Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  She would gladly have pulled the trigger. She was no longer afraid to fight, and, as she had told Maggie, she was tired of the people she loved making sacrifices so that she might live to have her heart broken another day.

  The wagon that was supposed to carry them to the rendezvous with Finn and Dudley on the road to Manchester had brought them here instead. They had intercepted the coach not five minutes after it had abandoned Tyrone to his meeting with Roth, and even though Robbie had given Hart his solemn word to drive on and not look back, there was no argument strong enough to turn the women around. The Brown Bess that Maggie thrust into his hands prompted him to switch loyalties instead and he led them through the woods, all of them armed and determined to save Tyrone Hart from his own reckless bravado.

  Renée was closest to one of the lanterns and Roth recognized her at once by the strands of blond hair that escaped her hood.

  “Well, if it isn’t the little French whore herself. I was hoping to have the opportunity to see you again, mademoiselle, but this is too rich. Too rich by far.”

  Renée heard his ugly laugh but she had eyes only for Tyrone. Half of his face was wet with the blood that ran down his cheek and throat, his right arm was cradled against his chest, the ruined hand limp and dripping. His expression, when he whirled around and saw her standing there with Antoine, Maggie, Dudley, and the stalwart Mr. Finn, was a mixture of horror and disbelief.

  “Renée! For God’s sakes, what are you doing here? You were supposed to be at the rendezvous!”

  She kept the pistol trained on the militiamen as she edged carefully closer to where he stood. “Waiting for whom, m’sieur? For you? If so, we would have been waiting a very long time, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Renée—”

  “Non! When Maggie told me of this foolishness, I could not believe my ears! I could not believe this was the same man who boasted he had no conscience, no sense of obligation, no desire to revenge himself upon the world.”

  “Renée, you don’t understand—”

  “Non! I understand perfectly what Roth has threatened to do. I know he has threatened to send Edgar Vincent’s salopards after Antoine and me, but I do not care.” She cast a scathingly contemptuous glance in Roth’s direction as she crossed in front of a lantern. “You have managed to thumb your nose at men like this for seven years, and I would rather spend the next seven weeks or days or hours running and hiding with you, mon capitaine, than seventy years living without you.”

  She was close enough now for him to see the defiant jut to her chin, the fierce determination burning in the depths of her eyes. He saw the same ferocity in the eyes of the other motley rescuers and knew he did not have the strength—or in truth, the desire—to fight them all.

  His shoulders sagged as he reached out with his one good arm and drew her against his chest. “You intend to deny me my one noble gesture, do you, mam’selle?”

  “Be assured I do, m’sieur, for noble gestures do not keep me warm at night. Only your heart and your body are able to do that.”

  He closed his eyes briefly and pressed his lips to her temple, but in the next instant, the sound of loud, mocking applause caused her to lift her head from his chest and nervously raise the cocked pistol in Roth’s direction again.

  He had tucked his sword beneath his arm and was clapping his hands together slowly and deliberately in response to the tender exchange.

  “How very, very touching,” he declared dryly. “I vow it makes my heart swell to hear such sweet, sentimental pap. Unfortunately, it will probably not affect a magistrate or a court of law the same way, for you are still a wanted man, Hart, and you, Miss d’Anton, have now voided any prior arrangements for leniency by attempting to interfere at gunpoint with a formal arrest. Seven hours? I should think you will be lucky to enjoy seven minutes together on the gibbet before they hang you both for your crimes.”

  “Then it should not matter if we add one more,” Tyrone said, taking the gun out of Renée’s hand.

  Roth was quick to laugh again, quicker to cast his sword to the ground. “By all means, add the murder of an unarmed officer of His Majesty’s government to the already impressive list of charges. You will undoubtedly have to deal with Corporal Marlborough’s rigid code of honor, but then what is honor to a man whose word is not worth the spit expended to pledge it?”

  Renée felt Tyrone’s body stiffen beside her. She also saw the look on Marlborough’s face as he turned, clearly torn between his sense of revulsion for Roth and his obligations as an officer and gentleman.

  Tyrone’s eyes narrowed. “We needn’t put the Corporal through such angst, Roth. We needn’t trouble a court or a magistrate or waste the cost of a hangman’s noose either if we agree to settle our differences here and now, once and for all.”

  “A duel?” Roth arched an eyebrow. “To the death?”

  “But you are hurt,” Renée gasped. “You cannot fight: him!”

  In this, Marlborough concurred. His gaze went from Renée’s horrified expression to Tyrone’s right hand, which was bleeding and held tightly against his chest. “Miss d’Anton is right, sir. It would not be a fair fight. Your hand is useless and you can barely balance any weight on your leg. You would not survive the first party.” He glared across the lantern light to where Roth was standing. “You crippled him deliberately, sir, a blatant act of cowardice and cruelty that will be reported, you may depend upon it.”

  “He still has one good hand he can shoot with,” Roth said through the gleam of his teeth. “And you may be sure, Corporal, that when I finish dealing with him, I will deal with your insubordination in a manner which will forever define the word ’cruelty’ for you.”

