by Carla Kelly
Alice snorted. “You've never had a pair of silk stockings in your life!” she exclaimed.
“No,” Onyx admitted, “not unless Amethyst decided she didn't care for the color of hers.” She smiled to herself. “Remember when everything she wore had to be periwinkle blue? And how she pouted and stormed until Sir Matthew gave her a curricle of matching color?”
“I remember,” said Alice grimly, looking about her for villains and cutthroats. “And here we sit on a cast-off carriage, at the mercy of whatever brigands choose to wander by. It's not a fair world, miss.”
“No, it's not,” said Onyx. “But the sun is warm today, and I don't mind.”
She didn't. Every hour idled on the road was one hour farther from Sir Matthew and one hour stolen from Lady Bagshott. Onyx had learned early in childhood to count her pleasures in small thimbles instead of bushel baskets.
She knew so little of Lady Bagshott, a woman of middling age and height who appeared at Sir Matthew's only for special events. Or at times of great sadness. Onyx closed her eyes and thought of Gerald.
The shadows of afternoon were lengthening across the road when Onyx heard the sound of horses approaching. She looked up from the needlework in her hands. John must have found help and was returning at last. She put her embroidery hoop back in her reticule and glanced up again as Alice sucked in her breath.
Four men rode toward them, all of them with pistols ready. The scissors fell out of Onyx's hand. She got down off the trunk and watched them as they rode closer and dismounted.
She heard a small sound beside her as Alice slid off the trunk in a swoon and lay in a heap at her feet. One of the men laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. Onyx wanted to kneel down and straighten Alice's dress, but her legs already felt like jelly. She stood where she was, leaning against the trunk, and watched the men.
Two of them were clad in ragged uniforms patched with bits and pieces of other uniforms. One of the other men, the leader obviously, was swathed in a black cloak that was almost green with age. His boots were patched, and his hat was as small as John Coachman's was large.
Interest almost overcame the sick feeling in Onyx's stomach. Highway robbery obviously wasn't a paying concern in this part of England. And they want to rob me? she thought. Oh, dear.
She stood absolutely still, frozen into marble, as the men came closer. They came toward her without any fear or stealth. They had probably been watching her for some time and knew that there was no one around to help.
When he was only a few paces from her, so close that she smelled his unwashed body, the leader stopped and pulled back his tattered cape with a flourish. Onyx watched him, fascinated. He pointed his pistol at her and pulled back on the hammer.
“Stand and deliver, miss,” he growled.
“Oh, my,” said Onyx Hamilton. “This is indeed an awkward situation.”
HE HIGHWAYMAN BLINKED AND LOWERED his pistol. “What did you say?”
Onyx would have backed away, but she was up tight against the trunk, and there was poor Alice, even now moaning and shaking her head. Onyx knelt by her servant, and the man shuffled backward a few steps.
“You certainly frightened my companion, sir,” she said as she brushed the hair from Alice's eyes. Alice opened one eye and then the other, moaned, and closed them both again.
The highwayman remembered himself and raised the pistol. “I want all your valuables, miss, and no putting me off.”
Onyx rose to her feet. “I would never do a thing like that, sir,” she replied. Her heart felt as if it were fluttering in her throat. “It's just that I have nothing of any worth.”
He pushed the pistol against her shoulder and moved her forcibly away from the trunk. Onyx grabbed Alice under the arm and pulled her away, propping her up against the carriage wheel. A glimmer of light in the road caught her eye. With a smooth gesture, Onyx picked up the embroidery scissors she had dropped and pocketed them. It wasn't much defense against four brigands, but she felt better.
Standing in front of Alice, Onyx watched as the men surrounded her trunk and broke it open, spilling the contents on the road. Her nightgowns and petticoats tumbled out in a froth of lace. The muslin dresses she had sewn and mended over and over with such care were picked up and tossed aside.
Her gold necklace with one pearl, a christening gift from Papa, went in one soldier's voluminous pocket. She wanted to protest, but the other soldier was watching her closely, and she did not like the look in his eyes. I will hold very still, she told herself.
