The Prince's Bride

Chapter Three

While he ran, Gabriel told himself all the things he would do when he reached the source of the screams.

He would not insert himself into the conflict, whatever it was.

He would observe it from a concealed location. Downwind. With a clear path to retreat.

He would ascertain who and how and why—all for his own information. It was pertinent to the peace and quiet of the forest and his solitude. This was reconnaissance, not a rescue; prevention, not preservation.

For a long, hopeful moment, the screams had paused, but now they rang on. Sometimes words, sometimes only sound. Always resonant fear. As long as she cried out, he knew she lived. The more she cried, the easier she was to locate. The sounds came from Pike Hill on Long Harry Road. He’d suspected this. The rise would conceal an ambush; the ledge would restrict escape. Gabriel kicked into a sprint.

The undergrowth was thickest between the trail and the road; serpent vines and spiked saplings, thorns thick and waist high. It was a nuisance in the dark, but Gabriel knew the land. He slipped easily through unseen gaps in brush, sidestepping bogholes and leaping over logs. He pushed deftly over, around, through, a silent piece of the night.

When he reached the last stand of trees before the roadside, he paused, allowing his breathing to slow, searching the undergrowth for stragglers or a watch. He saw no one. Channing Meade was sloppy. Not that it mattered. Gabriel had only come to look. He crept forward. Before he could see the road, he heard them.

“Cry all you like; there’s no one within fifty miles to hear you scream,” growled the man’s voice. So it was Channing Meade. Gabriel had never met the man, but he’d observed him from various lookouts.

Gabriel shuttled from one tree to the next, moving silently closer. He heard horses—four, possibly five—their hooves stamping, the creaks of their tack. He squinted, trying to distinguish shadow from figure. There was a line of mounted riders, their backs to him. The men sat alert in their saddles, intently focused on the business in the road. The animals appeared sleepy, bored.

Gabriel inched closer, spinning the handle of the ax in his hand. He wouldn’t need the weapon, he reminded himself. He meant only to be ready. It was easier to throw if it was in his hand.

A fallen tree stretched parallel to the road and Gabriel slunk to it, flattening himself against the damp, spongy floor of the forest. From here, he could see beyond the mounted riders to Channing Meade, unmistakable for his size, pacing before the men on horseback. Against his swollen belly swung the helpless figure of a woman in a cloak. Meade would dwarf most women, and this one was no exception. He clutched her back to his front and pressed a dagger to her cheek.

Gabriel closed his eyes. He exhaled. And now he’d seen her. A woman restrained. A knife. Five men looking on.

What did I expect?he asked himself. You followed the sound of distress. She was literally crying out for help. You knew. He swore in his head. His gut constricted like a taut rope, the fibers snapping under the weight of indecision. His own safety versus hers. Weakness versus might. The unprotected at the hands of the merciless. Lust and greed unchecked, and no one else for miles. His sanctuary disrupted.

When he opened his eyes, Meade was pacing back and forth, parading the terrified woman before his men. Gabriel squinted, trying to see. Her profile was partly obscured by hood, then her hair, Meade’s round shoulder. Finally, the highwayman turned in the same moment clouds slid from the moon. He saw her. She had pale skin and big eyes; her expression was taut with fear. She was young but not a child. She was afraid but not hysterical. Meade wrenched her face upward and her delicate profile looked as out of place in the forest as a teacup.

Gabriel swallowed back something bitter and hot. He felt suddenly winded, his body coiled, eager to pounce. He forced himself to exhale and look away. He studied the five men on horseback, inventorying their weapons. He examined the mounts, trying to assess their age and fitness. He looked down the road to the east and up to the west and checked the position of the moon. He looked at everything and saw nothing so clearly than a woman in need of help.

“Please, sir,” she said, her voice terrified but steady. “Believe me when I say I’ve got nothing. No money. No jewelry. Not even food. I rode from the inn in Pewsey to have a look at the forest’s edge and lost my way.”

“Of course that’s your claim,” Channing Meade snarled. “You’ve a horse, haven’t you?”

“Please do not harm the mare,” she begged. “She is not valuable. They loaned her to me for no fee, but they’ll want her back. They’ll come looking for her.”

Meade shut her up by grabbing her hair and snapping her head back. Gabriel flinched. A hatch in his chest swung open. Cold, fresh air stung whatever was inside.

“Answer me with sass, will you?” Meade growled. “See how far that gets you.”

“Please,” the woman cried, “I’m telling you plainly. If it’s valuables you seek, you’ll be disappointed. I’m sorry, I simply don’t—”

“Your body then,” Channing Meade said, yanking back her head with a snap. “Easier to divvy up. A turn for every man. We’ll make a game of it. Find anything you may have hidden in the process.”

Gabriel was off the ground before Meade finished the threat. He pressed his hat low on his head, gripped the ax, and darted to the road.