D2D_Poison or Protect

by Gail Carriger

  Now that Preshea knew his name, she’d a difficult time not using it. It suited him and she liked it. It was softer than Ruthven, which sounded as it if might belong to a sinister vampire in one of Radcliffe’s Gothic tales.

  Miss Pagril shook her head. “We are not attached at the hip, Captain. Although it may sometimes seem thus. She doesn’t ride. Whereas I, particularly at my uncle’s estate, find riding a great comfort.”

  Gavin nodded sympathetically. Preshea suppressed an odd affection for the nape of his neck, exposed with his head bent listening to the girl.

  I’m going mad.

  Preshea did not keep a horse and was no great rider, but she’d learned the basics. She asked the groomsman if he might bring her something staid from Snodgrove’s stable. A docile bay gelding was led out. He was enormous but (the man assured her) sweet as a lamb.

  Mr Jackson proved to be even more useless on horseback than she, but not so inclined to admit it. Rather spitefully, Preshea thought, the duke ordered up one of his son’s mounts. His middle son, mind you, the one in the cavalry. The horse was a high-spirited chestnut stallion with a fine sleek neck and fire in his eyes. Mr Jackson seemed more struck by the fineness than the fire.

  “Jack, my lad, you dinna want somewhat calmer?”

  “I can handle him, Ruthven! He is a first-rate bit of flesh, isn’t he?”

  “Aye.” Gavin did not roll his eyes. Preshea thought that quite noble of him.

  The captain’s mount was a huge, rangy gelding, ugly as sin and common as muck. But Preshea was not so ignorant she couldn’t see that the beast had the bone structure of a god and the affectionate temper of a lapdog. That horse would trot for days, never stumble, and put on speed without whip simply for the joy of it. Gavin must win many wagers against foolish gentlemen who could not see past the shaggy exterior to the smooth gait and perked ears of a goer. She lowered her eyes to hide the glow of approval. How like Gavin to choose a horse for temperament and ability rather than appearance. The stable lads patted the beast with real pleasure. She noticed Gavin tipped them generously for their affection as well as their care.

  Preshea allowed two groomsmen to assist her into the saddle. She’d no pride over skills she’d taken no pains to perfect. Frankly, those skills she’d perfected must be kept secret, so she rarely got to glory in them. Yet there was Mr Jackson, lousy with self-satisfaction, trying to master a horse beyond his capacities.

  Said horse reared. Mr Jackson’s normally cheerful face was grim with determination.

  Lady Violet, mounted on a pretty dun mare, observed her lover’s antics with ill-disguised horror. “Oh, Mr Jackson, really! Formerly Connie’s mare could use the exercise – why don’t you ride her?”

  “Listen to the lass, Jack.” Gavin swung himself up with ease.

  Mr Jackson ignored them both.

  How foolish men are! To insist on being experts when they have no truth to draw upon, and risk their necks besides. Perhaps that is why Gavin is drawn to me – I’m like his horse, only ugly on the inside.

  To lighten the mood, and because she was kind, Miss Pagril took pains to draw Lady Violet’s and Gavin’s attention away from the spectacle of Mr Jackson. The unfortunate chap was now making an ass of himself trying to mount unaided. The chestnut kept sidling.

  Miss Pagril said, “Captain, why do you call Mr Jackson by his Christian name? Isn’t that unseemly?”

  Gavin obliged her by drawing his horse alongside. “You’re thinking he’s Mr Jack Jackson? What cruel parents would name a bairn so? Nay, his given name is Clydeward, if you would believe. Jack is a wee version of his family name. He much prefers it.”

  Miss Pagril did not try to hide her smile. “I can see why.”

  Finally, Mr Jackson was mounted and they headed out. The Duke of Snodgrove and Lady Blingchester led. Lord Lionel, Miss Pagril, and Captain Ruthven followed with Lady Violet, and Mr Jackson at the rear.

  Preshea encouraged her horse to join the elders at the front. She did not want the duke too far away. He glared. She was supposed to be supervising his daughter. Preshea met his eyes and gave a tiny shake of her head. He subsided, but remained displeased.

