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Authors: Catherine Palmer
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lozenge such as this.”
“My training came from the lace school of Nottingham,” she said. “What talent I possess is God-given.”
“God? Ah, yes, I do recall that you are religious. Nightly Bible readings and—”
The unmistakable, familiar crack of flint striking steel silenced him. An instantaneous report echoed from the hillside.
Gunshot.
Before Ruel could call out a warning, a projectile raked across his left arm at a downward angle. His flesh split wide. The round continued on undeflected. It tore into Anne Webster’s thigh, taking with it a piece of her gown, and came out the other side. It ripped a hole near the hem of Miss Prudence Watson’s dress before plowing into the dirt at her feet.
Miss Watson screamed. Anne crumpled to the road.
“Down!” Ruel jerked Miss Watson’s arm. She shrieked in hysteria, rolled into a ball, and covered her head with her arms. “The hedge,” he grunted. “Get to it.”
Ruel drew his coat pistol from an inside pocket as he swept Anne up in his arms and ran with her toward the shelter of the thick hedgerow. A puff of smoke, smelling of black powder, drifted across the open road. Still screaming, Miss Watson unwound herself and scrambled for cover.
“Silence,” Ruel commanded her. Holding the loaded pistol with one hand, he jerked it from half to full cock and shouted up the hillside. “Show yourself, villain!”
Anne moaned and touched his shoulder where a circle of bright crimson was forming. Oblivious to his wound, Ruel peered through the dense hedge.
“Blast it all; he has gone. Coward.” He turned to the women and noted Anne’s blood-soaked dress. At the sight of her ashen face, a wave of fear curled through his stomach. A red stain covered the torn hole in her gown, spreading quickly and dripping onto the ground. Biting off a curse, he turned to Miss Watson.
“What about you?” he demanded. “Are you hit?” When he took her shoulder and shook her, the paralyzed young lady let out a cry. “Are you injured, madam?”
“No!” she sobbed. “I am all right.”
“Then help me.” He shrugged out of his coat, vaguely aware that his shoulder throbbed as though a bee had stung it, and tossed the garment to Miss Watson. “Make a pillow of this. We must stop the bleeding.”
He reached for his cravat, realized he had only the bit of flimsy lace, and swore. He grabbed Anne’s dress and ripped the hem away with his hands. “Miss Webster, do not flinch. And do not look as if you mean to swoon either. I know you are not the sort.”
Anne’s eyes fluttered open as he bent over her. He worked at wrapping the length of cloth around her leg.
“Gone clean through,” he muttered. “Who could have done this? A highwayman would have come out onto the road after my wallet. Surely Barkham would have challenged me to a duel if he still held a grudge. It has been three years since the incident with his wife. . . . Wimberley cannot still be nursing his anger about that purse I won off him. . . . Of course, there is Droughtmoor. He might still—”
“It was the gamekeeper,” Miss Watson croaked. “I saw his brown coat.”
“William Green? What have I done to him?”
“Not you. It is her.” Miss Watson took Anne’s hand and squeezed it. “He wants to marry her. He has asked twice, but she will not have him. I believe he is the man who fired at us.”
“Absurd. To kill a woman because she will not marry? Ridiculous.”
“She spurned him, my lord.”
“But Green is nothing more than a gamekeeper. A peasant. He cannot believe he deserves such a woman as this.”
“She is only Anne Webster, sir. Surely you know she is my lady’s maid.”
Ruel looked down at the woman whose shadowed eyelids had drifted shut. Her face, so animated before, was motionless, her breathing shallow. Only a maid?
“Stay here with her,” he ordered Miss Watson, whose large eyes brimmed with tears. “I shall go for my chaise. It awaits me at the church, and I shall
“My training came from the lace school of Nottingham,” she said. “What talent I possess is God-given.”
“God? Ah, yes, I do recall that you are religious. Nightly Bible readings and—”
The unmistakable, familiar crack of flint striking steel silenced him. An instantaneous report echoed from the hillside.
Gunshot.
Before Ruel could call out a warning, a projectile raked across his left arm at a downward angle. His flesh split wide. The round continued on undeflected. It tore into Anne Webster’s thigh, taking with it a piece of her gown, and came out the other side. It ripped a hole near the hem of Miss Prudence Watson’s dress before plowing into the dirt at her feet.
Miss Watson screamed. Anne crumpled to the road.
“Down!” Ruel jerked Miss Watson’s arm. She shrieked in hysteria, rolled into a ball, and covered her head with her arms. “The hedge,” he grunted. “Get to it.”
Ruel drew his coat pistol from an inside pocket as he swept Anne up in his arms and ran with her toward the shelter of the thick hedgerow. A puff of smoke, smelling of black powder, drifted across the open road. Still screaming, Miss Watson unwound herself and scrambled for cover.
“Silence,” Ruel commanded her. Holding the loaded pistol with one hand, he jerked it from half to full cock and shouted up the hillside. “Show yourself, villain!”
Anne moaned and touched his shoulder where a circle of bright crimson was forming. Oblivious to his wound, Ruel peered through the dense hedge.
“Blast it all; he has gone. Coward.” He turned to the women and noted Anne’s blood-soaked dress. At the sight of her ashen face, a wave of fear curled through his stomach. A red stain covered the torn hole in her gown, spreading quickly and dripping onto the ground. Biting off a curse, he turned to Miss Watson.
“What about you?” he demanded. “Are you hit?” When he took her shoulder and shook her, the paralyzed young lady let out a cry. “Are you injured, madam?”
“No!” she sobbed. “I am all right.”
“Then help me.” He shrugged out of his coat, vaguely aware that his shoulder throbbed as though a bee had stung it, and tossed the garment to Miss Watson. “Make a pillow of this. We must stop the bleeding.”
He reached for his cravat, realized he had only the bit of flimsy lace, and swore. He grabbed Anne’s dress and ripped the hem away with his hands. “Miss Webster, do not flinch. And do not look as if you mean to swoon either. I know you are not the sort.”
Anne’s eyes fluttered open as he bent over her. He worked at wrapping the length of cloth around her leg.
“Gone clean through,” he muttered. “Who could have done this? A highwayman would have come out onto the road after my wallet. Surely Barkham would have challenged me to a duel if he still held a grudge. It has been three years since the incident with his wife. . . . Wimberley cannot still be nursing his anger about that purse I won off him. . . . Of course, there is Droughtmoor. He might still—”
“It was the gamekeeper,” Miss Watson croaked. “I saw his brown coat.”
“William Green? What have I done to him?”
“Not you. It is her.” Miss Watson took Anne’s hand and squeezed it. “He wants to marry her. He has asked twice, but she will not have him. I believe he is the man who fired at us.”
“Absurd. To kill a woman because she will not marry? Ridiculous.”
“She spurned him, my lord.”
“But Green is nothing more than a gamekeeper. A peasant. He cannot believe he deserves such a woman as this.”
“She is only Anne Webster, sir. Surely you know she is my lady’s maid.”
Ruel looked down at the woman whose shadowed eyelids had drifted shut. Her face, so animated before, was motionless, her breathing shallow. Only a maid?
“Stay here with her,” he ordered Miss Watson, whose large eyes brimmed with tears. “I shall go for my chaise. It awaits me at the church, and I shall
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