Heat rose into Lucy's cheeks. She stalked toward Emile. He would see what happened to a man who abused her good nature. Aloud, she shouted, "Do stop playing in the mud. Or is that how your sort bathe?"
Faced away from her, Emile's back stiffened.
Lucy was pleased to see she'd managed to hurt him until she saw his hands rise. Her boots came to a halt as she frowned in puzzlement. It was a gesture of submission he made, with his wrists above his shoulders.
The next moment Lucy saw the reason for his gesture. Two men stepped from the cover of the trees, a ragged, dirty pair. One of them was tiny, the other huge. Both had a hungry, half-crazy look in their eyes. Fully cocked longbows were in their hands.
Lucy was foolish enough to feel a skitter of panic. Then she heard a swift rustle behind her and an answering rustle up ahead. In an instant, an army of weapons was trained upon the ruffianly pair. Lucy's people had been taught to protect their master's merchandise.
But, incredibly, the bandits did not retreat. The larger of the two made a comment in what sounded like gibberish but was possibly a foreign language, since the smaller of the two giggled in response. Neither of them seemed to realize that against pistols, muskets, arrows, and spears they were grossly overpowered.
Both moved the target of their weapons from Emile, clumsily rising to his feet, over to the wagon. The longbows were pointed now at Gawain, who held the reins of the team.
"Give over the strongbox," said the smaller of the two. His voice was high, almost comical. "We saw you load the thing in Bonham, full and heavy it was."
Chuckling, the larger one spoke in more gibberish.
Between the two of them, Lucy could not decide who was more mad. Given the situation, nobody was about to hand over any strongbox.
Gawain, with a scoffing snort, appeared to agree. "Just say the word," he offered Lucy.
But it wasn't quite that simple. While Lucy could indeed unleash an arsenal of ammunition at the foolhardy bandits, there was a chance the ruffians might loose their weapons first. Gawain might be hit. Of course, there was a greater chance the bandits would be hit first...
"Give it over," the smaller of the two squeaked, as if he were not in mortal danger. "Submit like good Christians, do."
Lucy opened her mouth, about to do nothing close to submitting, when a familiar voice decided to enter the fray.
"Yes," spoke Emile. "Give them the box." With his hands still above his shoulders, he laughed brokenly.
Lucy turned to stare at her husband. Who had asked for his opinion?
Emile met her glare with a foolish smile. "I think it is a wise idea."
The larger bandit chuckled. "Listen to the man."
Lucy narrowed her eyes. She opened her mouth, but once again Emile interrupted her.
"Nay," he said. "I'll get it for you."
"What—?"
But Lucy didn't have a chance to say anything after that for Emile, whirling, had knocked right into her.
She stumbled, but he did not stop to assist her. The next instant he was on top of the wagon.
"Hey!" Gawain protested.
"What are you doing?" Lucy cried, trying to get back her breath. But she already knew what Emile was doing. He'd declared as much himself. He was getting the strongbox for the bandits.
With the advantage of speed and surprise, Emile knocked Gawain off the wagon seat.
The tall man went flailing backward.
Emile had the audacity to shoot Lucy a cocky grin before bending to pull Lucy's strongbox from beneath the front seat of the wagon.
On his back, Gawain struggled to get up. "He's helping them rob you!" he croaked and then grunted as Emile shoved him back down with the toe of his boot.
"Stay there," Emile warned, suddenly showing steel in his hand.
Recognizing a dagger, Gawain fell back. Everyone in Lucy's caravan had seen what Emile could do with a knife.
Emile displayed the dagger to all. "I mean to see these gentlemen get what they want."
Silence fell over the scene. It was a standoff. Lucy's servants could loose their weapons—but at whom? They could not shoot the mistress's husband. And if they shot at the two bandits, the crazy thieves would surely kill before being killed. Meanwhile, Emile was fast enough with a dagger to be a danger to any who came near him.
Triumphant, he smiled again. With a twist of the wrist, he put the blade of the knife between his fingers. Using a motion like a woodcutter, he brought the hilt against the padlock of the strongbox. A harsh, clanging sound rang into the air.
