by Lily Reynard
She wasn't naïve enough to think that her exalted station as Dowager Countess of Cranbourne was the reason she'd received an appointment to the queen's chambers.
Everyone knew that the king's friends were forever in debt, and that His Majesty often provided them with introductions to eligible heiresses.
Occupied by her musings, Antonia scarcely noticed as the coach left the parish of Long Cranbourne and turned onto the rutted highway.
As the miles slipped away, Mall curled up in the opposite corner of the coach and began to snore lustily despite the swaying and jouncing.
Only Sweetheart remained awake, occasionally flapping wildly to keep his balance on his travel stand when the coach bounced into a particularly deep pothole.
Antonia yawned and her eyelids began to droop. She raised the leather shade over the unglazed window, darkening the interior of the coach. Then she leaned back against the seat and drifted off into a nap to an accompaniment of creaking leather, the low steady rumble of the coach wheels, and the rhythmic jingle of the horses' harnesses.
Sometime later, she started awake as the coach abruptly lurched to a halt.
"Milady, something's happening!" a rumpled Mall whispered, edging out of her corner. With fumbling fingers, she untied the thongs that held the top of the shade in place.
Antonia, mildly alarmed, pulled on her half-mask "Perhaps one of the horses has pulled up lame," she suggested as she peered out at the dense stands of trees that crowded the verge.
"Samuel?" Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, Antonia stuck her head out, and craned her neck to catch a glimpse of the high coachman's bench, where Samuel Mills held the reins, accompanied by Jemmy Jenkins.
Mall had pleaded with Antonia that her brother be allowed to accompany them and see London for himself.
So, Antonia had given the young footman a pistol and assigned him to act as her bodyguard for the journey.
This seemed safe enough. There had not been any highwaymen reported recently on the Dover road. They all seemed to be congregating near Uxbridge these days.
Jemmy, plus two outriders, seemed like ample deterrent for the ordinary hazards of the road, especially since Antonia had sent her household goods and baggage on ahead.
"My lady!" Samuel's voice sounded strained. "Don't leave the coach!"
Then Antonia saw the men blocking the road. There were three of them, all masked, two armed with pistols as well as swords, and no sign of her outriders.
Mall inched closer to her. "What is it?"
"Highwaymen," Antonia whispered, her heart pounding.
"Jemmy," Mall breathed, her eyes wide.
"No one move!" shouted one of the highwaymen.
Antonia saw Jemmy's hand creeping towards his coat pocket.
"Jemmy, don't—" Antonia whispered, as loudly as she dared.
She was interrupted by a pistol's loud explosion.
"Jemmy!" shouted Samuel.
Mall gave an anguished scream as the red-haired youth fell backwards off the high coachman's bench and landed in the moist, rutted earth of the highway.
The sharp smell of gunpowder smoke hung in the air.
"Jemmy!" Mall pushed Antonia out of the way, and fumbled for the door handle.
"Mall, no!" Antonia grabbed her around the waist, and fought to restrain her maid from rushing to her brother's side.
* * *
Keeping carefully out of sight, Kit followed the Countess of Cranbourne's coach for several hours, as the sun rose and broke through the morning mists.
The landscape changed from gently rolling fields to heavily wooded hills as Kit passed the village of Calehill.
Ancient beech and oak trees stood like cathedral pillars in the silent forest that stretched out on either side of the highway, massive branches arching overhead like a vaulted ceiling. The road here was covered by gray-brown layers of last autumn's leaves, and their tang reminded him of old wine corks.
Kit began assessing the tree-shadowed fringes of the highway, with an eye towards cutting across somewhere and stopping the coach.
If any of Lady Cranbourne's guards had a pistol, Kit would be wise to have the protection of a tree trunk or two. And if he could induce a nervous man to discharge his pair of pistols into a tree, Kit would have his opportunity while the guard fumbled with powder and shot to reload.
As his horse took the first step off the highway, Kit heard the distinctive call of a cuckoo. But there was something not quite right about that birdcall.