Her only other pieces of jewelry were a garnet necklace and matching bracelet, and both disappeared as fast as the pearl. As the highwayman stood close by, the remaining brigand tossed out the rest of her dresses. When he came to the brown-wrapped package of silk that was to be her wedding dress, he gave a shout and tossed out the whole bolt like a party streamer. The delicate fabric shivered in the breeze and caught and tore on the bushes by the roadside.
Onyx brushed aside angry tears. She knew there would not be another such piece of cloth from Sir Matthew. She knew, from years of living on the fringes of his household, that she would never be given such a present again, and that she would be berated and hounded and nagged about the loss of the silk until she was completely dragged down by the weight of his displeasure. The thought of being forced to throw herself on the charity of Sir Matthew or her future husband to replace that silk made her tears flow faster.
The soldier-brigand who stood holding the horses looked at her. “I'm sorry, miss, real sorry about that silk,” he murmured in a low voice.
Onyx glanced at him in surprise. She could never explain to anyone that it wasn't the silk, but the humiliation that made her cry. She looked away. This was one of the men trying to rob her. How dare he?
The leader had reached the contents of the trunk that belonged to Gerald. With an oath, he threw out the books and the letters that Gerald had written her from Spain and which she had carefully saved. The letters scattered across the highway and into the woods, far beyond her reach ever again.
“No, please!” she said, starting forward. The other soldier, the one who had been watching her so intently, grabbed her by the arm. She tried to shake him off, but he gripped her so tight that she cried out.
And then the leader was holding Gerald's good dress uniform, the one that his regiment had shipped home to her. He fingered the fine fabric and touched the row of buttons.
“A Light Bob, eh?” the man asked.
She nodded, the tears streaming down her face now. “Please,” she begged, “it's all I have left. Don't take it!”
The leader only gave her a look of great disinterest and ripped off the gold epaulets. Onyx shrieked and struggled to free herself.
The buttons were next, little gold pellets that scattered to the road as the highwayman slid his knife down the double row.
Quicker than her captor could see, Onyx pulled out her embroidery scissors and stuck the scissors in his arm. With a scream of his own, he let go of her and dropped to his knees as Onyx ran toward the leader, who was busily engaged in tearing off the fancy gold-work on the sleeves of the mutilated uniform. Crying and yelling, she pummeled him with her fists.
The horses reared up and distracted her for a moment as she realized the other soldier had loosed the reins and was running toward her. He grabbed her and shook her until her hair came loose from its pins. Still she fought him, trying to bite and scratch, as the leader imperturbably continued his destruction of Gerald's uniform.
The soldier pulled her away from the leader and pinned her arms to her sides. “Don't, miss, he's a bad one,” the man said.
“But you don't understand,” she gasped, trying to shake loose. “That's all I have!”
When Gerald's uniform was in tatters in his hands, the leader tossed it away and sauntered toward Onyx. He grabbed her around the waist. As she struggled, he grabbed her chin and forced her to look him full in the face.
“Is that all you have for us, mi
ss?” he asked, his voice softer and more frightening at the same time.
She nodded, pinned into submission.
The highwayman rested his free hand on her hip. “I'm sure my mates and I could find something else.” He looked over his shoulder at his other men. “But I'm first.”
There was no mistaking his meaning. With a smile he let go of her and began to unbutton his pants.
Onyx sucked in her breath and took a step backward until she was up close against the highwayman who held her. She thought he was trembling as much as she was, but she couldn't be sure.
She looked around in dismay as the man she had stabbed came closer too, like a wolf circling a wounded deer. He raised his hand to slap her, but as she waited, flinching, the blow never came. He made a queer sound in his throat, even as he still stood with his arm raised. Onyx looked up and watched in horror as a dot of red bloomed on his forehead and his eyes went strangely blank. He fell face forward at her feet.