  Marlborough paled further, but stood his ground. “Might I suggest you leave now, Mr. Hart? I cannot guarantee how much time I can give you, but I would be in your debt if you could remove Miss d’Anton to safety.”

  Roth’s grin widened. “Indeed, Hart, take the corporal’s advice and run. You won’t run very far, and you surely will not be able to hide behind your lady love’s skirts for very long, but by all means, take your chances and run.”

  “Do not listen to him,” Renée begged, pulling on his sleeve. “He is only trying to bait you the way you baited him.”

  “And he’s doing a damn fine job,” Tyrone murmured.

  Roth laughed and held up his hands. “I would not want to be accused of taking unfair advantage. Listen to your little French whore, Hart. Run while you have the chance. Run while your belly is yellow enough to light the way.”

  Tyrone blinked the sweat out of his eyes and pressed the gun back into Renée’s hands. “Here, take this. If the corporal has no objections, I prefer the weight and familiarity of my own gun.”

  Renée shook her head. “Tyrone, no … please …”

  “A new deal, Roth? We count out the ten paces and the others go free?”

  Roth drew a triumphant breath, swelling his chest. “Agreed. I have no real interest in them anyway. It was always your head I wanted the pleasure of spiking in the town square.”

  “Tyrone!”

  “It will be all right.” He cradled her chin in his hand and gazed deeply into her eyes. “You did say you trusted me, did you not?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Then trust me now.” He kissed her hard and fast then pressed his mouth to her ear. “Go and stand with Robbie and for God’s sake, don’t make the mistake of trying to shoot anyone with this gun. It isn’t loaded.”

  She stared at the pistol then looked up into his face, seeing a completely incongruous twinkle of humor in the cold steel of his eyes. His mind was made up. There was nothing she could say or do to stop him. It was partially her own fault, she realized, for she had accused him of being a man without purpose or conscience, yet she had not seen that beneath the casual indifference he hid a strong sense of honor and pride, coupled with more courage than she thought she could bear.

  “With all my heart, m’sieur, I wish you had remained
a rogue and a scoundrel,”

  Tyrone smiled and brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek. “Be careful what you wish for, mam’selle. It has been a long time since I turned my hand to honest trade.”

  “Just turn it to me. That is all I ask.”

  He kissed her, softly, briefly, then steered her gently toward the edge of the wood. When she was safely back in the shadows he took out his handkerchief and started wrapping it around his injured hand.

  “Corporal Marlborough,” he glanced pointedly at the heavy snaphaunce trembling in the young officer’s grip. “If you would be so kind as to empty one of the chambers. God forbid the tables should turn and I am later brought to account for having two shots to the colonel’s one.”

  Roth smirked and began to unfasten the buttons down the front of his tunic. “You could have ten, Hart, you would still be dead before you pulled the first trigger.”

  Marlborough bowed his head and proceeded to remove the shot and charge from the lower chamber of the flintlock. He appeared to be clearly uncomfortable with all aspects of the situation, not the least of which being the fact that he should have been arresting Tyrone Hart, not aiding him in a duel against his commanding officer.

  “The colonel is an expert marksman, sir,” he murmured. “I have seen him shoot the eye out of a fox at thirty paces.”

  “Then I am well advised to keep mine firmly shut and cheat him of a target.”

  Marlborough looked up, startled.

  “You are a good man, Corporal,” Tyrone said quietly. “I am grateful for what you did earlier. And I am still holding you to your bond. Whatever happens over the course of the next few minutes, I expect you to insure Mademoiselle d’Anton’s safety.”

  The dark, earnest eyes searched the blood-smeared face and nodded slowly. “You may count on it, sir.”

  Roth was waiting. Having removed his scarlet tunic, he wore a collarless white shirt beneath, with braces over the shoulders to keep his breeches snug about his waist. He ran his thumbs down both suspenders to adjust the tension, then retrieved his pistol from his saddle and checked that it was loaded and primed.

  Tyrone did likewise, insuring the corporal removed the right priming charge from the right barrel, then, with the pain in his slashed leg causing him to limp slightly, walked forward to where Roth waited in the middle of the road. He stood half a head taller than the colonel and with his loose-fitting sleeves and shiny satin breeches, knew he would present a wide, clear target against the background of night shadows.

  Marlborough insisted on positioning the lanterns to provide equal advantage to both duelists, while the five militiamen were ordered to dismount and leave their weapons in a pile beside the road. When the corporal was satisfied there would be no ambush out of the dark, he fetched one of the pistols and stood with the two challengers.

  “You will each count off ten paces. I will call one, two, three, and on three, you will turn, aim, and fire. Should both shots miss—”

  “Both shots will not miss, Marlborough,” Roth said. “Back away.”

  “Should anyone anticipate the count of three—”

  “Mister Marlborough, you are going to have a difficult enough time as it is explaining your actions when this is over. I suggest you back away. Now!”

  The young man flushed, taking three long strides back toward the side of the road, and Roth grinned up at Tyrone.

  “Well, Hart, I cannot say it has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance … in either of your incarnations. But to prove my sincerity in wishing you a fond farewell, I shall aim low, for the belly, so that we can all enjoy hearing you scream your way into the devil’s hands.”

