Chapter 10

Aidan slid down onto the floor, and for a moment I thought him a coward. But with an explosive, double-legged kick, he smashed the door open, clipping the bandit in the face. The bandit staggered back, and Aidan was outside in two ticks, striking him with both fists.

Then he stopped, stepped back, and held his arms up.

Dread came over me. So much for our hope. The man held a pistol to Aidan’s belly.

“Stop!” I cried. I pushed Prissy off me and squirmed out the door, which barely opened for Aidan’s blocking it. Prissy called after me as I stepped out into the blinding light.

A thin line of blood trickled from the bandit’s eyebrow. He dabbed it and stared at the spot as if such a thing had never been dared before. His finger flexed on his trigger.

I pushed myself in front of Aidan and felt the hot metal of the barrel against my chest.

“Leave my friend alone,” I told him. “Put your gun away this minute, and let us go.”

Aidan tried to move me aside but I resisted. The bandit chuckled. He was thick as an oak, yet he stood with a flamboyant grace, one fist on his hip, the other brandishing a pistol like a rapier. He wore a ruffle of lace at his neck and a black band belting his waist. Robbing poor travelers must be a thriving trade. A wide-brimmed hat obscured much of his face, but his eyes, brown and gold, were as calm as those of a priest saying mass.

Rolling in the dust of the road, moaning, was the coachman. His blood formed a growing black puddle. I made a move toward him, and the highwayman jabbed his pistol at me.

A hissing fury reared inside me. How dare he threaten me and my friends? How dare he?

“For shame!” I spat the words. “Does the brave bandit fear a peasant girl? What do you care if I help the poor man? You’ve picked a coach full of penniless country folk to murder.”

He laughed in my face. “Not quite penniless, my fiery little maid,” he said, seizing the ornaments around my neck. The rawhide strap holding my money broke, but the gypsy charms, on braided cords of gossamer silk, didn’t yield. He decided they weren’t worth the bother. Instead, he stroked my cheek with his fingertip.

Aidan growled and lunged toward him. The bandit raised his gun.

“Tie him up,” the bandit said, handing me a length of rope. “Bind your sweetheart, missy, and perhaps I won’t kill him. Though perhaps I will. Make it tight, now.”

I took the rope and cinched Aidan’s wrists like a traitor. My sweetheart.

He reached into the coach and dragged out Prissy and then Miss Jessop. Miss Jessop kicked him, and I liked her better for it. Prissy’s love charm broke off with her money pouch.

“Now,” he said. “Tell me why I shouldn’t kill you all.” The fiend was enjoying this!

“Because God will punish you in hell for it,” Priscilla said, and the highwayman laughed.

“Two courageous maidens! But spare me the preaching.” He looked again at me. “Well?”

“Because you were born to be more than a ruthless spiller of blood,” I said.

He made an extravagant bow. “The lady has spoken. Lie down in the road, all of you, behind the carriage.” We had no choice but to obey. Miss Jessop whimpered pitiably.

“Farewell, my tigress,” he called, kissing his fingers and winking his cursed hawk’s eyes at me. Then, leaping into the coachman’s seat, the highwayman threw back the braking lever and cracked the driver’s whip. The team of six horses flew forward, eager to flee this frightful spot.

And then he was gone.

I scrambled to my feet, tripping on the hem of my dress, and flew to the driver. He wasn’t moving as much now, but lay feebly, bleeding in several places. What could I do? I had no water, no bandages, no medicines, not even any whiskey to relieve his pain.

I placed my hands on his face. “I’m here,” I said. “Where does it hurt?”

His eyelids flickered open. “Thorndike,” he said. “Jeremy Thorndike.”

I was busy unbuttoning his shirt to see where the musket shot had pierced his side. “Who is Jeremy Thorndike?” His wounds made me cringe, but I kept my face calm for his sake.

“Me,” he whispered. His face was ashy from loss of blood. The wound on his thigh wasn’t bleeding now. He had little left to spare. My delay in reaching him had cost him dearly.

“My wife, son. In Hibbardville.”

I began to sob. There was nothing I could do. Except one thing. I moved to his head and lifted it into my lap, stroking his face.

“I’m sorry.” I couldn’t see his face anymore. “I’m so sorry.”

He let out a ragged breath. “S’all right, lass,” he said. “God reward you. My wife, my son. You’ll tell them.”

His head turned to one side, like a child nestling closer to his mother, and then lay still.

“I’ll tell them,” I said, closing his eyes. “I’ll tell them you said good-bye.”