Five

Darington awoke cold, unable to move. His head swam as he tried to remember where he was and why he was in so much pain. He was aware of motion, a swaying and a jerky bounce. Maybe he was at sea? No, the motion was wrong; he was in a coach. A coach that needed new springs.

And he had been shot.

His mind emerging from the haze, he remembered rescuing his sister and getting shot in the process. He was not sure how long he had been lying unconscious on the cold floorboards. He wondered why the men didn’t shoot him again and finish the job. Perhaps they were content just to let him bleed to death. At least he had been spared the disagreeable prospect of having to attend a social engagement at Mrs. Howell’s, though a different form of avoidance would have been preferred.

As his faculties slowly returned, he continued to feign unconsciousness with the hopes that his abductors would talk, and he could discover who they were and why they had taken his sister and then him. He noted there were only three left in the coach; the one who had left to go after his sister had not returned. He was not sure if that was a good or bad sign.

The three remaining men wore mufflers, concealing their faces. He found it strange that not one of his abductors had removed his watch or wallet. If they were not thieves, what did they want?

“Why couldn’t we stay at the inn?” one of them finally complained.

“’Cause Cap’n said to move on,” growled another.

“Couldn’t we stop? I’m mighty cold with that broken window,” complained the man who had wrapped a blue muffler around his face and head.

Try being shot and lying on the freezing floor of the coach.

“Shut yer trap. Cap’n is already mad as blazes we got the wrong one,” said the gravelly voice of the man in black.

Darington tried to place the voices but could not. These men were not known to him. Who was this captain? A sea captain he assumed, though for all he knew, they could have been referring to an army captain. They said nothing more until they rolled to a stop.

“What’s wrong?” hollered one of the men out the window to the driver.

“Overturned coach blocking the road,” the driver called back.

“Push it out of the way,” growled one of the men from inside the coach.

“There’s two gentry coves out here.”

“Heavy pockets, eh? Let’s have us a look, shall we?” said the man in a red muffler. He and the large man in black stepped out of the coach, leaving the complaining man to watch over Darington.

Darington took a breath. Now was his time to act. The remaining man leaned his head out the broken window, interested in what was happening outside. Dare noted the handle of a knife concealed in the man’s boot and slowly reached for it, ignoring the pain.

Dare gritted his teeth and sprung forward, grabbing the knife. Pain seared through him, but Dare continued his attack, lunging at the man. The man jerked back in surprise, but Dare was already in midswing, and instead of stabbing him in the chest, the blade struck deep into the man’s thigh.

The man opened his mouth to scream in pain, but Dare elbowed him quick and hard in the head, causing the man to slump over without making a sound. Dare collapsed back on the floor, panting.

With a grunt of effort, Dare removed the knife from the man’s thigh. He briefly considered dispatching the man, but killing an unconscious man did not sit well with his sense of honor. He could only hope he had nicked an artery and the man would bleed to death.

As quietly as possible, Dare opened the coach door and snuck out into the cold night. A coach had overturned ahead of them and the thieves were busy pushing it farther into the ditch while demanding money from two cloaked figures standing in the road. Dare wanted to help, but he knew he could do precious little in his condition. He hoped the men in the overturned coach could fend for themselves, for Dare could not be of service. If he wanted to live, he needed to flee.

He was about to turn away when a gust of freezing wind blew the hood away from the face of one of the occupants. It was a lady. A young lady, with wide eyes and blond curls. She stood her ground, raising her chin in defiance.

“You a pretty, little thing, ain’t you?” The man in red pushed a curl of golden hair away from her face with the muzzle of his pistol.

Dare ground out a curse. He could not flee and leave a lady unprotected. Better to be dead than to live as a coward. He kept his head low, sneaking up from behind in the darkness. He crept closer, gritting his teeth against the pain. He was directly behind the man when the lady turned toward him. Their eyes met for an instant and he froze. If she gave him away, consciously or not, he was as good as dead.

Her focus flickered back to the highwaymen, not drawing their attention to him. At least he was attempting to save a lady with the presence of mind not to get him killed. Well, not yet anyway.

“You, sir, are a cad,” said the young lady to the man pointing a pistol at her. She had admirable pluck, he had to give her that much.

“You need to come wi’ me, sweet thing,” drawled the man in red. “I’d like to get me hands on those—”

Whatever the vile molester was going to say was cut short by the pressure of a knife blade at his throat. Dare grabbed him from behind, holding the man in a headlock with the blade to the man’s throat. Pain sliced through him at the effort it took to stand upright, and he wasn’t sure if the whimper was from the man he threatened or from himself.

“Drop it!” Dare demanded, and the man in red dropped his pistol to the ground. “You too,” Dare commanded the larger man in black.

The surprised man in black lowered the pistol but did not drop it. “Damnation, how did you get out o’ the coach?” He followed the statement with a string of curses. The lady backed herself and her companion out of the way, toward their overturned coach. Dare was glad she had the sense to stay out of the line of fire.

“Drop your pistol or this man’s dead,” Dare commanded again.

“If I let ye go, I’m dead.” The man in black raised his pistol and shot.

A flash in the night temporarily blinded him, and the explosive shot rang in his ears. Dare had always suspected the ringing sound of gunfire would be the last sound he would ever hear, and here it was. He had failed.

Dare was in so much pain it was impossible to tell where he had been shot, but to his surprise, both he and the brigand slumped to the ground. The man in black had shot his own comrade. So much the better. Dare grabbed the pistol the dead man had dropped and shot the man in black without hesitation.

The man turned to flee, staggered a few steps, and dropped to the ground. Dare’s hands were shaking so much he was surprised he had been able to hit him. Shouts pierced the night and Dare turned to the driver of the coach, who jumped down from the box and rushed toward him with a knife.

Dare stood, trying to devise a plan to counter the attack, but the pain wracked his body and he collapsed right as the man was upon him. The man tripped over him and landed hard. Dare flicked the pistol around in his hand and hit the man hard on the temple with the butt of the gun. The man moaned and lay still.

Dare’s breaths came in panting bursts as he struggled to regain his feet. Every inhalation was agony.

“My good sir,” said an angelic voice. “You have saved us!”

Dare turned in the direction of the voice and a vision of loveliness met him. The lady was a young one, with large eyes, golden curls, and lips that even in the dim light of the carriage lantern appeared rosy and plump. She smiled at him and her cheeks flushed in the cold. Even standing in the mud of the road, she was the most beautiful lady he had ever seen.

A gray haze impaired the outside of his vision, but his gaze remained on her. It was a nicer view than anything he thought he would see as he died. He was content in that.

“Forgive me,” he said in a rasp. “I fear I can no longer be of service.” His knees buckled and he fell. He didn’t even feel hitting the ground.