  Tyrone smiled tightly and balanced the snout of the gun over his wounded hand while he wiped his left palm down his breeches and took a firmer grip on the stock.

  Roth pursed his lips. “Do you need an extra moment or two to accustom yourself to the aim or balance? I should not want you to shoot a horse by mistake.”

  “You’re too kind, Roth.”

  The colonel laughed and turned, presenting his back. Tyrone was slower to take the set position and his strides were less even than Roth’s as they counted off the required ten paces apiece. He glanced up once into the brilliant canvas of stars, suffering the smallest regret that the moon was not riding high and pale in the sky. He glanced a second time to where Renée was standing, her hands clasped over her breast, her eyes wide and dark and shining with tears. He was not sure if she could see his face clearly, but he moved his lips anyway, saying the words he had been too stubborn to say before. He said them in English, then in French. He might even have shouted them had he not heard Marlborough begin to count off one … two …

  On the count of three both men turned. They straightened their elbows and extended their arms and there were two flashes of powder, two explosive blasts that shattered the absolute stillness of the air.

  For half an eternity, no one moved. Renée had covered her mouth on the count of three and her hand remained frozen in place. Antoine was beside her, his chest expanded with the pressure of a pent-up breath, his eyes round as saucers. Maggie clutched Dudley’s arm with one hand, Finn’s with the other, but the two men forgave the gouging pain of her fingers; indeed, they were barely aware of it. The militiamen looked from one combatant to the other, waiting for the haze of the smoke to clear. There was so much blood on Tyrone’s clothing already, it was difficult to see if there were any new stains appearing on his body, whereas they all saw the gleam of the smile that began to spread across Roth’s face.

  Tyrone wavered. His shoulders sagged and he went down hard on one knee.

  Twenty paces away, Bertrand Roth started to walk back toward his horse. He managed to go only a couple of steps, however, before his legs buckled like snapped kindling and he crashed face down on the ground, landing close enough to one of the lanterns that the fresh new hole in the center of his forehead glistened red in the light.

  Renée broke free and ran to where Tyrone was teetering, trying to maintain his balance. He had dropped his gun and both hands were folded over his belly now. With Dudley and Antoine a close step behind her, she skidded painfully onto her knees beside him, almost dreading to ask, dreading to see what horrible new injury had been inflicted. His head was bowed and the shaggy black waves of his hair fell forward over his cheeks. It took him a moment, but he responded to the soft plea in Renée’s hands as they cradled his face and begged him to look up at her.

  “Is Roth dead?”

  “Yes. Yes, you shot him. He is dead.”

  He offered up a lopsided grin. “Then you may rest easy, mam’selle, for if I was truly reformed and truly a gentleman, I would have told him from the outset that I was left-handed …”

  “Tyrone!”

  But he could not hear her. He had already toppled sideways, senseless in her arms.

  EPILOGUE

  Renée leaned back in the chair and tried to keep her eyes from closing. She heard the door open behind her and sat a little straighter, offering up a tired smile as Antoine came into the cabin.

  “Where is Finn?”

  “Puking over the rails again,” he offered up cheerfully. “I came to fetch him a clean handkerchief.”

  “And M’sieur Dudley?”

  “Puking right alongside him,” Maggie said, coming through the doorway behind Antoine. “You would think, for two such fierce brigands, they could hold their biscuits and ale through a few little swells. You should go and take a turn around the deck, miss. It really is a lovely evening, clear and cool, full of stars, and the moon so bright it paints a silver river on the surface of the sea.”

  “I can see the moon from the window,” Renée pointed out. “And if I had to watch the ship going up and down I am afraid I might end up standing with Finn and M’sieur Dudley.”

  Maggie peered at the wooden supper tray she had brought down earlier. “Well, I am glad to see someone has not lost his appetite. He ate all the meat, I see, and the cheese.
Did he drink all the tea I brewed for him or has he been spilling it out the porthole again?”

  “I drank every last wretched mouthful,” Tyrone grumbled from the bed. “I had no choice; the minx would have poured it down my throat otherwise.”

  “So you’re awake, are you?”

  “Awake and pondering the cruel circumstances that have brought me to this fate. Three weeks ago, I was happily unfettered, in full possession of my health, my faculties, my creature comforts, free to come and go where I chose, to do it with whom I chose, when and where I chose to do it. Now look at me,” he sighed, lifting the curved sweep of his black lashes to stare up at the lantern where it swayed gently from its hook on the ceiling. “Freshly quit of one set of bandages and bound in another, forced to flee hearth and home in the dead of night and take up residence in a berth no wider than a coffin, on board a vessel run by pirates—”

  “Enterprising merchants, or so Robbie told me,” Maggie corrected him, “who prefer not to pay the exorbitant export prices for West Indies rum.”

  “Pirates,” Tyrone reiterated, “and a pair of women who treat me like a recalcitrant child.”

  Both Maggie and Renée frowned a moment over the meaning of the word recalcitrant, but in the end, decided he had said it with enough of a scowl to make it a compliment.