Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3) (3 page)

He’d never reach the scene on foot quickly enough, he reasoned. With an oath, he swung himself into the saddle. “Come on, you useless horse, something’s afoot, and I’ve no intention of missing it. You can hobble a bit for a good cause.”

Anything taking place on or near Sin-Jin’s manor was
Duncan’s business. He owed it to his employer to look into the disturbance as quickly as possible.

Beyond the obvious necessity of employing speed, if there was trouble, Duncan knew he cast a more imposing image astride a horse than he did walking it. He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and urged the animal on. At the same moment, he drew his pistol from his waistband. There were highwaymen about, and he had never taken any unnecessary chances.

With renewed spirit, his foul temper all but forgotten, he rode in the direction of the pistol shot.

Though his lust was raging in his loins, business always came first for Jeremy Jones. That meant counting riches before mounting bitches.

He chuckled to himself at his own cleverness. He had
been quick to spy the trunk atop the coach and order the
women to take it down. He’d been treated to a glimpse of long-stockinged leg as the pretty one had struggled to bring the trunk to the ground.

The trunk now at his feet, he looked down and found it locked.

He raised a brow toward the young one. “Open your trunk for me,” he ordered.

She had brought the trunk down because the highwayman had threatened to shoot Sylvia, but now enough was enough. The money in the trunk might be the only hope she had of rescuing her father. She wasn’t about to lose it because of the likes of him. Anger got the better of her common sense.

Beth fisted her hands on her waist. “I’ve lost the key.”

Dismounted, the man stood barely half a foot taller than Beth. His eyes became small slits as he regarded her. He didn’t want to be wasting powder and ball shooting off a lock if there was a way around it.

“Don’t sass me, you little bitch, or it’ll go harder on you.” To make his meaning clear, he raised the pistol that hadn’t been fired yet and aimed it at her breast.

“Would seem a pity to ruin such a fine pair. But I will. Make no mistake about it.”

“Tell him, Beth!” Sylvia bleated, hanging on Bern’s arm. “For heaven’s sake, where’s the key?”

Beth shook her off. When she made no answer, the
highwayman cocked his pistol slowly. “If you kill me, you’ll never find it.”

“On the contrary,” he countered. “If I kill you, I’ll have the pleasure of searching your person without get
ting scratched for my trouble.” His eyes narrowed as he
looked at the hint of soft cleavage that peered out from her bodice. His fingers itched. “I’d wager the key’s being kept nice and warm.”

Beth raised her chin stubbornly, then gasped as a shot
rang out. Her hand flew to her breast, but there was no
sticky trail of blood, no fiery pain, nothing. She was un
harmed. It was the highwayman who crumpled in a ragged heap, his bloodcurdling scream piercing the air.

Stunned, confused, Beth stared down at the bleeding
man. When she looked up, there was another man on
horseback approaching. This one was far better dressed,
his golden mane flying in the wind as he rode toward them. He held a smoking pistol in his hand.

Two of them in one day, she thought in disbelief. The country was crawling with highwaymen. Quickly, she
wrenched the pistol from the man on the ground. Holding it in both hands, she stepped forward and took aim at the rider.

“Hold,” Beth ordered. “Sylvia, get behind me.”

Duncan pulled up his horse. The short, squat woman
scurried behind the pretty one with the pistol. It was like a bear trying to hide behind a sapling, he thought. A
very beautiful sapling. He wondered why he hadn’t seen
her before.

Duncan stayed where he was, but he nodded at the weapon she held, his amused smile mocking her slightly. He surmised that the pistol in her hand was the one he had heard discharge a moment ago.

“You have to load it again before it works.”

The green eyes were mocking her, she thought, annoyed. Beth cocked back the hammer with her thumb. ‘This one hasn’t been fired.”

She realized that in her haste, she had picked up the wrong pistol. It was the other one that hadn’t been discharged. But luckily, this man had no way of knowing that.

She hoped.

His first inclination was to lean over and push the pistol she was holding away from him. It made him exceedingly uneasy to be staring down the barrel of a firearm. But she looked as if she would fire it at him with no qualms. It was prudent to keep a safe distance, for the moment.

