. Had she pushed him too far? Would the barrel of a smoking gun be the last thing she saw on this earth?

  Slowly, he pulled out a wooden-handled baton, brass at one end and ornamented with a small crown. Abby stared at the tipstaff. Could he truly be a lawman? Or had he stolen that from the body of one?

  Her gaze drifted from the truncheon to the man’s face. Nothing had changed in his fierce appearance—yet everything had. A gleam of pure veracity shone in his eyes. Not one speck of anything sinister swam in those brown depths. Not a jot of wickedness or cruelty. For the first time, she thought that maybe, perhaps, he could be trusted.

  He jerked his head toward the open door of the carriage. “I am a Principal Officer operating out of Bow Street. Now get in the carriage. You’re safe as long as I’m with you.”

  Safe? She trapped a retort behind her teeth. He may be an officer of the crown, but there was nothing safe about him.

  Chapter Five

  The Laughing Dog was a ramshackle hovel, barely clinging to the turf at the far end of the heath. It stood like a drunkard, leaning hard to the east, pushed cockeyed by wind and years of neglect. Samuel frowned as he stopped the carriage. This wasn’t his first choice of refuge. It was his only one. Turning back to the Golden Cross would’ve doubled the time, and the next inn wasn’t for another fifteen miles.