  They rode through the grounds and farmland until they reached a little wood.

  “Might we go around to more open fields?” Preshea requested. “Surely, the woods will be full of fallen branches. I’m afraid I’m no horsewoman to jump and maintain my seat.”

  The duke dismissed this. “Pish-tosh. Anything in the path will be small enough to walk over. I wish to see the state of the lumber after such a storm.”

  Preshea sighed. She’d tried.

  She moved up until she was as close as possible to the duke, muscling Lady Blingchester’s spirited mount out of the way with her bigger bay. The bay hung his head in shame.

  Lady Blingchester snorted. “Some people are nothing but social climbers. Come, Jane, Lady Violet, let’s ride the outskirts. I could use some speed. Your Grace, we shall meet you on the off side.”

  “Watch those fields,” warned the duke absently. He was examining an old oak that had lost a branch. “Gets marshy after a rain. I wouldn’t push past a canter.”

  Lady Blingchester wheeled her mount and took off. She really was a bruising rider. Lady Violet followed. She didn’t have quite the seat of Lady Blingchester, but she stuck it well enough to impress Preshea.

  “Jack, I wouldn’t,” warned Gavin.

  But Mr Jackson also maneuvered about, yanking hard on the reins and kicking with both legs as if riding a recalcitrant donkey. The chestnut galloped off. By some miracle, Mr Jackson stayed in the saddle.

  Gavin looked as though he wanted to go after, but then he glanced at Preshea and noting her close proximity to the duke, stayed.

  Now a diminished party of five, they wended their way into the trees.

  Preshea knew exactly the most dangerous point. She would have chosen it herself, were she a gunman. To one side of the path a mound of boulders rose up, with bushes at the top, forming the perfect cover and vantage point for a man to lie with rifle braced. No doubt the other side was sloped, easy to run down. The path widened just there, making the riders entirely visible from the outcropping.

  Preshea saw a glint of light off the barrel and launched herself at the duke just before the shot rang out.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Efficaciousness of Muff Pistols

  Preshea had kept to the duke’s right so that her sidesaddle pointed her whole body in his direction. Consequently, all she need do was push forward off her mount, grab onto as much of Snodgrove as she could, and drag him to the forest floor.

  Which is what she did.

  He bellowed at her in annoyance.

  The shot reverberated through the air.

  Preshea was pleased. She and Snodgrove were safe between their two horses while bullets whizzed overhead.

  Until the duke’s horse bolted.

  Her own mount, sweet-tempered and placid, rolled his eyes to the whites and shifted from hoof to hoof, but otherwise stayed still.

  Preshea cast herself over the duke, shielding him with her body. Well, or some of him; he was a deal taller than she.

  She heard Miss Pagril give a cry and shifted to see the girl’s horse bucking before taking off pell-mell. Miss Pagril stuck like dried porridge even as the beast leaped fallen trees in a wild gallop.

  Lord Lionel gave a cry and took off after her, no doubt intent on effecting a rescue.

  Gavin was off his mount, hand tight up the reins at the shaggy head. His horse must have seen action, for the gunshot had barely rattled him.

  “Preshea!” Gavin cried.

  “We’re fine. That rocky hill, there. A rifleman. Go!”

  Sensible man, he took her word as truth and, dropping the reins, ran up the promontory. Or perhaps it was simply that a soldier found it easiest to obey orders? That impressive physique of his wasn’t for show, either. Once he got moving, he was fast!

  “Are you injured, si
r?” Preshea asked the duke, evaluating him for blood and finding none visible.

  He attempted to sit up.

  “No. Stay down for now.” She pressed a firm hand to his back.

  “What are you about, woman?” He wasn’t hurt to be so grumpy. “What on earth is that?”

  Preshea had out her pistol. Hadn’t even realized she’d drawn it. She kept it hidden away in a special pocket in one of her petticoats. It was a tad indelicate to get at and occasionally bruised her leg if she wasn’t paying attention when twirling, but she preferred not to go without.