“I’ve just saved your life,” Duncan pointed out.

He swung one leg over the pommel and dismounted, his eyes never leaving hers. His men had often said he was capable of talking the down off a duck and the virtue out of a saint. But he was never foolish when it came to firearms and a woman’s freshly raised ire.

Beth relaxed marginally, though her thumb was still on the hammer.

“True, but are you a good Samaritan?” She studied him cautiously with eyes that looked far older than she, “Or a lecher?”

“I’ve been known to be a little of both at times,” Duncan said truthfully.

He glanced toward the highwayman. The man was
motionless. Dead, no doubt. But he wasn’t in a position to verify his supposition. The girl raised the pistol higher, its muzzle aimed directly at his chest.

“A Samaritan at the moment,” he added, hoping that
would placate her.

He assessed the situation quickly as he smiled warmly at Sylvia. The older woman hesitantly returned his smile. “We’ll need to bury these two.” He nodded toward the two bodies that were in close proximity. “And it appears that you’ll need a driver.”

She gave him no opportunity to volunteer. There was something about the look in his eyes. Beth wasn’t certain she could trust him. There was too much amuse
ment within them to make her feel comfortable in his
company. “I can handle the horses myself.”

An independent wench, he decided. A rarity indeed. “Good. As it happens, my horse has thrown a shoe and I need a ride to my manor.” Taking up his reins, he took a step toward the rear of the coach to tie his horse to it. “You can take me. It’s due east. You can’t miss it.”

She didn’t trust him. He smiled too quickly, too broadly. His manner was too smooth. She turned, pistol still cocked, its target still his chest. One look at the barrel had Duncan halting in his tracks.

“Sorry, I’m on my way to Dover. I’ve no time to take
you anywhere.” Beth motioned Duncan away from the
coach. “Sylvia, get in. And as for you,” she addressed Duncan, “you can make yourself useful by loading our trunk on top of the coach. I—“

The whine of a bullet cut into her words.

Duncan’s eyes widened in surprise a moment before he crumpled at Beth’s feet. Beth whirled and saw that the highwayman had momentarily rallied. He had fired his pistol at Duncan, then fallen back motionless into the blood that had flowed from his mortal wound.

Behind her she heard a thud, and knew without looking that Sylvia had finally fainted.

Chapter Three

The rain began to fall from the heavens in earnest again, the clouds shedding horrified tears as they witnessed what Beth saw.

Beth stood alone in the clearing. Waging a battle to blanket her anxiety, she stared at the bodies surrounding
her. They were strewn about like so many cast-off, tattered dolls. Broken dolls in need of attention.

Indecision tore at her. She did not know who to turn to first.

Friendship would have had her hurrying to see to Syl
via. But her traveling companion was in the least need of Beth’s skills. Sylvia had only fainted and would be
all right. The rain would undoubtedly revive her, by and
by. And there appeared to be no rocks nearby upon which she might have hit her head.

Compassion would have dictated that Beth see to the
driver to ascertain if he was truly dead. Or, at the very least, it would have her directing her attention to the handsome Samaritan who had come galloping to their aid. Instead of being rewarded, misfortune had fallen upon his shoulders.

But as much as Beth wanted to be in all places at the same moment, she knew that the highwayman was the one in most urgent need of her attention. Not because she feared for his life, but because she feared for hers and Sylvia’s. And quite possibly the others, if they were still alive.

If the spineless blight on society—even for England,
she thought vehemently—was not dead, if he was only
wounded, then the highwayman was a danger to them all.

A danger only she, at the moment, could protect them from.

Beth glanced at the pistol that lay a few feet from the highwayman’s hand. Its muzzle was partially embedded in mud. She lifted it, then carefully cleaned it with a corner of her skirt. She sighed a little as she watched the deep green material darken as it absorbed the filth. This was no time for vanities.