He pulled up the reins and looked sharply around. A signal. It has to be.
He pressed on, and found his suspicion confirmed when a gunshot rang out somewhere ahead, where the road disappeared around a forested bend.
The shot was followed by a woman's scream and the sounds of shouting.
Someone is trying to rob me of my prize!
Kit drew his sword and spurred his horse forward.
* * *
"Mall, don't leave the coach!"
Antonia was losing her battle to wrestle her servant back into her seat.
Not knowing what else to do, she drew back her hand and slapped her maid. The sting of the blow tingled Antonia's palm and blossomed like a poppy on Mall's parchment-pale cheek.
For a long moment, both women stared at each other in shock. Then, Antonia took Mall's shoulders, and pushed her firmly back into the leather cushions. This time, her maid did not resist.
Mall hunched over and began to weep quietly. The helpless sound tore at Antonia's heart.
"I'm sorry," Antonia said, touching Mall's arm. "I'm so sorry."
She turned back to the window.
Jemmy still lay where he had fallen, and Antonia felt nauseous as she saw a dark patch spreading over the front of the youth's new russet livery.
In that instant, she realized that her courage was a sham. She had thought the worst thing that could happen to her was an unwanted marriage. She'd been wrong, and now Mall's brother was injured. He might even be dead.
Antonia found herself encased in invisible ice, unable to act, unable to look away from Jemmy's horribly still form.
One of the masked men had grabbed the reins of the lead horse and was waving his pistol impatiently as Samuel clambered down from the coachmen's bench and knelt, as directed.
Meanwhile, another masked man approached the coach.
"Your ladyship, if ye'd do us the kindness of stepping out...?" The words were courteous enough, but it was an order.
Antonia remembered the pistol she had tucked in the hamper of food for the journey. The hamper sat at her feet, and the pistol was loaded and primed. She knew she could—she should—reach for it in the pretense of fussing with the door handle.
But she found she couldn't move, either to obey her own orders or the highwayman's. She simply stared at him, hearing only the pounding of her heart.
The horrible instant of Jemmy's shooting replayed itself endlessly as she sat, frozen, in the coach. She had known him since he was a lad of twelve.
He was supposed to be a deterrent, not a soldier! And now he was hurt, maybe even dead.
"Milady," the highwayman repeated, impatiently. "Please step out now and behave yerself. No harm will come to anyone else if ye do as ye're told." His gaze dropped to the front of her gown. "Mayhap we could even have ourselves a bit of fun."
Antonia tried to speak, but she was unable to force speech past the fear that held her paralyzed.
Her two outriders, hands in the air, appeared in the road ahead, trudging dispiritedly back towards the coach. They were being herded by a third masked man, who led their horses and held a pistol at the ready.
"What do you want?" Mall's voice was thin and hoarse.
"Her ladyship's necklace and earrings will do for a start. And any spendin' money ye may have," said the man who had shot Jemmy. He stepped forward. "Now come along, milady, and don't make me pull ye out of there."
* * *
Kit came around the bend in the road and saw the coa
ch stopped up ahead. He reined in his horse, and assessed the situation with the speed born of long experience.
There were four men, all armed.
One man had Lady Cranbourne's outriders as his prisoners. He brandished a pistol in one hand, but he was also hampered by the reins of two nervous horses, looped around his forearm.
A second man, bearded under his mask, stood holding the bridle of the front coach horses. He was armed with a sword, but no pistol.
A third man was portly and armed with both sword and pistol. He stood over a gray-haired man wearing the russet Cranbourne livery who knelt on the ground next to the coach. Another man, red-haired and in the same russet livery, lay bleeding near the front left wheel of the coach.
Standing next to the coach and gesturing impatiently with his pistol was a fourth masked man, dressed more richly than his companions.
The lookout, Kit guessed, the one who had mimicked a cuckoo. No sword.
Their attention was focused entirely on the coach. They had not yet seen him. Kit kicked his horse into a gallop and bore down on the group.
Too late, Kit remembered his own mask, tucked in his coat pocket before he left Thornsby Hall. Damn. Damn. Damn.