  No pretty pistol with gilt metalwork and mother-of-pearl handle for Preshea. She favored a six-shot revolver, no frills, no decoration. It was viciously practical, hard steel with a plain rosewood grip. Preshea was no expert markswoman and no gun fancier to care for looks. She wanted something light enough to carry and small enough to hide, which shot a bullet in the direction she aimed, and was easy to clean afterwards. She didn’t use it much; hers was not a directly confrontational lifestyle.

  She held it now, comforted by its presence and pleased to see respect in the duke’s eyes.

  “You do realize, Your Grace, that not everyone likes you?”

  “Are you one of those people?”

  “Don’t be absurd. Even if I were, hired gunmen are not my cup of tea.”

  “Well said.”

  There was a shout from Gavin and another shot, followed by some crashing, and then a howl of rage.

  Preshea glared at the duke. “Get off the path, and for God’s sake, stay down.” She stood, shielding herself with her horse, then pulled the reins over the docile creature’s head and dropped them down to the duke.

  She didn’t wait to see if he followed her instructions. Keeping her gun steady, Preshea marched up the hill after Gavin. It was muddy and her velvet riding habit was never going to be the same, but sometimes sacrifices must be made.

  * * *

  Weel, she’s definitely na the assassin. Gavin’s heart expanded in relief.

  He fancied he acquitted himself well from Preshea’s vantage point, although he was more winded than he liked. I’m getting old. He dashed over the hill to find, as she’d said, the rifleman.

  He was sprinting down the other side to where a little dirigible was moored, bobbing softly. Gavin yelled and cursed.

  The man turned, hoisted his rifle, and fired in one smooth movement that spoke of professional training. I could’ve used a man of such skill in the Crimea.

  Gavin registered only that much before heat scalded his upper arm. He gave an animal roar (more of frustrated surprise than pain).

  Curse it. He’s getting away.

  The man swung himself over the lip of the gondola. Floating wasn’t the fastest method of escape – a horse would be quicker – but it was effective. Plus, Gavin realized, once the enemy cast off and started to rise, he could turn around, rest the gun on the lip of the basket, and fire once more.

  Which is exactly what the bastard did.

  Gavin rolled.

  Dirt spit up where his head had just been.

  Bloody good shot. Gavin wished with a passion that he’d his own rifle. I’m also a bloody good shot.

  Two pretty kid boots appeared in the corner of his vision.

  “Temper, temper.” Preshea did not look down at him.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Villentia. Know this laddie, do you?”

  She was holding a ruthless-looking little revolver. It was small enough for a lady but big enough to pack a punch. “Not my kind of training. More your people’s.”

  She raised both hands, took careful aim, and shot.

  Her bullet embedded itself in the gondola of the dirigible.

  The aircraft bobbed higher.

  Gavin sat up and held out a hand. “May I?”

  With an expression that might have been relief, Preshea passed it over. She dusted off her hands on the rich brown velvet of her skirts.

  The gun was lighter than Gavin expected. “Rimfire?”

  “Of course.”

  “American?”

  “Naturally.”

  “That’s not verra patriotic.” He needed only one hand to aim such a featherweight. Good thing, too, for the other was currently useless. He was also feeling slightly light-headed. Surely he wasn’t losing that much blood?

  Gavin shot, getting close enough to the rifleman to splinter the gondola’s railing in his face. Deciding on caution over killing, the blackguard hunkered down, his gun with him.

  “That one is soldier-trained,” said Gavin.

  “The War Office needs to get its house in order.”

  Gavin wrinkled his nose. “Can’t keep record of them all.”

  “No? Pity.”

  The airship floated higher, caught a stiff breeze, and began drifting away.

  “We should set someone to track him from the ground.” Preshea took her gun back from Gavin and set it down within easy reach of both of them. Without asking, she bent to his upper arm.

  He craned his neck to see. “Bad?”

  She cut away the cloth of his shirt and coat with a wicked little knife. “I’m sure you’ve had worse.”

  He had. This one was a shallow dig through the flesh of his upper bicep, not bad at all. It was bleeding, of course, but not so much as it might have elsewhere.

  Preshea picked up her revolver and wiggled the hot barrel at him. “Cauterize?”

