Laura Kinsale (50 page)

“Why, have you never seen a Romany, ma’am?” The captain asked in great surprise. “Them that travel about the roads in caravans, and trade horses and tell fortunes and dance, and ain’t above thieving?”

Zenia shook her head. For the next few miles, while the train ran along the bottom of the valley, the men regaled her with gypsy stories, descriptions of their clothing and odd ways, until she was reassured that they were right, and it had been a gypsy they had seen.

“Are we slowing down?” she asked.

“Oh, aye,” said the mining engineer. “We’re coming upon the incline. It will be tedious going awhile now.”

“There he is again,” the captain exclaimed. “Pacing us, the cheeky devil.”

The horseman could be seen again, cantering leisurely along the ridge, closer now, the horse’s white mane and tail floating out. Zenia could see the red headscarf bound about his face, covering all but his eyes. He looked toward the train as he rode. Suddenly he pulled up again, the horse dancing on its forefeet. There was a faint, fading cheer from the passengers in the open second-class carriage behind.

“We’re slowing down,” Zenia said anxiously.

No one answered her. They were all looking at the horseman on the ridge as he lifted a rifle overhead, his arm raised against the sky. There was an answering roar from the second-class wagon.

‘“I am a little apprehensive about this fellow,” the engineer said.

“Nonsense,” said the captain. He scowled out the window. “Does anyone have a firearm with them?”

“The guards are armed, I believe.”

The supervisor with the silk hat gave a scornful laugh. “With billy clubs!”

The rider turned, putting his horse down the slope at a long, lazy angle toward the moving train. The engine seemed to progress at a slower and slower rate. The horseman disappeared again, hidden by the lip of a valley.

“How many do you suppose there are?” the captain asked, with his jaw set in determination.

“A whole band, is it? They’ve chosen a good spot,” the engineer said grimly. “The locomotive can’t pull the incline before Beck Hole.”

“What does that mean?” Zenia asked anxiously.

“The carriages must be hauled up, ma’am. The train will stop at Goathland, in just a moment.”

Suddenly there was the report of gunfire, unmistakable above the ringing grind of the wheels.

“What was that?” the supervisor exclaimed.

“They’re shooting at him!” Zenia cried.

“He’s shooting at us!” yelled the engineer at the same instant, ducking below the window. “Get down, ma’am!”

Zenia shook off his hand, staring out, trying to find the horseman, terrified because she could not see him.

“It came from the second-class wagon,” the captain said, kneeling on the seat to see out the high window behind him. “One of them has a pistol, thank God!”

The train began to roll faster. The shriek of the whistle assailed their ears as the carriage started to rattle with the speed.

“What’s happening?” the captain demanded, looking around.

“By God, he’s not going to stop at Goathland!” the engineer exclaimed. “He’s going to try to make the incline!”

Their speed increased. A small huddle of houses flew past the window, scattered gray huts on the moor, two men running alongside the train and falling behind as it plunged down a sharp slope, flying ever faster. Over the sound of the rails, there was a sharp report and shouting from behind.

“Will they shoot him?” Zenia cried.

She craned to find the horseman; caught him in glimpses as the train hurtled down into a tree-studded ravine. He was a perfect target—color against gray and black, but the train was moving fast, swaying and jostling, and he was galloping, flashes of brilliance through the bare trees.

“My God, what a horse that must be!” someone cried.

There was another crack of gunfire that made Zenia flinch. “Madman!” she whispered under her breath. “Allah protect you!”

“Have no fear, ma’am!” The captain patted his heavy hand on her knee. “I believe he’s alone, the crazy devil.”

Zenia did not even turn. She was straining to see the horseman, listening for more shots. The train hit a short level space and charged upward, the slope suddenly becoming steep, robbing the engine of momentum. There was a third shot, and a fourth, as the trees thinned and the robed horseman broke into the open, pacing the train. A sound like a collective groan came from the second-class wagon. The horseman turned in the saddle. Zenia heard him yell a desert war cry, pointing his rifle in the air over the wagon and firing four shots one on another like a triumphant boast.

“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” Zenia sobbed under her breath. “What are you doing?”

“Damn, the fools are out of ball,” the captain reported from his vantage. “They should have waited for a clear shot, the lubbers!”