The pair of bandits giggled.
"Oh, say the word, mistress," Gawain pleaded, with a murderous glare toward Lucy's husband. Gawain clearly didn't mind setting Emile at risk.
Gripping her hands into fists, Lucy watched Emile bring the hilt of his dagger to the padlock again. Another clang rang into the air.
Emile was helping the two miserable bandits rob her. He saw this as an opportunity to render her helpless, and he was availing himself of it.
She didn't have to let him succeed. But if she gave the word, someone—probably Emile—would get killed.
While she dithered, Emile used his back, shoulder, arm—all the power he could glean from his body—to bring the hilt of his dagger against the padlock once more. This time Lucy heard a cracking sound. The padlock had broken.
On the wagon, Emile looked down at the broken hasp with evident satisfaction.
Lucy's heart wallowed sickly in her stomach. She should give the order now. But as Emile rose to his feet and took a slow step back from the strongbox, Lucy could only clasp one hand over the other fist. She couldn't say the word, not if he might be hit.
"There!" Emile addressed the two bandits. "It's all yours."
Smiling, the bandits did not make an immediate move. It was almost as if they were daring Lucy, challenging her to risk Emile's safety.
She could only clench her teeth together, hating both Emile and herself.
Then the smaller of the bandits lowered his longbow. He pursed his lips and made a soft, cooing sound.
On the wagon, Emile ducked.
Then all hell broke loose.
Men poured in from the forest on every side. They dropped down from the trees overhead. Shouting and yelling, they streamed around the horses and standing figures of Lucy's astounded people. All of them raced toward the wagon.
Lucy turned. Bandits were everywhere. She saw bows and arrows, pistols, pikes, daggers stuffed in belts, knives worn like feathers in rakish hats. Like a flock of locusts, an army of highwaymen swarmed about the wagon.
The little bandit was now on top of the wagon, in Emile's old position over the strongbox. Whooping and cheering, he used his hat to scoop coins from the strongbox. With more crowing, these were distributed among the crowd.
There was a cacophony of voices: yelling, cheering, and squabbling. In a matter of minutes, Lucy's strongbox was empty. She knew this was so because as quickly as the swarm had arrived, it departed. Yipping and laughing, the brigands streamed out from among the frozen members of Lucy's caravan. In moments they disappeared back into the forest. All that was left of them was the echo of their laughter.
Slowly, Emile rose from his crouched position beside Gawain on the wagon bed. His expression now was as sober as a gravedigger. He'd known. He'd known all along the true situation, that they'd been surrounded.
Lucy was trembling. As much as she wanted to appear strong and competent at a moment like this, she was shaking like a leaf. Worse, though, than the reaction to the danger was the realization that came with it, one that took her breath away.
Emile had not been trying to ruin her. He'd put himself in the path of the brigands' longbows in order to make sure the rogue army had no reason to attack. He'd done this in order to save Lucy, in order to save her people.
Her eyes locked with Emile's. She could not stop shaking.
He was a hero.
And she, such an honest, worthy person—she had nearly kill
ed them all.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
All right, so he had lost yet another golden opportunity to escape, but was he supposed to watch blood shed—anybody's blood? Emile hated the sight of blood. He didn't care much for the sight of fear, either, which was why he'd spent the past two hours juggling, singing, and performing magic tricks. Finally, he was beginning to see progress. A smile from a maid here, a chortle from a footman there. As night began to descend upon the camp in the forest, Lucy's people were slowly beginning to lose their fright.
Lucy's people, but not Lucy herself. She sat in a billow of skirt, staring blankly at the ground.
"There!" Emile caught the fifth spoon in his left hand.
Smiles appeared among his audience. A few applauded.
Emile bowed. "And that is all for tonight," he told them. "It is time to go to bed."
Not a word of protest met this order. The servants seated tightly together around the campfire looked relieved, in fact, and eager to embrace the solace of sleep.
"Master?" a voice called.
Emile dropped a spoon. He bent to pick it up.
