Chapter Eighteen #2
“We’re approaching Buxton Bridge as we speak,” he said, taking her hand. “It has five stone arches, and every spring, a village maiden is chosen—”
The carriage ground to a sudden halt. Emma looked up, feeling Adrian’s hand tighten over hers.
It was deadly quiet outside except for the whickering of the six horses and the rhythmic flow of the river through the stony bed below.
The coach’s undersprings creaked as the men on the box jumped to the roadside.
“We’ve stopped,” she said, sitting up.
The Earl of Odham opened his eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Queer place to take a rest,” Hermia said quietly. “One always remembers the myths about monsters who reside under these old bridges.”
Adrian looked up slowly. He frowned at Odham. “Keep them inside.”
Emma met Adrian’s gaze. She had seen him slide his hand inside his coat. “Do be careful,” she said in an anxious voice. “Not all monsters are myths.”
He smiled, then turned to the door. Emma gave a start as it opened unexpectedly.
Bones, Adrian’s valet, stood against the fog.
He was unsuccessfully trying to hide his master’s sword behind his back.
Emma understood the message behind her husband’s faint nod of acknowledgment.
He meant to confront whoever had stopped the coach in this isolated place should he need to.
“They’ve taken the coachman and footman onto the bridge, my lord,” Bones whispered hastily. “They did not notice me on the back. They were waiting at the other side.”
“How many?” Adrian asked, stepping down onto the road.
“Three, I saw.”
“Then they are outnumbered.” His calm voice seemed unnatural to Emma. Did the man not understand the danger? Oh, fool she was. Of course he understood, and he almost looked as if he relished what would come.
“Stay behind the carriage, Bones, unless I call you. By no means leave my wife unprotected.”
“Yes, my lord.” In the blink of an eye Bones looked less a London valet than a soldier who had witnessed the brutalities of life. “The coachman and his man were disarmed before they could cry for help,” he added in an undertone.
Adrian walked several paces from the carriage, pausing to take his bearings. He knew this place, this bridge. Even in a thick fog he remembered the bridle path that cut through the trees, the myriad places a person could hide.
As far as he could tell, there were only two mounted men on the bridge. Which meant the third whom Bones had mentioned was—his blood boiled over. Where was the bastard hiding?
He swiveled around and stared at the coach. It sat like a tempting jewel on the secluded track. Damn his impatience. Damn his insistence on a detour. Damn him for not taking Cedric’s warning about the perils of Scarfield’s roads to heart.
If anyone so much as approached Emma and her companions, he would not live to see the following day. And his dainty-mannered wife would know without a doubt that her efforts to civilize Adrian had been in vain.
So be it.
England was no more civilized than the most heathen land he had defended. Men were men, subject to the same temptations and greed the world over no matter how one disguised it.
In the damp haze, he unharnessed one of the coach’s six horses and vaulted onto her back.
The mare sensed his urgency, pricked her ears, and quickened her pace.
He raised his sword, the artfully crafted Persian scimitar that he had been given for protecting a harem.
A wolf’s head had been engraved upon the enameled silver hilt.
He had accepted the gift, thinking he would never use it in England. Or anywhere for that matter.
The report of a pistol echoed through the mist from the direction of the bridge. He thought he heard someone—something—fall into the water below. He resisted the urge to turn around. Instead, he charged full-tilt at the masked horseman who had just emerged from the trees.
It felt odd and yet he recognized what it was, death in the air, the pulsing of blood through his veins.
The fog might have been a sandstorm. The masked assailant could have been one of his faceless enemies.
Suddenly the weight of the scimitar felt reassuring in his hand instead of unfamiliar.
He grasped the pistol in the other and charged.
The rider who approached the carriage looked startled by his appearance. Adrian felt a grim moment of humor. Obviously the normal highwayman did not expect to encounter a victim wielding a deadly scimitar in defense of a ducal carriage.
It was the hardest thing in the world to sit by helplessly while one’s husband confronted a band of brigands.
Emma scooted across the seat to the window, her reticule beneath her traveling cloak.
Whom exactly was Adrian confronting? Her throat tightened.
She had lost sight of his powerful frame in the fog.
The muffled echo of hoofbeats pounding in the mist usettled her.
Odham laid a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Best not to look, my dear.”
“Of course she has to look,” Hermia said, squeezing in front of him. “How do we know what we are up against if we sit here shivering like spinsters?”
He sat back, busying himself with the leather case he had pulled upon his lap. “Never fear, my dear. I shall put my life on the line to protect you, both of you, and consider it an honor.”
Hermia slowly turned her head to regard him. “If anyone thinks that I shall sit by idly while you are assaulted—”
He looked up, his eyes bright with emotion. “You are a stouthearted lady, Hermia. I am honored to have known you.”
“We’re not dead yet, Odham, for heaven’s sake. Do you need a phial of vinegar to restore you, Emma?” she asked in concern.
Emma reached into her reticule, her voice even. “Ask me when this is over and I shall surely say yes.”
Adrian took advantage of his adversary’s surprise and kicked his sturdy mount into a cavalry charge. The horse responded with a hesitant but satisfying burst of speed. The highwayman glanced around in obvious disconcertment, then raised his flintlock to fire.
Adrian swiveled at the waist, his reflexes guiding his horse in a zigzag course toward the other rider.
A pistol ball soared over his head. With unnerving focus he watched the other man draw short to reload.
“Now,” he said softly to the animal beneath him.
“Do not be afraid. Keep going. You will be fine.”
He dug in his heels, his sword arm tensed in anticipation, and cantered in a semicircle. The highwayman glanced up with a cry of panic. His gaze seemed transfixed by the scimitar that flashed like quicksilver in the twilight mist. Perhaps he thought it an illusion.
The curved blade sang in the air. It had taken many a life and had never failed to protect its owner, or so Adrian had been told. He lowered his arm and watched the man sway on his saddle before pitching backward. His bloodied chest glowed a bright splotch of red in the gray shadows.