would be in shock. She kept rolling her head from side to side, trying to get away from the grimy hand that covered her mouth. The attacker only pushed a little harder on his knife to make her stop each time.
“Mighty uppity you are when it’s me what ’as the knife.” Her attacker laughed. “Now jest toss me your purse,” the man continued, “then back off. Ye get on that ’orse of yours and ride away. Ye do all that and the ’arpy comes out of this with a whole skin.”
His voice held no fear, and Dalton knew this was the worst kind of enemy.
He was screaming so close to the woman that she jumped, feeling the knife as she did so. “Do what I say, now— ’er life makes no never mind to me.” With that he actually punctured her skin with the tip of the blade and sniggered as blood trickled down her neck.
Her cry led him to comply. He removed his purse from his coat and tossed it to the center of the bridge. He could have thrown it as far as the man’s feet, but he wanted the cutthroat to come and get it.
The release of his coins seemed to lighten her attacker’s mood, if not his hold. “Sounds ’eavy enough. Might even be all I need for this night’s work and I can give meself a little reward. Ol’ Jack Dawkins might even let this wench live.” He became deadly serious once more. “Now pick up the brass and toss it all the way to me...don’t make me kill ’er.”
Dalton knew if he could keep the man distracted, there was more of a chance that he would slip up, giving him an opportunity get the woman away safely. If that did not happen, Dalton was more than prepared to face the man’s knife. But it must first be pointed at him instead of the fairy.
Suddenly the night burst into a flurry of sounds and movement that took all three participants by surprise.
She had been telling the truth! She was armed and, apparently, not afraid to use her weapon.
The flash of powder and the crack of the pistol sounded like thunder in the quiet night. But the scream of pain and the surprise of the counterattack allowed her to push against him with all her might. Dalton ran toward the man, ready to kill him if necessary, but he was stopped by the woman who ran straight into his arms.
He held her so tightly that his anger abated for a moment at the thought of her being safe and secure in his grasp, as if she belonged there.
But reality flooded back when Ol’ Jack began howling. “She shot me! The ’ussy shot me!” Her attacker lifted the arm he had been using to cover her mouth, and examined his wound. It was clear that the bullet had entered the man’s lower left side, and he was growling in pain.
Dalton could see the hole in the back of the man’s coat, however, and knew their troubles were not yet over; the bullet must have grazed his side before exiting the back of the man’s grimy jacket. There was no debilitating damage.
As pain and anger filled the eyes of the ruffian, Dalton knew they might as well be dealing with a wounded bear, and he determined nothing would prevent him from protecting the frightened woman in his arms. His military training took over, and he was a force to be reckoned with. He gripped her upper shoulders tightly, moving her quickly behind him.
“Your light-skirt ain’t done nothin’ but caused ’er own death and I don’t care if I ’ave to go through ten of you to get to ’er.” His voice was a slow growl, the sound of an injured animal. He tossed his knife back and forth between his hands then began to charge Dalton, thrusting his dagger, wildly intent on murder.
But Dalton was more than prepared, and with one swift kick to the wrist of the injured thatchgallow, the knife went flying far into the high river grasses on the other side of the bridge.
Ol’ Jack was stunned but not cowed. “No gentry cove is gettin’ the best o’ me,” he swore, but was stopped short by the punishing left Dalton landed in the center of his face. The blood gushing into his mouth
“Mighty uppity you are when it’s me what ’as the knife.” Her attacker laughed. “Now jest toss me your purse,” the man continued, “then back off. Ye get on that ’orse of yours and ride away. Ye do all that and the ’arpy comes out of this with a whole skin.”
His voice held no fear, and Dalton knew this was the worst kind of enemy.
He was screaming so close to the woman that she jumped, feeling the knife as she did so. “Do what I say, now— ’er life makes no never mind to me.” With that he actually punctured her skin with the tip of the blade and sniggered as blood trickled down her neck.
Her cry led him to comply. He removed his purse from his coat and tossed it to the center of the bridge. He could have thrown it as far as the man’s feet, but he wanted the cutthroat to come and get it.
The release of his coins seemed to lighten her attacker’s mood, if not his hold. “Sounds ’eavy enough. Might even be all I need for this night’s work and I can give meself a little reward. Ol’ Jack Dawkins might even let this wench live.” He became deadly serious once more. “Now pick up the brass and toss it all the way to me...don’t make me kill ’er.”
Dalton knew if he could keep the man distracted, there was more of a chance that he would slip up, giving him an opportunity get the woman away safely. If that did not happen, Dalton was more than prepared to face the man’s knife. But it must first be pointed at him instead of the fairy.
Suddenly the night burst into a flurry of sounds and movement that took all three participants by surprise.
She had been telling the truth! She was armed and, apparently, not afraid to use her weapon.
The flash of powder and the crack of the pistol sounded like thunder in the quiet night. But the scream of pain and the surprise of the counterattack allowed her to push against him with all her might. Dalton ran toward the man, ready to kill him if necessary, but he was stopped by the woman who ran straight into his arms.
He held her so tightly that his anger abated for a moment at the thought of her being safe and secure in his grasp, as if she belonged there.
But reality flooded back when Ol’ Jack began howling. “She shot me! The ’ussy shot me!” Her attacker lifted the arm he had been using to cover her mouth, and examined his wound. It was clear that the bullet had entered the man’s lower left side, and he was growling in pain.
Dalton could see the hole in the back of the man’s coat, however, and knew their troubles were not yet over; the bullet must have grazed his side before exiting the back of the man’s grimy jacket. There was no debilitating damage.
As pain and anger filled the eyes of the ruffian, Dalton knew they might as well be dealing with a wounded bear, and he determined nothing would prevent him from protecting the frightened woman in his arms. His military training took over, and he was a force to be reckoned with. He gripped her upper shoulders tightly, moving her quickly behind him.
“Your light-skirt ain’t done nothin’ but caused ’er own death and I don’t care if I ’ave to go through ten of you to get to ’er.” His voice was a slow growl, the sound of an injured animal. He tossed his knife back and forth between his hands then began to charge Dalton, thrusting his dagger, wildly intent on murder.
But Dalton was more than prepared, and with one swift kick to the wrist of the injured thatchgallow, the knife went flying far into the high river grasses on the other side of the bridge.
Ol’ Jack was stunned but not cowed. “No gentry cove is gettin’ the best o’ me,” he swore, but was stopped short by the punishing left Dalton landed in the center of his face. The blood gushing into his mouth
Similar Books
