Tristan brushed a strand of hair from her cheek. “I always knew you were a passionate woman. But until tonight, I didn’t really know what passion was.”
Prudence tried to smile, snuggling deeper against him as the coach swayed down the road. “It was wonderful.”
And it had been. And would be. At least, it would be until the realities of their life intruded. For now, at least, she wouldn’t think of that.
She listened to the steady beat of his heart, her cheek resting against the crisp linen of his shirt. His breathing deepened, his body relaxed and she wondered if he slept.
She’d never thought to love again, not after Phillip. But she’d been wrong.
Tristan shifted a little and moved his shoulders, his arm tightening about Prudence as if he wished to hold her closer. The warmth of his embrace soothed her.
Prudence didn’t move. She blinked back tears even as she snuggled against him. The trustees would be coming soon and the reason she was in his life would disappear the second they agreed to grant him the title and funds. It would be time for her to go, soon enough.
Meanwhile, she’d take what she could from this moment, savor it as much as she could, and then, let it go, just as she would let him go. Just as she’d had to let Phillip go—
The carriage lurched to one side, sliding them both against the door. Tristan’s arms tightened and he took the brunt of the force on his shoulder.
“What is that blasted coachman doing?” Tristan muttered as they swayed wildly to the other side.
The coach lurched again, even more wildly this time. Tristan was thrown forward. He grasped Prudence to him with one arm and used the other to catch his weight, his bad leg hitting the edge of the seat opposite. He grunted with pain.
The carriage careened side to side as if the hounds of hell were at its rear wheels, the single lantern swaying on the ceiling hook and flickering madly.
A shot rang out, the sound reverberating in the silence of the night.
Through the uncertain light, Tristan cursed. “Damn it all! It’s a highwayman!” He pushed Prudence to the floor and reached behind her for a box. Inside were two pistols. He pulled them out and glinted a cold smile. “Do not fear, my love. This is one highwayman who will never again see the light of day.”
Chapter 17
You may discover that your employer’s cantankerous nature hides a true love for a good fight. Do not be surprised. Even the gentry find a scrape or two an amusement.
A Compleat Guide for
Being a Most Proper Butler
by Richard Robert Reeves
Tristan blew out the lamp, sending the inside of the carriage into darkness. He reached farther back beneath the seat, searching until he found another box, this one longer than the other. He opened it and removed a sword.
Prudence grabbed his knee. “Tristan, give me one of the pistols.”
Though he could not see her face now, he could imagine the calm bravery in her brown eyes. “Can you shoot it?”
“Of course. My father taught me when I was a child.”
He shoved the pistol into her hand just as the carriage pulled to a sliding halt, the horses neighing madly. “Hide it in your skirt and don’t—”
The door was wrenched open. Tristan cursed when no figure appeared. With the brightness of the moonlight, it would have been child’s play to shoot their attackers. But whoever planned this was too experienced, and no one appeared in the gap.
“Come out with yer nabbers on yer head!”
Bloody hell, the man sounded huge.
Tristan moved to the door, but just as he reached it, Prudence threw her arms about him and pressed her body to his. He hugged her back, resting his cheek briefly against her hair.
His mind whirled with thoughts and emotions. He remembered how black his life had seemed only a few short weeks ago, so black that he would have welcomed tonight’s fight with a blood thirst unalleviated by thoughts of a future or desires of the present. Now, things had changed. He would fight this fight, and he would win. If he did not, Prudence’s life could well be forfeited.
The thought both invigorated him and frightened him. He had to find a way through this mire. He had to. There were no other options.
With one last look at Prudence, Tristan gathered himself and climbed out of the carriage. A huge, hulking man stood to the right of the door, the moonlight gleaming off his blunderbuss.
“My lord!” the coachman said. He stood beside the coach holding a strip of broken reins. John was one of Reeves’s men and a magician with horses, though not, apparently, with a blunderbuss. “I am sorry, my lord. I didn’t see them until it was too late. I tried to give them the slip and outrun them, but the leathers broke and I couldn’t—”
“I am sure you did the best you could.” Tristan glanced around, trying to discern the number of their attackers. So far, except for the large man, no one else was in sight.