  “You canna be serious, woman! It’s na the bloody Dark Ages!”

  “No need to be crass, my dear captain—”

  “Gavin,” he grumbled at her.

  “I’m only trained in limited field dressings, those designed to keep a girl moving.”

  “Curious training, for a lass.”

  “I disagree.” She lifted her skirts at that and began fishing about under them. She showed no embarrassment and a good deal of shapely leg. She was wearing bloomers, of course, but only to the knee, and she’d fine white stockings below. If I stroke with one finger, might she excuse a wounded man?

  His thoughts were arrested by a ripping noise. “What are you doing?”

  “Tearing a strip off my chemise. Needs to be clean for field dressing. Cauterization may be out of date, but I assume that truth still holds?”

  Practical lass. The hem of her petticoat was muddied from the terrain, so she needed to reach farther up to get at something unsoiled.

  Triumphant, Preshea produced a length of fine muslin, beautifully embroidered. The chemise she’d just casually destroyed cost more than his favorite boots.

  “Would rather enjoy you in your best underpinnings than have you rip them apart for a mere scratch.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She began wrapping his arm, efficiently but with unexpected solicitude.

  “It is a mere scratch!”

  “I know that. What’s ridiculous is the idea that I should be wearing my best underpinnings when riding!”

  “Nay?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “You’ve finer than this?” He fingered the end of the bandage where it now dangled. She’d done an excellent job with the dressing, although she’d tied the tails into a bow.

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you take me for, an amateur?”

  She was so close.

  “Of course na – silly me.”

  His arm now smelled of peaches, her scent on his bandage. “I canna ken how you smell so delicious.”

  “Delicious? What are you, a werewolf?”

  “Preshea?”

  She looked up from his injury at last.

  Blue, her eyes are blue. The deepest, darkest blue Gavin had ever seen.

  “I’m thinking that a kiss would make it better.” Gavin felt his request was greatly daring – her gun was still within reach. He’d wager she didn’t miss at close range.

  “Thinking that, are ye?” She imitated his brogue and didn’t reach for her gun.

  “Fair certain.”

  “Well, if it’ll help.”
She suited her actions to her words with a quick, sure kiss.

  He let her try to make it brief, but then opened to her, waiting to see if she would take the bait. Vulnerability, retreat – is she hunter enough to chase? Aye, she is that. There came her tongue, only the tip, tentative. Then he felt a little sigh against his lips – the puff of acceptance.

  Their kiss paused naturally, at the place where it could have gone further. He might have relaxed back against the earth, which he now realized was cold and damp. He might have caressed one stocking-covered leg. He might have coaxed her to lie atop him, kiss him more deeply.

  Her eyes said she might have agreed.

  But they heard shouting and the sound of horses galloping in their direction.

  Preshea reached for her revolver, licking one finger to spit-test the heat of the barrel. Finding it cool enough, she flipped down one of her petticoats (Gavin was mighty disappointed) and stashed the gun away somewhere uncouth. Brushing down the rest of her riding habit, she stood and offered him a dainty hand.

  He took it but didn’t use it to rise. He didn’t need it and likely would have overbalanced her with his weight, the laws of physics being what they were. He took her hand so he might stroke the back with one thumb. So he might feel how strong it was.

  To his surprise, she smiled, gave his fingers a squeeze, and then let him go.

  “We should return to the duke. I have a feeling he might require an explanation.”

  * * *

  Everyone who could had come to rescue them. Those cantering the fields heard the gunshots and raced back, except Jack. Lady Blingchester reported, snidely, that the foolish lad had fallen shortly after the party split, and returned to the house.

  Miss Pagril and Lord Lionel also did not return. One assumed she had allowed her horse its head and they were already home. Gavin didn’t fret, for she was a fine rider.

  The duke’s mount was gone and he was grumpy about it.

  “He’ll return to the stables,” Preshea consoled him. “I shouldn’t worry. If not, we’ll send out a search party of groomsmen. Meanwhile, you take my mount and I’ll ride double with Captain Ruthven.”

  “Are you mad?” objected Lady Blingchester. “That’s most unseemly!”