He wouldn't be able to shield his identity when he kidnapped the countess. That meant he would have to flee to the Continent once he delivered her and collected his reward from Julian.
Sword in hand, Kit rode down the man nearest to him.
Leaning precariously from his saddle, Kit delivered a long, slashing blow to the back of the man's legs, and felt the peculiar sticky sensation of the blade cutting through cloth, skin and muscle.
The man screamed and fell to his knees, blood spurting from the rent in his breeches.
A pistol discharged nearby. Kit's horse shied and reared. Kit, already off-balance, tumbled from the saddle.
The sword flew from his hands as he hit the ground, hard.
After a stunned instant of trying to regain his breath, he rolled frantically to one side, cursing and wheezing and scrabbling for his sword.
He wondered whether he was about to be shot in the back, leaving Margaret an orphan, and cursed again, this time in German flavored with a bit of French.
Then his fingers encountered the cold smoothness of his blade. He rolled to his feet, winded and bruised but with his sword in his right hand and his dagger in his left, just as his next opponent came running up.
Time slowed as Kit felt the familiar thrill—half fear and half exultation—of imminent mortal combat.
He automatically relaxed into the stance of the experienced swordsman, shoulders relaxed, sword and dagger in the low guard position, both pointed at his opponent's midsection. One foot was placed in front of the other, knees slightly bent, and his elbows neither too close to his side nor too far out.
His shoulder, jarred by the tumble he'd just taken, was throbbing a warning beat of pain, and Kit knew he'd have to finish the fight quickly.
His opponent was the portly man who had stood guard over the coachman. He tossed away his still-smoking pistol, drew his own sword, a rapier, and lunged energetically at Kit.
In experienced hands, the lighter and longer-bladed rapier was a more agile weapon than Kit's heavier schiavona, a modified broadsword.
Fortunately for Kit, his opponent was not an accomplished swordsman.
In the instant of the attack, Kit saw his opponent leave his guard open and expose his torso.
Instead of scrambling backwards, as the other clearly expected, Kit performed the riskier maneuver of parrying the rapier with his dagger, turning the thrusting blade aside so that it stabbed the air over Kit's left shoulder.
At the same time, Kit lunged past his opponent's right side, used his sword to deliver a deep, sliding cut diagonally from left hip to his right underarm. He completed his movement, pivoting as he finished the cut, and brought his sword to the low stance, so that he faced his opponent's back.
Kit's shoulder now felt like someone had plunged a hot poker into the joint. Cold sweat prickled his forehead and upper lip.
His opponent hesitated, looking astonished. Kit recognized that instant of shock before the pain of a wound hit, and ruthlessly thrust his sword into his opponent's side, sliding his weapon between the ribs to pierce a lung.
Then Kit raised a booted foot to kick the mortally injured man away from him. The man gave a long cry, almost a groan as he fell forward.
He did not rise. He coughed a spray of bloody foam, convulsed, then went limp. A trickle of dark blood flowed out onto the wet brown leaves that covered the road.
Kit knew he gotten lucky. Despite the painful daily practices since his injury, his shoulder had regained only part of its former strength and mobility.
A woman's shout brought Kit whirling around in time to see the highwayman who'd been guarding the horses raise his pistol. It discharged with an explosion loud enough to make the coach horses rear and stomp uneasily in their harnesses.
The ball whistled past, missing Kit, who ducked reflexively, his ears ringing from the blast.
Then Kit leaped forward, sword and dagger at the ready. The man held his ground for a moment, then turned and fled into the woods. He was followed by the highwayman who guarded the countess's outriders.
Kit lowered his weapons and stood panting, drawing in great draughts of the cold air.
For an instant, he felt very heroic. Then he remembered why he had risked his life.
Now was his opportunity.
He turned toward the coach, his shoulder aching fiercely, his mind already leaping ahead to the logistics of transporting the countess back to Thornsby Hall.