John leaned forward to say in a low voice, “Both of our outriders escaped, my lord, though one was injured. Surely they will reach the cottage and bring the others to help—”
“’Ere now, enough yabbering! Out with yer goods so we can all go home early this evening. ’Tis cold, ye know. I’ve no wish to take an ague.”
“Of course. That would be most distressing.” Tristan whipped out his pistol and pointed it directly at the man’s heart.
“I wouldn’t do that,” came a cultured voice behind Tristan. Something pressed through his coat, a sharp point resting between his shoulder blades.
The coachman gulped loudly. “They’s two of them, my lord. I meant to tell ye that, but I didn’t have time.”
The sword pressed a bit more painfully into Tristan’s back. “Drop the pistol.”
Tristan grimaced and dropped his pistol to the ground.
“That is right, my good friend,” said the man behind him. “A very wise decision, one that will let you live another day.”
The big ruffian came forward, waving his pistol. “Empty yer pockets, guv’nor. And make it quick-like. We’ve two more culls to tend to this evenin’.”
Fury built inside Tristan’s temples. He emptied his pockets, throwing a watch and some coins onto the ground.
“That’s all ye have?” the giant said, disgust in his voice.
“Easy, my friend,” came the more cultured gentleman from behind Tristan. “I daresay there’s more in the carriage. I thought I heard a woman’s voice after they stopped.” The thief’s voice dripped with amusement. “Perhaps we shall have two prizes this night, instead of one.”
Tristan waited no more. He threw himself forward and out of reach of the sword pressed into his back. With every ounce of force he possessed, he lunged toward the large ruffian, knocking the pistol aside and landing squarely on his attacker.
The huge man crashed to the ground with a startled “oof!”, his pistol skittering beneath the coach, the metal clacking on the stones that paved the road. Without giving anyone time to do more than blink, Tristan raised his fist and slammed it into the man’s jaw.
The man grunted and shook his head, but he did not lose consciousness. Tristan cursed loudly. He had large fists and normally one of his blows would black the lights on any man. But not the behemoth. The huge ruffian lifted meaty hands to grab Tristan about the neck.
Breathing suddenly became a luxury. Tristan clawed at the thick fingers, but they remained in place, tightening and tightening. Spots danced before Tristan’s eyes and he struggled for breath. God help him, but was this it? Was he to die on the side of the road in the black of night, in sight of Prudence?
The thought of Prudence gave him new strength. He drew up a knee to hit his attacker in a more exposed area, but the man was too quick, drawing up his own knee to block the blow.
Tristan blinked, struggling to stay conscious. His hands were wrapped around his attacker’s wrists, keeping the grip from being truly lethal.
“I vow,” said the cultured thief, “you have mud all over you
r clothing. That is a great pity, for I wished to have that coat for myself.”
There was a faint noise and then Prudence materialized out of nowhere.
“Mon dieu!” the thief said, stepping forward, his sword drawn.
But Prudence was not interested in swords. She stood with her pistol leveled at the huge man attacking Tristan. In two short steps, she had the muzzle leveled at his temple. “Let him go.”
The man froze. The huge oaf shot a surprised glance toward the other thief. “Jack?”
“Easy, my lady,” the thief said, all laughter gone from his voice. “Willie, do not move. She looks deadly intent.”
“I am,” Prudence said. “Release him.”
The behemoth slowly loosened his hold on Tristan’s neck. Tristan balled up his fist, lifted up and hit the man in the temple with every ounce of strength he possessed. The last blow hadn’t had the luxury of being so well placed. This time, the man’s eyes rolled back, and then closed as he slumped, unconscious.
Tristan pushed himself to his knees. “Prudence, get back in—”
The tip of a blade flashed to the side of Prudence’s throat. Her eyes widened as a black-clothed arm snaked about her waist. The thief regarded Tristan over her head.
