Read Online Barbara Metzger by Christmas Wishes - Free Book Online
Authors: Christmas Wishes
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pig.”
“Farmer Blaine doesn’t keep pigs.”
The next sound Juneclaire heard was the cocking of a pistol.
After that, a blur. St. Cloud hurtled out of the stall with a shout, and Charlie swung the pistol around. The earl was on the bigger man before the thief could take aim. Ned jumped up, but Juneclaire hit him on the back of the neck with a bucket. The two older men fought for possession of the weapon, one hand each on the gun, St. Cloud’s other hand going for Charlie’s throat, Charlie’s trying to gouge at St. Cloud’s eyes. Juneclaire was ready to brain Charlie Parrett with her bucket when she had a clear shot. Ned started for the pitchfork near the door but tripped over Pansy and went down. Juneclaire hit him over the head again. When she looked up, his lordship and Parrett were rolling on the ground, the pistol between them.
They rolled into the upright where the lantern hung, sending the light flying. Now they struggled in the dark, with harsh panting noises and grunts the only sounds, till Juneclaire heard the crinkly rustle of loose straw catching on fire. Then Ned was rushing by her, stamping at the burgeoning flames. The horses started to kick at the walls of their stalls, and Pansy was squealing. Juneclaire found the other bucket, the one she’d washed with, and tossed the water on the fire. Then she took her cloak off and threw it over the sparks and started stomping up and down on it while Ned scraped the unlit straw away with his hands, leaving just bare dirt that could not burn. Then the pistol went off.
Juneclaire froze in place. Not Merry, she prayed, not even thinking of her own devilish situation if the enigmatic gentleman was hurt. There came the scrape of flint and a tiny glow. Whatever was keeping her knees locked upright, whether bravery, fear, or stupidity, gave out when she saw who lit another lantern. She sank to the ground on top of her wet, charred cloak and hugged Pansy so hard, the pig squealed loudly enough to wake the dead, but not Charlie Parrett.
Ned dashed for the door, to be stopped by an iron-hard clasp on his wrist. The boy made retching sounds, and St. Cloud shoved him toward one of the buckets.
“I guess I should have let him go,” he said in disgust, watching Juneclaire hand the boy a handkerchief—St. Cloud’s own. “Are you all right, Junco?”
“Yes, I think so. The fire is out. And you, my lord?”
“All in one piece, at least.” He gingerly explored a bruise on his chin, which, from its feel, would add a less-than-festive touch to his appearance by the morning. Juneclaire thought he looked more human with his hair all mussed and his face dirty. He certainly was more endearing, though she could not go toward him to wipe away the smudges or push the dark curls back off his forehead. Not with Charlie at his feet.
“Is he . . . ?”
“Quite. We’ve saved the county the price of a trial.” St. Cloud dragged the limp figure into one of the empty stalls, out of sight. He came back to poke through the pile of loot. His silver flask went into his greatcoat pocket, along with his fob, gold quizzing glass, and stickpin. He kept his pistol in easy reach and his eye on Ned while he counted out coins and bills. “Of course, this leaves us with a tad of a predicament, my dear, especially since I am sure you wish to be involved with investigations and your name to be brought out at inquests as little as I do. It could be much simpler, really. You know, a falling-out among thieves . . .”
“Merry, you wouldn’t, just to save yourself some trouble!”
“Please, my lord, my ma—”
St. Cloud gave the youngster a look that sent Ned back to the bucket. “We heard all about your mother, sirrah. How proud she’d be to see her baby now,” St. Cloud said with a sneer. “How much her health would improve to see you hang.”
“But, Merry, he’s just a boy!” Juneclaire pleaded.
“Just a boy who terrorizes the countryside, robbing and injuring innocent
“Farmer Blaine doesn’t keep pigs.”
The next sound Juneclaire heard was the cocking of a pistol.
After that, a blur. St. Cloud hurtled out of the stall with a shout, and Charlie swung the pistol around. The earl was on the bigger man before the thief could take aim. Ned jumped up, but Juneclaire hit him on the back of the neck with a bucket. The two older men fought for possession of the weapon, one hand each on the gun, St. Cloud’s other hand going for Charlie’s throat, Charlie’s trying to gouge at St. Cloud’s eyes. Juneclaire was ready to brain Charlie Parrett with her bucket when she had a clear shot. Ned started for the pitchfork near the door but tripped over Pansy and went down. Juneclaire hit him over the head again. When she looked up, his lordship and Parrett were rolling on the ground, the pistol between them.
They rolled into the upright where the lantern hung, sending the light flying. Now they struggled in the dark, with harsh panting noises and grunts the only sounds, till Juneclaire heard the crinkly rustle of loose straw catching on fire. Then Ned was rushing by her, stamping at the burgeoning flames. The horses started to kick at the walls of their stalls, and Pansy was squealing. Juneclaire found the other bucket, the one she’d washed with, and tossed the water on the fire. Then she took her cloak off and threw it over the sparks and started stomping up and down on it while Ned scraped the unlit straw away with his hands, leaving just bare dirt that could not burn. Then the pistol went off.
Juneclaire froze in place. Not Merry, she prayed, not even thinking of her own devilish situation if the enigmatic gentleman was hurt. There came the scrape of flint and a tiny glow. Whatever was keeping her knees locked upright, whether bravery, fear, or stupidity, gave out when she saw who lit another lantern. She sank to the ground on top of her wet, charred cloak and hugged Pansy so hard, the pig squealed loudly enough to wake the dead, but not Charlie Parrett.
Ned dashed for the door, to be stopped by an iron-hard clasp on his wrist. The boy made retching sounds, and St. Cloud shoved him toward one of the buckets.
“I guess I should have let him go,” he said in disgust, watching Juneclaire hand the boy a handkerchief—St. Cloud’s own. “Are you all right, Junco?”
“Yes, I think so. The fire is out. And you, my lord?”
“All in one piece, at least.” He gingerly explored a bruise on his chin, which, from its feel, would add a less-than-festive touch to his appearance by the morning. Juneclaire thought he looked more human with his hair all mussed and his face dirty. He certainly was more endearing, though she could not go toward him to wipe away the smudges or push the dark curls back off his forehead. Not with Charlie at his feet.
“Is he . . . ?”
“Quite. We’ve saved the county the price of a trial.” St. Cloud dragged the limp figure into one of the empty stalls, out of sight. He came back to poke through the pile of loot. His silver flask went into his greatcoat pocket, along with his fob, gold quizzing glass, and stickpin. He kept his pistol in easy reach and his eye on Ned while he counted out coins and bills. “Of course, this leaves us with a tad of a predicament, my dear, especially since I am sure you wish to be involved with investigations and your name to be brought out at inquests as little as I do. It could be much simpler, really. You know, a falling-out among thieves . . .”
“Merry, you wouldn’t, just to save yourself some trouble!”
“Please, my lord, my ma—”
St. Cloud gave the youngster a look that sent Ned back to the bucket. “We heard all about your mother, sirrah. How proud she’d be to see her baby now,” St. Cloud said with a sneer. “How much her health would improve to see you hang.”
“But, Merry, he’s just a boy!” Juneclaire pleaded.
“Just a boy who terrorizes the countryside, robbing and injuring innocent
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