Chapter Three #2
“Come now, Campion,” Charley pleaded. “Give her a moment to calm down.” He came forward to mediate when a pistol crack sounded in the air. The heat of the shot whizzed past Ian and missed Miss Harrell’s head by inches, burying itself in the side of the wagon.
The only thing that had saved her was her step back at his approach.
Ian pushed Miss Harrell behind him and turned on Charley, who immediately declared, “Wasn’t me, Campion. I don’t do guns.”
“It must be Harrell. He wants your hide, Charley.” And it would be completely in character for him to have had Ian followed to exact his revenge.
“Yes, but the shot was aimed at me,” Miss Harrell argued.
“No, it was aimed at Charley,” Ian replied, irritated beyond words with her countermanding everything he said. “Your father wants him dead.”
The next shot almost struck Charley. “Run!” Ian ordered impatiently.
The Londoner didn’t have to be told twice. His feet moved so fast they churned up dirt, while the women melted into the woods.
Ian held a hand up in the air and turned to confront the unknown assailants. “Wait! I have Harrell’s daughter. She’s safe.”
The answer was another pistol shot, this one most definitely marked for Miss Harrell.
“See? He’s shooting at me!” she insisted.
“Yes,” he agreed, pushing her around the wagon.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.” A third shot splintered wood at the corner close to his head.
“Damn,” Ian swore. “There’s a party of them.” He shielded her with his body while pulling his pistol from his belt. “Climb in the wagon. Take cover.”
“Perhaps we should run for the trees?”
“Climb—in—the—wagon.” He bit each word out, in no mood to argue any longer. Turning, he fired his pistol toward the shots, not expecting to hit anything, but he wanted their assailants to know he was no easy mark.
In answer two shots were fired back. And Miss Harrell had yet to move.
His temper short, Ian put his hand on Miss Harrell’s rump and boosted her up into the wagon in a most ungentlemanly manner. He then dove in after her, feeling the shot as it breezed by his feet.
It was very dark in the wagon and he landed right on top of Miss Harrell who was attempting to roll over in a flurry of petticoats and skirt. He found himself between her legs, his hand on her breast.
“Pardon,” he murmured quickly. With difficulty he moved off of her.
There was little floor space, and the walls were covered with well-stocked shelves, so that every square inch was used to advantage.
Ian banged his head on an iron kettle. Ducking, he reached for his knapsack, fumbling in the dark for his shot and powder flask to reload his gun.
“You honestly don’t know who is shooting at us?” she questioned.
Ian spit out the cap to his gunpowder. “I thought perhaps your father had sent someone after Charley. I’m wrong.”
She snorted her agreement…and Ian began to like her even less. He reloaded his pistol, his movements economical and efficient in the dark from years of practice.
“And you say they must have followed you to me?”
“Apparently,” Ian said. He tucked his gunpowder back in his knapsack.
“I was safer with Charley,” was her tart reply.
At that moment, the shadow of a head poked around the front opening of the wagon, directly behind Miss Harrell. Ian didn’t hesitate. He fired the pistol and hit his mark. Miss Harrell screamed and scrambled to Ian’s other side. The victim gave a soft grunt and fell to the ground.
“One down,” Ian said with satisfaction.
Outside there were shouts of alarm. Whoever thought he was easy pickings was wrong.
However, now that he and Miss Harrell were in the wagon, their attackers had the upper hand.
Ian didn’t like feeling trapped, but he was certain he could stave them off until morning.
In daylight, the game would be different. He reloaded the pistol.
Scrunched beside him, her arms around her knees, Miss Harrell read his mind. “Do you believe we can escape them?”
“I’m hoping Charley has gone for help.”
“Do you really think he will?”
“No.”
There was a space of silence. Ian listened, straining to hear any and all sounds. The night was deadly quiet. He sensed that their attackers were regrouping—but to what purpose?
His eyes were growing accustomed to the dark.