Tristan’s ears rang. All he could do was look at Prudence.
“Drop the pistol, my dear,” the thief said softly into Prudence’s ear. “It looks so unwieldy in those lovely hands.”
Tristan caught her gaze, his heart pounding in his throat. “Do as he says.”
He thought for a moment she would disagree with him, but instead she very, very slowly laid the pistol on the ground. As soon as she stood, the thief kicked the pistol beneath the coach and pulled her flush against him.
Tristan’s vision flamed red. The bastard was holding Prudence, his arm insolently around her waist. No one was allowed to do such a thing. No one.
“Don’t look so glum, man of the ham-like fists,” the thief said, amusement in his voice. “And do not move. Or the lady here will never again smell the sweet scent of jasmine that is so prevalent in this part of the country.”
Tristan grit his teeth. He was halfway up, his weight on his bad leg. He didn’t know how long it would hold. “What if I do move?”
“Then you had best kiss the lovely lady goodbye. Or better yet, watch me do it for you.”
“Bastard,” Tristan snarled. “If you touch her—”
“You will what?” the man said. His teeth flashed whitely in the moonlight, his half mask hiding only the color and shape of his eyes. “Fortunately for you, I am not a man given to violence against the gentle sex. In fact,” the thief used his free hand to lift one of Prudence’s curls, “I rather enjoy women. All of them.”
Fury bolted through Tristan, hot and cold, furious and pounding. “If you harm her, I will kill you.”
“Alas, you cannot. Not only is there your health to consider, but there is that of the lady’s. Now, slowly empty your pockets. And this time, do it all of the way. I will be watching. First the right one, then the left one.”
Tristan’s jaw tightened. The sheer effrontery of the man. Tristan found himself looking at Prudence. She met his gaze steadily before casting her eyes toward the ground.
He frowned. She was trying to tell him something. Tristan slowly removed the remaining funds from his pockets, though in truth, there was lamentably little. Still, it gave him time to try and comprehend Prudence’s minute gestures.
She looked at him again, then down at the ground, only this time, she closed her eyes and let her head fall forward ever so slightly.
Tristan nodded. As he emptied the last bit of coinage in his pocket, he managed to reassure himself that the short sword was still tucked in his waistband.
Prudence gave a gasp and then slumped forward, her body a dead weight. The thief tried to catch her, the sword forgotten a moment as he tried to keep his balance. Prudence collapsed on the ground as if unconscious.
Tristan lunged forward, his sword at the ready. The highwayman stepped back, bringing up his rapier in answer. There was a clang as the two weapons met.
“A short sword against a rapier.” Tristan smiled, though he did not feel like it at all. “I believe I have the advantage.”
“It depends upon your skill, my friend. And mine.” The highwayman lunged forward, his eyes shimmering in the holes in his mask as his blade flashed wickedly in the bright moonlight.
Tristan parried the man’s moves. The short sword was the stronger weapon, for one solid blow above the hilt line could break the rapier in half. But the rapier was faster, more deadly. One slip of his defense, and his opponent would have him skewered on the tip.
The trick was to keep the man moving, which was not easy, especially as the fall with the behemoth had stiffened Tristan’s leg. Every move was painful and growing more so by the second.
The thief made a sudden feint, which Tristan parried, though it carried him back a few steps. To regain ground, Tristan charged, careful to use his good leg for balance. Each step was an agony.
Just one hit, that’s all he needed. Yet as he fought, it became apparent that his opponent was something out of the ordinary with the rapier.
Tristan grimly settled in to defend himself, parrying lunges and feints with such rapidity that it was all he could do to keep abreast. His leg ached and cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He could not spin and leap like his opponent. But he could stand his ground and fight like a demon.
During an especially brutal onslaught, the rapier sliced through Tristan’s coat, leaving a bloody sting to his arm. From the corner of his eyes, Tristan caught movement. Prudence stepped forward as if to stop the fight. “No!” Tristan snapped, his gaze on his attacker.