"Master?" the voice behind Emile asked again. "What shall we do with the leftover stew?"
Emile turned.
A servant stood there, holding a pot of meat and vegetables. He was looking straight at Emile.
Releasing a laughing breath, Emile took a step back. He was nobody's 'master.' Tossing a spoon in one hand, he peered about for Gawain. But of course the lanky steward was nowhere to be seen when one actually wanted him. Probably off mumbling over his bible somewhere, thanking God for his deliverance.
Emile looked back at the servant. He lifted a shoulder. "Throw it out?"
"Throw it out." The servant sounded doubtful.
Then don't throw it out! What made you ask me in the first place? Frustrated, Emile whirled. But Lucy only sat there, perfectly still among the departing servants. Still and silent.
In fact, since the horde of bandits had cleared out her strongbox, not a word had passed Lucy's lips. Silent, she had kept her eyes to the ground as the train had slowly proceeded on. When Emile had decided they should stop for the night, Lucy hadn't said a word, yea or nay, only slid from her horse.
Her complaisance was disturbing. She'd just been robbed; the woman should be fuming. Instead, she looked...beaten.
"I will throw it out at once, master," the servant in front of Emile declared. Before Emile could recall the stupid order, the servant turned and strode off, prepared to waste a pot of valuable food.
Emile slapped his five spoons against his hand. Fine, then. Let the food go to waste. It would serve his wife right if he tumbled the whole place about her head. She was the real master; she was the one supposed to be making these decisions. With a harsh clack, he slapped the fistful of spoons together again.
The sharp noise appeared to penetrate Lucy's consciousness, or perhaps it was the movement of servants traipsing to their tents that roused her. Finally, she moved. She stirred like a child just waking up. And like a child, her gaze went frightened, darting about, looking for some point of familiarity.
She appeared to find such a point—in Emile. "Wh what is going on?" Her voice was small.
Emile had to grip the bowl end of the spoons to keep from slapping them again. "Everyone is going to bed."
She blinked several times. "Are you?"
"Am I—?"
"Going to bed?"
His mouth opened. His cheeks actually turned red. Fortunately, he didn't have to think of a suitable reply.
With a good deal of her habitual command, Lucy gathered her skirts and rose to her feet. "I will walk with you," she declared.
"You will?" Since the robbery she'd been acting like the living dead. Now of a sudden she was wearing that familiar expression of single-minded determination. Emile wondered uneasily what, exactly, she intended to do on this walk with him.
Abruptly, she came to a stop and sucked in her lips. "That is," she asked, back to the child voice again, "if—if it is all right with you?"
Emile instantly felt like a worm. She didn't intend anything terrible. She was still frightened, that was all, and wanted company.
Rolling his shoulders, he decided he wasn't so much of a worm he couldn't walk her a few feet to her tent. "Come on," he grunted and jerked his head in that direction.
The look of relief on her face shamed him further. She was frightened.
Feeling awkward, Emile wondered if he ought to offer his arm, but she picked up her skirts so he didn't have to worry about it. With a sigh of relief, he stuck his thumbs in his belt.
"The servants must have been anxious to get to sleep." Lucy looked around as they threaded their way between the tents.
"Hm?" Emile picked up his chin to look around, too. The encampment appeared suddenly deserted. Not a soul remained outside. "Oh, well. Everyone was tired. A lot of excitement during the day, you know."
"Yes," Lucy said softly. "I know."
Her tone sent a skitter of warning through Emile. Fortunately, they'd reached the tent with the blue border around the opening: Lucy's tent.
Emile stopped. Whatever danger he sensed in the atmosphere would depart with Lucy into her tent. All he had to do was politely wave her in.
Lucy halted outside her tent. She didn't go in.
Emile found himself staring at the part in her hair as she frowned downward.
"This is hard," she said.
No, it wasn't, Emile thought. All he had to do was wave and she could bend into her tent, safe and accounted for. If she would only look up, then he could do the waving—
"I was wrong about you," Lucy whispered.
"What?" Emile was shocked enough to say the exact wrong thing.