* * *
Antonia's relief at the unexpected rescue quickly changed to horror as she saw the golden-haired stranger maim one highwayman and kill another in the time it took to blink twice.
Now he was approaching entirely too close for comfort, breathing heavily from the exertion, his blood-sheened sword dangling from one hand. He looked like a fierce bird of prey. Dangerous.
The strange paralysis that had gripped her finally snapped.
As the newcomer approached the coach, Antonia bent and fumbled in the hamper for her pistol.
Her heartbeat resonated in her ears like the pounding of a drum.
She heard Mall inhale sharply. "Milady!"
The pistol seemed as heavy as a bar of lead as Antonia raised it in her trembling hands, cocked it, and braced it against the window sill of the coach.
"Halt! Don't come any closer," she ordered, wishing her voice sounded stronger.
Chapter Five
It is a bad plan that admits of no modification.
—Publius Syrus (42 B.C.)
Jolted from his reverie by the countess's command, Kit saw the long, wavering muzzle of a pistol aimed at him from the coach window.
In the same instant, he saw the determined set of the lovely mouth beneath the bottom edge of a black half-mask. He stopped, and spread his arms in what he hoped was a harmless-looking gesture, his sword dangling from his fingertips.
"Don’t shoot, Lady Cranbourne," he said, as calmly as he could. "I was but attempting to aid you."
The pistol's small, dark eye stopped wavering and fixed on Kit.
"And how do you know who I am?" the countess asked, coldly.
Kit thought fast. "By the crest on your coach, my lady."
To his relief, Lady Cranbourne laughed and lowered the pistol. "Indeed. My apologies, sir. To whom do I owe my thanks?"
Carefully calculating the distance between himself and the coach, Kit took another step forward before removing his hat and bowing in the full French style.
"Christopher Fitzgeorge, your humble servant, my lady."
Immobilizing the countess was going to be difficult with her pistol so close at hand. He hoped he was being sufficiently charming to be allowed to kiss her hand.
Then he'd reach in, grab the pistol, and away they'd ride.
He was rather looking forward to in
flicting this cool-headed virago on Julian—his half-brother would be sorely outmatched.
"Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Fitzgeorge. It was a courageous act." Lady Cranbourne's voice was low, smooth and sweet as fresh cream.
Her hands were the hands of a young woman, the skin taut and well cared-for despite several deep pockmarks, her nails clean and unbroken. Her features were hidden behind her mask, but her hair was the rich color of a ripe hazelnut.
"The pleasure was mine, my lady." Kit bowed.
The breeze shifted, and he caught the scent of her perfume, floral with a rich undertone of oranges. He took a step closer.
"Stay where you are, sir. Or I'll shoot," said a weak voice.
The red-haired youth was not dead, after all. Despite the blood soaking his coat, he had struggled to a sitting position. He also had a pistol braced on his knee.
Kit silently cursed his foul luck.
His window of opportunity was rapidly passing—the outriders were still chasing their skittish horses, so it would be another few minutes before they could get to the weapons on their saddles, and the coachman was unarmed. Kit had managed to advance to less than four feet from the countess.
Why, oh why, couldn't the boy stay unconscious for just a minute longer?
The young servant was gray-faced with shock and pain under his freckles and copper hair. As Kit watched, he swayed a little, and had to lower his pistol to brace one hand against the earth.
It would be easy enough to kick away the boy's supporting hand, and the pistol, too. But Kit found himself hesitating.
At that moment, the coach door flew open, and the countess's companion rushed out.
"Jemmy!" she exclaimed. Her hair was the same shade of red as the wounded young man's. "Oh, Jemmy, you're hurt!"
"It's...just a scratch." Jemmy grimaced, belying his words. If he was eighteen yet, then Kit was a Turk. "Oi! Mall, don't!"
His protestations proved useless as the girl—Mall—briskly forced him to lie down with his head in her lap while she opened his coat and revealed the blood-stained shirt underneath.
"Oh—" she said in dismay, her movement arrested. "Oh, no."
Cursing his soft heart, Kit knelt by Jemmy's side.