Prudence stepped back, and he could hear a low murmur as the coachman caught her arm. “Don’t distract him, madam!”
Tristan fought on, his body drenched now with his efforts. The thief’s breath rasped harshly in the cold night air. The light from the moon outlined him in full form, the line of his shoulders, the creases of his greatcoat, the dark hair flowing to his shoulders.
“Look, you,” Tristan growled as he brought the short sword up to catch the sweep of the rapier once again. “Give, and I will let you breathe another day.”
The man chuckled, the sound sending a trigger of alarm through him. That chuckle…Tristan’s brows lowered. He knew it, recognized it from somewhere long ago.
He frowned, knocking away the rapier when his opponent once more stepped forward, the tip of the blade slicing across Tristan’s chin. “Ow!” He touched his chin, the slick wetness of his own blood dripping onto his hand and down his neck. “You little devil!”
His opponent laughed delightedly. “So I am. Let us finish this once and for all.”
A horse sounded down the road. “Ah!” Tristan said, flourishing his sword once more, “my men come. You are a dead man.”
The stranger approached with lightning quickness, his blade whipping in and out. “If I die, then so will you.”
Tristan twisted away, bringing up his own sword in retaliation. Onward they fought, silent but for their labored breathing and the clank of their weapons.
They were evenly matched and it became more a question of who would tire first. Tristan began to think perhaps he had the advantage over his slighter opponent, but just as he stepped to one side to avoid an especially vicious attack, his good foot slipped on a loose rock. He caught himself with his other leg and pain exploded behind his eyes.
Teeth grinding together, Tristan forced himself to remain standing. No. He could not fall. Prudence needed him. She—
A shot rang out, so close it made Tristan start. The thief paused, his eyes widening behind his mask. He wavered on his feet a long moment, looking down at his shirt.
Prudence stepped forward. She held a smoking pistol, the front of her dress covered in mud where she’d crawled beneath the carriage. From where he stood, Tristan could see her pale face, her pulse beating
wildly in her throat.
The thief touched a hand to his shirt. It came away black in the moonlight. “Mon dieu,” he said in an oddly detached voice. “I think you have killed me.”
With that, he fell to his knees, the rapier dropping into the mud. A weak laugh bubbled from his lips. “Our last run. We thought it would—” He faltered, his eyes sliding closed as he fell to the ground.
Tristan’s knee buckled at the exact moment and he fell beside the man. Prudence was there in a trice. She threw the pistol to one side and reached for him. “Oh Tristan, can you—”
The horse burst into sight. But it wasn’t MacGrady or Toggle, or even Stevens who’d come at the call to action. It was Reeves. He dismounted and threw the reins to the coachman, and then ran forward, pausing only to remove the lantern from the side of the carriage.
But instead of coming to Tristan’s side, he went to the thief’s and knelt. He pressed his fingers to the man’s throat. “He’s still breathing. Thank the lord!”
Tristan allowed Prudence to help him to his feet, her warm hands holding him in place. He hugged her to him, enveloping her completely. Oh God, to have almost lost her. He didn’t dare think what might have happened if—
The thief moaned softly. Reeves undid the muffler around his neck and pressed it to the man’s wounds. “He will live,” the butler said, relief evident in his quiet voice. “It’s not a deep wound, but it must be cleaned.”
“I am not cleaning the wounds of a man who tried to kill us all.”
Reeves sent Tristan a sharp look. “He didn’t try to kill you, just wound you.”
“He seemed in dead earnest,” Prudence offered.
“Aye,” Tristan said with a sarcastic note in his voice. “It certainly felt as if he was trying to kill me.”
Reeves tied his muffler into place about the man’s side. “He has never killed anyone. Not once in his entire career as a highwayman, and there were plenty of opportunities.”
The thief stirred, then lifted a hand to his head. “What the hell happened?”