The Scot. Lyn Stone
true enough, but you must show me how to work the thing.”
They spent the next quarter hour discussing the assembly and operation of the repeating percussion revolver. Fascinated, James wished they had time to stop and get in a few practice shots before he was required to defend the earl’s life with this. The only pistol he’d ever fired was his father’s old brass flintlock, which he had not even thought to bring with him.
“You will keep one of these as a gift, of course,” the earl told him. “When you oust that steward of mine from Drevers, you might have need of it.”
James agreed, cocking and releasing the hammer, getting used to the feel of the weapon and sighting out the window, though he could see little for a target other than the silhouettes of trees in the distance. The moon was on the rise, full and soon to be bright enough to cast shadows, he figured.
Several miles before they reached Solly’s Copse where they expected the attack to occur, James doused the inside lamps. “So our eyes will adjust,” he explained. “No use in making ourselves lighted targets, eh?”
“Quite right. I should have considered that. It’s been some time since my army days, though even then the danger lay right in front of you, out in the open. No need for this sort of thing.”
The earl wasn’t the only one who’d never faced trouble such as this, James thought. Oh, he’d tangled in fistfights more times than he could count, got caught up in a few where blades came into it, but he’d never been obliged to dodge a ball or a bullet. “First time for everything,” he muttered.
They fell silent as they reached the short stretch of road that led through a section of fairly dense woods. The trees had been cut back enough to allow two coaches to pass one another if need be, but many of the towering oaks had spread their branches in a canopy that blocked out much of the moonlight. The coachman slowed the team to a near walk because of the lack of visibility.
James felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise with a prickling sensation. He could smell the danger closing in, feel it in his bones. Ears attuned to every sound, he cursed the noise made by sixteen clopping hooves on the road. If only he could have ridden up top, but there was no room to hide there among the baggage. Two men in the driver’s box would signal they were expecting trouble.
The only advantage he and Eastonby had tonight would be surprise when the attackers realized they had two armed men well prepared to defend themselves inside the coach rather than a complacent, unarmed noble and his defenseless daughter.
A shout to halt rang out. One of the horses screamed and the coach stopped, rocking with the motion of the restless, stamping team. Someone had grabbed the leaders. If there were only the two men, at least one was busy.
“Now!” James rasped. He flung open the door and leaped out, rolling directly into the cover of the trees as a shot zinged past his ear.
He glanced up and saw that the coachman had ducked down out of sight below the seat as instructed. The earl was at the back of the coach, attempting to get around to the far side.
Suddenly the night erupted with the sound, smell and flashes of rapid gunfire. A figure dashed for the door to the coach and yanked it open. James aimed and fired. The man yelled, cursed and grabbed his right shoulder, even as he whirled and shot repeatedly into the trees where James crouched. One bullet whizzed by his head and thunked into a tree trunk just behind him. Another dinged against his boot.
Flat on the ground now, James aimed again, this time for the man’s leg. If they could take him alive, they might find out who was behind this. Just as he pulled the trigger, something stung his hand. He watched the man grasp his chest and crumple to the ground. “Damn.” Something had fouled his aim. He flexed his hand.
Then he scrambled up, left his cover and raced around the coach to find the earl. He was on one knee beside the rear wheel drawing a bead on a shadow tearing off through the trees. The shot obviously missed the mark. James threw up his pistol and simply pointed it, firing three times in rapid succession. The body crashed into the brush and lay still.
Suddenly a horse broke through the trees behind them, the rider twisted in the saddle, shooting as he rode away. James braced his gun hand with the other, took steady aim and fired, only to hear an empty click.
The earl was busy reloading, cursing the dark and his own clumsiness while the rider disappeared in the distance. Hoofbeats faded and the night fell still.
“’Tis over now, sir,” James told him and handed the earl his pistol. “But you might as well take your time and reload ’em both.”
He felt curiously light-headed and needed to sit down, but he didn’t think he could make it back inside the coach. Suddenly his legs buckled beneath him and he had no choice in the matter.
“James? What’s wrong, son?”
He lay on his back in the dirt, resting. The earl’s voice sounded far away, which was odd, he thought. Only a moment ago, he’d been nearby. And the moon was gone now. Dark as pitch, the sky.
His hands and face felt wet. Warm as it was, a bit of rain would be good. Clear the air of stench and smoke. Then pain hit from all directions at once. Not rain, he realized suddenly. It was blood. His. Blood in his eyes and on his hands.
“I’m shot!” he exclaimed with a short laugh of utter disbelief. “Th’ bloody bastards got me.”
Chapter Four
Susanna snuggled deep beneath the downy soft covers and reveled in the touch of the man who held her. His hand was pale and graceful, skimming over her body like a whisper-thin scarf, leaving pleasure in its path. “Mmm,” she crooned and arched into his gentle caresses.
She frowned when he suddenly grasped her shoulder too firmly and shook it relentlessly.
“Please, wake, my lady! I’m sent to fetch you! Hurry!”
Susanna’s eyes flew open and she bolted upright in the bed, staring in surprise at a young, unfamiliar, red-faced maid instead of the fashionably pale lover of her dream.
“It—it’s the earl come back,” the maid stammered. “He—he says tell you come quick!”
Father had returned? Something must have gone horribly wrong. Susanna threw back the covers, slipped out of bed and raced into the sitting room. But he wasn’t there.
The maid rushed past her, pointing to the other bedroom. “In there, my lady. He’s been shot! Twice!”
“Mercy, no!” Susanna cried and broke into a run. Just inside his doorway, she ran smack into him. He appeared whole and unbloodied as far as she could tell. She ran her hands over his chest. “Oh, Father! Thank goodness! The girl told me—”
He held her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Suz, James is wounded. He saved my life. Now we must do all we can to save his.”
She jerked her gaze from her father to the huge tester bed with its ornately carved posts and snowy linens. On it lay the Scot, hands clasped on his chest, stretched out like a corpse.
The back of one hand bore a small bloody gouge. Dark red stained his trousers well above his knee and a copious amount of blood, now dried, marred his high wide brow and the left side of his face. His eyes were closed and he lay motionless except for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest.
Susanna crept around her father and went to the bedside. Tentatively, she lifted the unruly waves off his forehead and saw the deep ugly furrow that still seeped. “Oh, Father, it looks awful!”
“That’s not too serious, I think,” he said, now beside her as they observed. “That leg wound could be, however. The doctor’s on his way. We should get the boy undressed and wash away some of this blood.”
Susanna nodded once as she backed away. “I’ll send in someone with a basin of water and cloths. Shall I call up a footman to assist?”
Her