"I was wrong about you." The part in Lucy's hair waved back and forth as she shook her head. "All the terrible things I have thought about you, all the insults I have called you...all wrong."
Fear was like sudden ice in Emile's veins. What stupidity was she mouthing now?
"The servants," Lucy went on, staring at Emile's toes. "They are my people. Their lives are in my care. And today—" She stopped to clear her throat. "Today I nearly got them all killed."
Her eyes must have been nailing Emile's feet to the ground because he wanted to lift his feet. He wanted to run away, and yet he stood there, immobilized.
But it couldn't have been Lucy's eyes that nailed his feet, for she raised them then, wide and solemn.
Still he couldn't budge.
"You saved us, Emile," she declared. "Today you saved us all— You were a hero."
A hero. He had to work to draw air into his lungs. "You think—" He coughed, and then a smile, wide and nervous, split his face. He couldn't believe the pure ridiculousness of her statement. "Lucy," he chided. "Have you wondered how I knew we were surrounded?"
Her return gaze was blank. Clearly, no such thought had entered her head.
Emile let out a gushing breath. "I understood what they were saying to each other."
She merely looked more puzzled than ever.
"The cant," Emile explained, getting frazzled. "The pedlar's French. What sounded like gibberish."
Finally, comprehension dawned across her features. "Oh, so it was a language?"
"Yes." More frazzled than ever, Emile was careful to spell it out for her. "The language of rogues. I understand it."
"Ah." Even in the dark, he could see her face beam. "You understood what they were saying. That would explain how you knew what was about to happen, that a whole band of ruffians lay in ambush."
Emile nearly growled. She wasn't getting it, the main point. He knew the cant; he was a criminal. He had, in fact, been raised among the foulest of them all, had run with them, had enjoyed their larcenous gain. If not for Crockett, he would have died with them, too. He would never have learned another way to earn his bread.
"This is fascinating," Lucy said.
Fascinating?
She took a step closer. "Tell
me, then. What, exactly, did they say?"
He stared at her. She simply would not understand. Crockett hadn't changed him all that much. He was still a rogue at heart. He had, in fact, dreamed of doing exactly what the robbers had accomplished. "They said," Emile decided to tell her, "they wondered how the skinny man on the wagon would look with an arrowhead for a necklace."
Her face blanched. The expression of adoration vanished—for about a half a second.
"Oh, Emile." She fumbled for his hand. "Oh, Emile. Gawain would have been first! Oh, my God."
She squeezed his hand.
He was forced to squeeze back, if only to keep his fingers from getting crushed.
Meanwhile, she looked up at him, her eyes frightened and seeking.
Something wrenched in Emile's chest. She sought comfort, security, a light in the darkness of human existence. He knew, with terrifying clarity, exactly how she felt.
Panicked, he tugged his hand from her grasp.
She stumbled, and he had to fight not to reach out to steady her.
"They're gone now, Lucy." Emile could hear his voice come out harsh. "It's—it's nonsensical to be frightened any more. Illogical. You know that."
She rubbed the back of her hand against her mouth. "Yes," she confessed faintly. "You are right. I need not be frightened. It is illogical."
He was illogical—no, a brute—to make her feel weak for her perfectly reasonable fear. But neither could he give her the comfort and security she sought. Absolutely not. He was leaving her.
To Emile's immense relief, Lucy pulled herself up. "I will not be frightened any more."
With an approving smile, Emile reached over and lifted the flap to her tent. It was high time the woman went to bed.
"Thank you." Lucy smiled at him shyly. "Thank you—for everything."
Somehow Emile managed to maintain his position, holding open her tent flap. Thank you?
At last, with a downward flick of her eyes, Lucy stepped through.
Emile let the flap fall closed. Hurriedly, he turned. With brisk purpose, he strode away from her tent.
A hero, she called him. Emile's mouth curved grimly. At the edge of the camp, he came to a stop. He looked into the darkness of the forest and tried to even his breathing. He reminded himself he didn't like the woman. She was a demon witch.
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