Her eyes never left the highwayman as she watched for signs of life. For a moment, thinking of the grief he had caused, she contemplated quickly reloading the pistol and discharging it once more. She knew her inclina
tion would have shamed both her parents. But then, she knew quite well that she was too willful and far too ag
gressive to suit the norms of the day. She had certainly heard it said and been directly told as much by enough people in her time.

Beth tightened her hand around the hilt of the weapon and walked toward the would-be thief. With pistol cocked as if it were loaded—for how was he to know the difference?—she nudged the man’s side cautiously with the toe of her shoe. Beth took care to keep out of reach of his hands, should he be only pretending.

The wound in his chest oozed, the blood mixing with the rain as it flowed into the puddle forming just beneath his body. The mud reddened as the blood soaked its way into the earth.

Beth swallowed and told herself not to think on it. The man was a scoundrel and deserved what he had gotten.

The grizzled man didn’t move. Unconvinced, cautious by nature in some avenues, Beth watched for precious seconds more. Her eyes were on his chest, waiting for some telltale rise and fall.

There was none.

Gathering her courage to her, she leaned closer. Hesitantly, her hand hovered over his mouth. Though the rain beat down on the surface, there was no breath to warm her palm.

The man was dead.

With a sigh, she pulled the pistol from his frozen grasp, yanking it from his stilled fingers. Quickly she turned toward the driver.

She found no cause for hope there. The small, round hole in the old man’s head was exuding blood. Were it
not for the rain, it would have covered his face in a macabre mask of scarlet. Rather, there were thin red strips
running along it, tiny tributaries dripping along his cheeks to the ground beneath.

Beth shuddered, feeling her stomach lurch and knot at
the sight.

Quickly, as she had seen her father do countless times, she made the sign of the cross and commended the man’s soul to a higher authority than any found on earth. She could only hope that he had not suffered.

The deep groan had her starting. She immediately swung around, her heart lodged in her throat. But the dead remained dead. It was the man who had fallen at her feet who moaned.

Mud was adhering to the bottom of her shoes as she made her way over to him now. He had a bullet wound in the shoulder, but he was still alive.

Crouching down, the hem of her dress absorbing the mud, Beth quickly examined the younger man. She placed her fingertips to his throat to feel for a reassuring sign of life.

Mixed with the raindrops, Duncan felt something soft feathering along his skin. His eyes fluttered opened and he tried to clear his vision of the heavy mists that clouded it. He blinked twice in hopes of better discerning the form next to him.

Beth saw the man’s lips move, but heard nothing. She leaned closer, trying to make out the words.

“What?”

His head was filled with the smell of his own blood and the odor of wet wool that clung to the air. But above this was something lighter, something stirring. The scent of a beautiful woman.

Duncan felt his mouth curving, though he wasn’t quite certain how he had managed it. “So I’ve finally reached it, have I?”

The man was obviously out of his head. “Reached what, sir?”

“Heaven.” The single word floated out on the last of his breath. As he drew in another, his ribs ached. Fire burned through him, hurting his shoulder, his ribs, his belly. “For you’re surely an angel.” This time, he was
sure he smiled. He wanted to die smiling, if that was the
way of it. “Strange! I had never envisioned angels dressed in dark green. I suppose it makes you easier to find, amid the clouds.”

The man was flirting with her. Bleeding like a pig prepared for a feast, and he was showering her with words she knew he felt would turn her head. Obviously he couldn’t be in as bad a condition as she first had surmised, not if he could bandy words about like some shameless miscreant.

She leaned back on her heels, tottering slightly as the
ground softened beneath her.

“No, this is decidedly not heaven. And you are exactly where you were five minutes ago, on a Godforsaken road in a Godforsaken country.”

He would have laughed if the fire in his shoulder had let him. “You’re not English, I take it.”

She was American born, with a rich French heritage to fall back on. Neither country called the English “friend.”

She frowned as she looked at his wound. The ball, she would wager, was still lodged there. It needed to come out. But not here.

“No, thank God, I am not. And neither will you be within a short amount of time, if I don’t find a way to bind that wound. You’re liable to bleed to death out here.”