She shook herself free and looked beyond the man into the woods, where she could barely make out the shape of another man on horseback. She spotted him only by the puff of smoke that lingered in the air, which was still filled with the swirling letters Gerald had written to her.
She couldn't tell what he was doing, but his hands were moving swiftly; he was reloading his pistol. When he guided the horse onto the road, the man was ready to fire again.
“Stand back,” he called to her, and she darted toward the coach and Alice.
He was dressed as the other highwaymen, in a tatter of several uniforms. There was nothing about this person that would have distinguished him from those who were already robbing her and threatening her virtue, except that he seemed to be on her side. She did as he said, crouching down and making herself a smaller target.
The leader pulled up his pants with one hand and picked up his own pistol. Without a word, he fired at Onyx's savior.
The man stayed in the saddle, but Onyx knew he had been hit by the ball. His sleeve ruffled above his elbow and she watched little spatters of blood rise in a sudden rush. The man grabbed at the horse's mane and looked at Onyx. Carefully he transferred his gun to the other hand and tossed it to her.
“Shoot him,” he commanded, even as he fell from his horse.
They all watched the pistol rise and fall in a lazy arc.
Alice tugged at her dress, trying to stop her, but Onyx ran into the road and caught the pistol.
“Pull back the hammer,” said the man from the ground where he lay.
She did as he said, turning on the leader, who was running across the road to her. The man stopped and watched her, a smile spreading on his face. He held his own pistol by the barrel now, ready to swing it at her.
“You wouldn't,” he said. His voice was silky soft and the most irritating sound to Onyx.
“I would,” she replied, amazed at the coolness of her own voice. “Don't take another step.” Onyx raised the gun with both hands and pointed it at his midsection.
He smiled at her. It was the same condescending smile that she had tolerated for so many years from Sir Matthew Daggett. He took another step. She fired.
Her aim wobbled, but she did not miss entirely. The leader fell to his knees and grasped his side with both hands, calling out to his cohorts to aid him. Neither man moved.
Onyx turned to the man on the ground. “I don't know how to load it,” she said.
“Bring it here,” he said.
She knelt by him and handed him the gun. With an effort, he turned onto his back and reloaded the weapon as the blood ran down his arm and spread in a dark pool alongside his body. The other men in the clearing had not moved, but as he handed her back the weapon, one of the robbers ran to the leader, who was swearing and moaning. He helped the highwayman to his feet.
Onyx stood away from her injured savior and in the road alone. She pointed the weapon at the highwayman's head. “I won't miss this time,” she said, her voice as steady as the bloody weapon in her hand. “Not from this close.” She lowered the pistol until it was aimed directly below his belt. She heard the wounded man behind her chuckle. “Do it,” he said.
The highwayman lurched toward her and she pulled back the hammer. He shook his head and muttered something to one of his fellow brigands. The two of them turned and stumbled toward the woods, where their horses had bolted when the firing began.
Onyx continued to follow the leader with the pistol, walking within a few paces of them as they melted into the forest. She heard the leader groan as his henchmen threw him onto the horse. She waited until they were gone and then turned her attention to the one remaining brigand who had not fled the clearing.
He put his hands up high over his head. “No, miss, no,” he said.
“I wish you would leave,” she said. Her voice was not as steady now, and the pistol began to shake in her grasp.
“Come toward me, lady,” said the wounded man on the ground who had come to her rescue.
She did as he said, backing up, not taking her eyes off the bandit, who would not leave. She knelt by the man, crouching close to him, so close that she could feel his warmth. His blood was soaking into her dress, but she felt strangely safe beside him.
“J-just stay close,” he said. “We'll see what his game is.”
The soldier-bandit made no move toward them. He lowered his hands and in a moment he was crying.
“I meant no harm!” he sobbed. “Truly I did not! There was nothing else for me to do!” He cried until Onyx thought her heart would break.
“Poor man,” she said softly.
“Poor man, my happy backside,” snapped the man beside her. “B-beg your p-pardon, lady. Too many years with the Forty-fifth.”
