Read Online Miss Gabriel's Gambit by Rita Boucher - Free Book Online Page A

man said eying Sylvia with a lascivious leer. 
    Sylvia shivered as his words confirmed what his expression had told her. She was little more than prey. A glance at the prostrate Sikh made clear that there was no hope of help from that quarter. As Spots’ master devoured her with his gaze, Sylvia prayed that Miles would put in a quick appearance. Until then, Sylvia swallowed hard as she brought up her make-shift club once more, there was only herself to rely on. In a timed match, sometimes delay was the only means of winning.
    “No need for that, m’beauty,” the man said with a gap-toothed smile. “Just a liddle kiss to thank me for calling the ‘ound off.”
    “’Twas your cur that caused all the difficulty,” Sylvia declared, her voice shaking. “If you do not leave immediately with your dog, I shall have you hauled before the magistrate.”
    “I’m quakin’ in me boots,” he chortled, sneering at what was clearly an idle threat. “Would ye like t’see Spots do some o’ ‘is tricks? Y’ev already seen ‘is best. Got ‘im trained to bring down any rider likely to ‘ave a goodly purse on ‘im. Put down yer stick, missy.”
    Miles, where are you ? Sylvia wondered desperately, her heart racing as her attacker advanced, the unpleasant sound of his laughter sending a shiver of foreboding up Sylvia’s spine. Raising her knout high, she prepared to swing.
    “Spots!”
    At the sound of his master’s voice, the dog lunged forward, jaws snapping. Sylvia felt a stab of white hot pain as sharp fangs raked her fingers, causing her to release the branch and clutch her throbbing hand.
    The man laughed as Sylvia backed away, stumbled and fell to the ground. Through the haze of pain and fear, she saw a gleam in the Sikh’s sash. Her right hand was useless, but she reached with her left to pull at the jeweled handle of the ceremonial khanda that all Sikh men wore. The wicked blade gleamed in the sunlight as she pushed herself to her feet, awkwardly swiping the air before her.
    “Now you son of a cur, now I shall spit you and your accursed animal on one blade,” Sylvia waved the weapon wildly, hoping that her attacker would not realize that she had not the foggiest notion of how to use the dagger. She hurled Hindi curses at him, howling and dancing about like a mad-woman. “I shall send you to your vile ancestors,” she threatened. “I am Kali, the she-demon!”
    The man started to back away, but the dog was unimpressed. Perhaps sensing the core of fear at the center of Sylvia’s lunatic display, the animal lunged at her once more only to veer sharply to the side as the report of a pistol echoed through the clearing. Whining piteously, the dog returned to his master, who clutched at a suddenly spreading redness about his shoulder. The wounded man turned and ran, stumbling into the woods, the dog following close on his heels. There was the sound of hoofbeats as a horse sprang from behind Sylvia in pursuit of the animal and his master.
    Sylvia’s legs seemed to melt beneath her; she sank to her knees, weak with relief. The residue of fear left her scarcely able to breathe, her heart hammering as if it would beat itself from her breast. The khanda slipped to the ground as she clutched at her aching hand.
    The Sikh’s eyes had opened and he was regarding her in confusion. “A beautiful warrior defends me,” he said in Hindi. “Is Kali now an Englishwoman?”
    Suddenly, she heard a twig snap behind her, but before she could turn, a hand touched her shoulder. Her fear returning full force, Sylvia attempted to twist away, throwing herself flat upon the ground to grab at the fallen khanda, unwittingly taking her new assailant down with her. Stones dug into her stomach as she fought to free herself from the weight upon her back. Her throat produced nothing but a ragged choking sound as she tried to scream.
    “A warrior indeed. Easy, easy, Kali,” a somehow familiar voice said. “Calm yourself. He is