The Wild One(3)

The brigand was still coming, roaring at the top of his lungs, already bringing up a second pistol.

Gamely, Gareth tried to get to his feet and reach his sword. He slipped in the wet weeds, his cheek on fire as though he'd been stung by a hundred bees. He was outnumbered, his pistol spent, his sword just out of reach. But he wasn't done for. Not yet. Not by any stretch of the imagination. He lunged for his sword, rolled onto his back, and sitting up, flung the weapon at the oncoming highwayman with all his strength.

The blade caught the robber just beneath the jaw and nearly took his head off. He went over backward, clawing at his throat, his dying breath a terrible, rasping gurgle.

And then Gareth saw one of the two children running toward him, obviously thinking he was the only safety left in this world gone mad.

"Billy!" the mother was screaming. "Billy, no, get back!"

The last highwayman spun around. Wild-eyed and desperate, he saw the fleeing child, saw that his two friends were dead, and, as though to avenge a night gone wrong, brought his pistol up, training it on the little boy's back.

"Billeeeeeeee!"

Gareth lunged to his feet, threw himself at the child, and tumbled him to the ground, shielding him with his body. The pistol exploded at close range, deafening him, a white-hot lance of fire ripping through his ribs as he rolled over and over through grass and weeds and nettles, the child still in his arms.

He came to rest upon his back, the wet weeds beneath him, blood gushing hotly from his side. He lay still, blinking up at the trees, the rain falling gently upon his throbbing cheek.

His fading mind echoed his earlier words. Well done, good fellow! Well done....

The child sprang up and ran, sobbing, back to his mother.

And for Lord Gareth de Montforte, all went dark.





Chapter 2


"Help him!" Juliet cried. She thrust Charlotte into the other mother's arms, picked up her skirts and ran headlong through the weeds toward the fallen gentleman. "Dear God, he saved us all!"

Still in shock, the other passengers stood milling around like sheep; but Juliet's words penetrated their daze, and before he could flee into the woods, the last highwayman was subdued and others were charging through the weeds after Juliet.

"Is he all right?"

"Bless him, he saved that little boy, that dear, sweet little boy —"

Juliet reached him first. He lay on his back, half-concealed by a canopy of dripping nettles — broken, broken, bleeding, still. She plunged to her knees beside him and grabbed his hand — so lifeless, so smooth — and shoved her finger beneath the lace that draped it, trying to locate a pulse.

More people came rushing up behind her.

"Is he dead?"

"Sure looks like it to me, poor fellow —"

Juliet looked up at them over her shoulder. "He's not dead, but I fear he will be if we don't get help, and soon!"

Ignoring the commotion behind her, she squeezed his fingers, willing him to hold onto life as more people came running to his assistance. She saw the blood soaking through his fine clothes, the paleness of his cheek beneath the crescent of dark lashes that lay against it. Wet stinging nettles were crushed beneath the other. Tenderly, Juliet reached down, flinching as those same fiery weeds stung her own tender skin, and lifted his head so that his face was clear of them.

His cheek was already puckered and angry. Juliet looked up at the circle of faces above. "Someone, please give me a coat, a cape, anything!"

His breath smelled of spirits. His head was a heavy, lolling weight in her hands, his damp hair coming loose from its queue to spill in soft, tumbling waves over her fingers. Someone thrust a jacket beneath him, and she gently eased his head back down to it as more people came hurrying toward them.

"Let's get him out of these nettles and into the coach," Juliet said, instinctively taking charge. "You, take his feet. You there, help me take his shoulders. Hurry, let's go!"

Their fallen savior was a tall man, lean and honed with muscle, a dead weight as they struggled to lift him. They rushed him across the road to the coach, where two people were already spreading a blanket on the grass for him while another hastily began clearing the vehicle's interior of broken glass. The other mother stood nearby, pale and silent, trying to quiet Charlotte wile her own children, seeing the injured man, hid their faces in her skirts.

Juliet shut her mind to her baby's distress. "Right here. Easy with him. He's been hurt, badly."

People pressed close, eager to help. This gallant gentleman had saved their lives, and everyone seemed to want to touch him. Hands reached out to support him beneath his arms, his body, his legs, though so many were not needed and only got in the way. Gently, they lowered him to the blanket while the coach was made ready for him. Kneeling beside him on the wet grass, the other passengers crowding around and above her, Juliet quickly loosened the flawlessly knotted, elegant spill of lace at his throat. Then she began unbuttoning his waistcoat, her fingertips going wet and slippery with blood as they neared the wound in his side.