He felt the walls with his hand, hoping there was another weapon of some sort he could use hidden there.
Instead, all he found were books. Stacks and stacks of books.
Miss Harrell’s precious books. He couldn’t stop a chuckle.
Here they were, fighting for their lives, and if push came to shove, he supposed they could throw books at their assailants.
He’d start with the romantic novels, then all books of poetry.
“Who are you?” she said softly. “You aren’t like any of the other men in my father’s employ.”
“He hired me special.” He slung his knapsack on one arm.
“But he doesn’t like the Irish.”
“No one does.”
His answer was not what she had expected. Even in the dark, he could feel her staring at him, as if taking new measure.
But she was nothing if not her father’s daughter. “How do I know you’ve come from him?”
Ian wanted to ask who else would be willing to serve as her human shield, but bit his tongue. “You took these books from the house. They are the only possessions you left with, save for the clothes you were wearing when you left.”
“You are correct.” There was a beat of silence. Then she asked, “Who do you think is shooting at us?”
“I don’t know. For all I know, they could be with your father.”
“He doesn’t want me dead,” she said with certainty.
Ian wasn’t so certain. A man with a beautiful young wife didn’t need an obstinate daughter who runs away before her betrothal could be announced. “Then who does?”
“No one.”
“You’re obviously wrong.”
She released a shuddering breath—a response more telling than words—and scooted a fraction of an inch closer to him. “I’m afraid.”
He knew how much fear it took for her to make such an admission. “We’re not done for yet,” he promised.
She nodded and they sat still for a moment, listening and waiting. She started to speak again, but he silenced her by raising his hand to her lips.
Something was afoot outside. He was experiencing the tingling between his shoulder blades that usually warned him of trouble.
Why his war-heightened senses hadn’t picked up on the fact he was being followed, he didn’t know…
and it concerned him. Deeply concerned him.
Too often his life had been saved by his gut instincts.
He hated the idea he might be getting too old for these games.
Minutes passed like hours.
What the devil were the bastards up to out there?
He thought he heard a rustling. He stared at the black wall of the wagon in front of him, wishing he could see through it. He raised his pistol. With his other arm, he protectively pushed Miss Harrell back against her books, keeping her close to his side.
Let the bastards come. His temper was up now, and he knew he could have the strength of ten men when he was this angry. He’d make them think twice before they took on Ian Campion.
But when the attack came, it wasn’t what he expected.
They set the wagon on fire.
There were three thumps on the roof and then quiet. Ian frowned, uncertain. It was Miss Harrell who understood. “The roof. They’ve taken wood from the fire and have thrown it on the roof.”
As if to confirm her words, smoke suddenly billowed in through every unseen crack in the ceiling.
Ian pushed Miss Harrell down to the ground and threw his body over her, preparing for the possibility of the roof caving in. “We’ve got to get out of here.”
“They’ll be waiting for us.”
He nodded grimly. “That’s their plan.” And how would he combat it?
“There’s a door beneath me,” she said.
“A what?” He wasn’t certain he’d heard correctly.
“A trapdoor,” she explained, a touch of impatience in her voice. “There is a trapdoor in the floor.”
Ian ran his hand along the floor. He could feel the door’s outlines. “Why didn’t you say something earlier? Let’s get out of here.”
“I would if you weren’t lying on top of me. You are a heavy man. I can’t move.”
Ian frowned down at her. “Has anyone told you there are moments when absolute truthfulness is not appreciated?”
“Often.”
“You should listen to them.” He rolled off of her, pulling her close so he had room to reach for the handle. The wagon was going up like a tinderbox. Already, flames lapped the roof.
She reached beyond him for a book.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“I can’t let my books burn. Especially this one.”
“Yes, you can,” he answered, and holding her close, clasped his fingers around the iron ring handle of the trapdoor and pulled up. Without a heartbeat’s waste of time, he shifted his weight and sent them both tumbling to the ground.