The crying soldier looked up. He wiped his eyes and rose to his feet. Onyx pointed the pistol at him again, but he seemed oblivious of the threat.
“Did you say, the Forty-fifth?” asked the brigand, coming closer.
The wounded man rose up halfway on his good elbow and looked at the soldier. “Yes, the Forty-fifth, the b-best regiment in the whole … the whole army,” he amended, with a glance at Onyx. “So you had b-better get out of here,” he concluded, dropping back to the ground again.
“Major Beresford!” gasped the brigand.
“Well, bless me,” said the major weakly. “Lady, let me put my head on your lap,”
She cradled his head in her lap, and he took the gun from her. She put her arms on his shoulders in a protective gesture, which was not lost on him. He tilted his head back and smiled up at her. “We … we'll be all right,” he said.
The brigand stood up slowly, his eyes on Beresford's pistol. He brought his heels together smartly and saluted. “Private Kit Petrie,” he said, “late of His Majesty's Forty-fifth Foot.” He held the salute for a moment and then came closer, dropping to his knees in front of the other man. “I'm sorry, sir. I've been looking for a job for six months, and I was hungry.” He watched for some reaction. “Don't you remember me, sir?”
Beresford lowered the hammer on the pistol and laid it across his lap. He closed his eyes for a moment. “I remember you, Petrie,” he murmured. His voice sounded drowsy now, his words slurred. “You … you'll have to help us, Private.”
Petrie saluted again. “That I will, sir!”
“He's fainted, Private,” said Onyx quietly. “Can you quit saluting please and help me stop the bleeding?”
The ex-infantryman sprang to her side. “Help me get him out of this, coat,” he said. The two of them tugged at the garment. “I'm glad he fainted,” whispered Onyx. “Else how could he bear this?”
When the coat was off, she folded it and placed it under the major's head, which still rested in her lap. “We need some cloth.” She looked up at the silk, torn and fluttering from the bushes. “We have plenty of that.”
Without a word, the private ran to the bolt of silk. He ripped off a large chunk. Onyx cringed at the sound, and sniffed back her tears again. Poor, dear man, she thought
, immediately ashamed of herself. This Major Beresford probably saved my life—my honor, certainly—and I'm caviling about material. Goodness, how petty I have become. I sound like Amethyst.
The private was aided by Alice Banner, who had come to her senses and seen what needed to be done. They worked quickly and gathered a large handful of the beautiful material. Onyx leaned across the major and slowly ripped the torn sleeve, trying not to jostle him. She exposed the wound, which continued to bleed copiously. The smell of blood made her light-headed, but she turned her head, took a deep breath, and stayed where she was.
Private Petrie was at her side then. He folded a hunk of the silk into a thick, neat square and handed it to her. “Put it right on the bullet hole and clamp down. I'll wrap it tight after you do that.”
She bit her lip and did as he said, leaning forward with the heel of her hand on the wound, pressing down until the bleeding slowed and then stopped.
“Members of the Forty-fifth are the best clotters in the army,” said the private. He had a dreamy expression on his face, remembering other battles, obviously.
He was jerked back to the present by Alice Banner, who slapped him on the shoulder. “Watch your gutter language around Miss Hamilton,” she snapped.
Petrie only blinked at her. Alice put her hands on her hips and looked at Onyx in exasperation. “He hasn't the slightest notion of his impropriety!” she exclaimed as her bonnet slid, pirate-like, over her eye again.
“It scarcely matters, Alice dear,” Onyx replied. She pressed down on the wound again and then took away her hands as the private deftly wound a strip of silk around the major's arm. “You've done this before, haven't you, Private?” she asked.
“Oh, many times, ma'am,” he said proudly, pleased that someone admired his handiwork. “Fixed up the major's thigh once before. That bullet nearly took off his …” He paused, reddened, and then glanced at Alice, who was already looking grim about the lips. “I've … I've doctored him before. He's a rapid healer.”