chop of his hand and attacked, pounding his enemy to the ground, striking blow after vicious blow.
It wasn’t until he felt someone tugging at him—small, delicate hands grasping desperately at his arm—that he came back to himself.
“Stop it!” She was sobbing. “Stop it! Stop it!”
Nicholas released his victim, straightening, dazed. Breathing hard, he blinked to clear his vision, unaware even of how much time had passed. The girl’s hands were free, he realized. She must have used the knife.
Swinton lay on the ground at his feet, beaten bloody, unconscious.
Nicholas staggered backward a step. Even with a bullet in him, he had just brought down an armed man. Perhaps killed him. With no weapon but his fists.
And he had felt, heard, seen nothing. Remembered nothing.
Only now did he feel the agony that seared through his shoulder. Only now was he aware of the blood soaking his sleeve.
A few feet away, Leach lay unmoving where he had landed, his head at an odd angle.
Nicholas turned, shaken, staring at the girl.
She let go of his arm as if it burned her, backing away, her features pale and stricken at the display of brutality. “You’re a madman,” she whispered. “You are a
madman!
”
Before he could say a word in denial—or affirmation—the chain pulled her up short.
And a blast of grapeshot rained through the leaves over their heads.
He threw himself to the ground, yanking her down with him, and looked at the top of the ravine.
Tucker stood at the edge of the road, reloading Bickford’s musket. Beside him, the fat gaolkeeper leaned against the broken cart, holding his arm.
“G-give up, both of ye,” the lad demanded in a quivering voice, raising the blunderbuss to his shoulder. “Raise yer hands and... and no one’ll get hurt!”
Stubborn little whelp. He had been too scared to jump into the fray before. Why couldn’t he just stay scared? Nicholas darted a glance around. He had kicked Leach’s pistol away... there it was. In the leaves. A few yards to the left.
“Come on,” he ordered under his breath. Not giving the girl a chance to argue, he slid forward on his belly.
“What are you
doing
?” she whispered in dismay, forced to follow when the chain pulled taut.
He reached for the gun. Leach hadn’t had a chance to fire. It was still loaded.
But to his horror, as soon as he picked it up, his hand started shaking.
It had been years since he had held a pistol. Six years.
The cold weapon burned him like a brand—the weight in his palm, the smooth surface, the sinuous curves. So familiar. Like a long-lost lover. Sleek. Easy. Seductive.
And he couldn’t keep his hand steady.
But there was no time to worry about it. He rolled onto his back, aimed...
“No!” the girl cried.
... and fired.
He missed by a great deal more than a mile. His hand trembled so badly that the shot went wildly off to the left. But the young marshalman fell to the ground with a shout of panic and covered his head.
“Our mates is done for down there, Bickford,” Tucker cried. “Ain’t it better if we ride for help?”
“Aye, lad. Help me up.”
Tucker obeyed quickly, loading the gaolkeeper aboard one of the horses and mounting the other himself.
“Ye’ll pay for this!” Bickford shouted down the hill. “I swear by me dead mother’s soul, I’ll see ye hang!”
With that ominous vow, the two lawmen fled up the road at a gallop.
Still lying on his back, the smoking gun hot in his hand, Nicholas listened to the fading thunder of hoofbeats.
Silence descended. Not even a leaf in the forest stirred.
The girl lay utterly still beside him.
After a moment, a pair of wary golden eyes turned his way. Trembling visibly, she opened her mouth to speak, couldn’t. Then she swallowed hard and tried again.
“You almost got us killed,” she whispered, her voice dry with fear.
Nicholas flattened his palm against the earth and sat up. “You were already facing a noose, your ladyship. I’d think you
It wasn’t until he felt someone tugging at him—small, delicate hands grasping desperately at his arm—that he came back to himself.
“Stop it!” She was sobbing. “Stop it! Stop it!”
Nicholas released his victim, straightening, dazed. Breathing hard, he blinked to clear his vision, unaware even of how much time had passed. The girl’s hands were free, he realized. She must have used the knife.
Swinton lay on the ground at his feet, beaten bloody, unconscious.
Nicholas staggered backward a step. Even with a bullet in him, he had just brought down an armed man. Perhaps killed him. With no weapon but his fists.
And he had felt, heard, seen nothing. Remembered nothing.
Only now did he feel the agony that seared through his shoulder. Only now was he aware of the blood soaking his sleeve.
A few feet away, Leach lay unmoving where he had landed, his head at an odd angle.
Nicholas turned, shaken, staring at the girl.
She let go of his arm as if it burned her, backing away, her features pale and stricken at the display of brutality. “You’re a madman,” she whispered. “You are a
madman!
”
Before he could say a word in denial—or affirmation—the chain pulled her up short.
And a blast of grapeshot rained through the leaves over their heads.
He threw himself to the ground, yanking her down with him, and looked at the top of the ravine.
Tucker stood at the edge of the road, reloading Bickford’s musket. Beside him, the fat gaolkeeper leaned against the broken cart, holding his arm.
“G-give up, both of ye,” the lad demanded in a quivering voice, raising the blunderbuss to his shoulder. “Raise yer hands and... and no one’ll get hurt!”
Stubborn little whelp. He had been too scared to jump into the fray before. Why couldn’t he just stay scared? Nicholas darted a glance around. He had kicked Leach’s pistol away... there it was. In the leaves. A few yards to the left.
“Come on,” he ordered under his breath. Not giving the girl a chance to argue, he slid forward on his belly.
“What are you
doing
?” she whispered in dismay, forced to follow when the chain pulled taut.
He reached for the gun. Leach hadn’t had a chance to fire. It was still loaded.
But to his horror, as soon as he picked it up, his hand started shaking.
It had been years since he had held a pistol. Six years.
The cold weapon burned him like a brand—the weight in his palm, the smooth surface, the sinuous curves. So familiar. Like a long-lost lover. Sleek. Easy. Seductive.
And he couldn’t keep his hand steady.
But there was no time to worry about it. He rolled onto his back, aimed...
“No!” the girl cried.
... and fired.
He missed by a great deal more than a mile. His hand trembled so badly that the shot went wildly off to the left. But the young marshalman fell to the ground with a shout of panic and covered his head.
“Our mates is done for down there, Bickford,” Tucker cried. “Ain’t it better if we ride for help?”
“Aye, lad. Help me up.”
Tucker obeyed quickly, loading the gaolkeeper aboard one of the horses and mounting the other himself.
“Ye’ll pay for this!” Bickford shouted down the hill. “I swear by me dead mother’s soul, I’ll see ye hang!”
With that ominous vow, the two lawmen fled up the road at a gallop.
Still lying on his back, the smoking gun hot in his hand, Nicholas listened to the fading thunder of hoofbeats.
Silence descended. Not even a leaf in the forest stirred.
The girl lay utterly still beside him.
After a moment, a pair of wary golden eyes turned his way. Trembling visibly, she opened her mouth to speak, couldn’t. Then she swallowed hard and tried again.
“You almost got us killed,” she whispered, her voice dry with fear.
Nicholas flattened his palm against the earth and sat up. “You were already facing a noose, your ladyship. I’d think you
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