As the train’s speed was choked by the slope, the rider drew closer. The engine labored, slower and slower. She could see the horseman’s eyes now, his eyes that seemed to laugh inhumanly within the mantle. The white horse moved in a powerful easy gallop, hooves flying over rock and snow, leaping a ravine, keeping a steady bearing with her window.

“The brakes, man!” the engineer cried. “For God’s sake, if he does not prepare, we’ll roll back!”

The brakes’ squeal answered him. The violent rocking turned to a shudder as the train ground toward a painful halt. Zenia knew the horseman now with the certainty of blind fury, of terrible excitement. He reined the Arab sharply toward the cars, ranging close alongside, and leaned to open the carriage door beside her before the train’s motion had ceased, holding his rifle trained for any threat from the men jumping out of the second-class wagon.

The train stopped with a jerk at the same instant the door flung wide. “Unhand her, you gypsy blackguard!” the captain shouted, lunging to prevent him as the horse jostled up to the door and the brilliantly robed and masked reincarnation of Haj Hasan reached for Zenia, his hand closing on her arm and yanking her brutally forward.

She was so afraid that someone would shoot him, or he would shoot them, that she could find no voice but to shout, “No!” amid the struggle of bodies trying at once to interfere.

“Oh, yes,” he snarled. “I will
have you.”

The gentlemen were all trying to pull her back, but he suddenly let go of her and leveled the rifle into the car, bringing all motion to an abrupt stop. The mare’s nostrils flared, puffing jets of steam.

“Now,” he said. “You will kindly free my wife to accompany me.”

“Your wife!” the supervisor exclaimed.

Zenia could see some of the second-class passengers running up. A wave of the rifle barrel in their direction made them falter. The railway employees were shouting up near the engine, but amid the clash of metal and the anguished screaming whistle of the locomotive they seemed fully occupied with preventing the train from sliding backwards.

“Move!”
Hasan bellowed at Zenia, tearing down the mask of the kuffiyah. “Will you give them the whole bloody day to reload?”

Seeing his face, the darkness and bright flame, his demon alive and burning in him, living on outlawry, on senseless peril—the emotion that had been pressing and swarming at the back of her throat burst free. “Damn you!” she shouted, her voice rising even above the wail of the steam.

The mare threw her head, eyes rolling amid the shouts and commotion. The dull pop of a misfire made him glance away toward it.

“Wolf cub!” he yelled.
“Yallah!”

She plunged forward, tearing free of the sea captain, tripping, falling into Lord Winter’s hold. “Damn you,” she sobbed as he lifted her, denying her feet their last solid support. “Damn you, damn you!” she cried, clinging to his shoulders as he swung her onto the mare, burying her face in the free woolen folds of his cloak. “Why do you do this to me?”

She felt the horse whirl beneath her.
 
A gust of wind sent the cloak flying back, showing her the train immobilized, suspended halfway up the overpowering slope, everyone gaping at them in the winter afternoon. And that was the last glimpse she saw of any of them, for he took her at a gallop up the slope past the paralyzed locomotive. At the top he halted, grinning like a savage back at the figures that bundled futilely after them on foot. The countryside echoed to the blasting cascade as he emptied the rifle at the moor and sky.

“Very amusing,” Zenia said tightly, finally taking command of her voice as they rode through the falling snow. “And now if you will convey me to Grosmont, I will join Mr. Jocelyn as I intended.”

The grip on her waist tightened. “Mr. Jocelyn is not there.”

Zenia sat up straight, the cold wind stinging her cheeks. “What have you done to him?”

“Why, nothing. No doubt he is reposing happily in Edinburgh.”

“But—” She paused. “Edinburgh?” she asked, with dawning suspicion.

“Why should he be anywhere else?”

She stared across the purple-gray moor. She thought of the letter from Mr. Jocelyn, written and signed by a secretary, the precisely assembled tickets that had brought her here to this exact time and isolated place.

“You stole my letter,” she said furiously. “My God, you will do anything! Anything to take Elizabeth. Were you so sure I would bring her in spite of any advice? How well you know me! I very nearly did, but Mrs. Lamb foiled you there! You might have had Elizabeth, assuming she was not killed in that mad attack—”

He brought the mare to a sudden halt. “I didn’t intend her to come,” he said sharply. “Nor did I intend there to be shooting. The guards don’t carry guns; it was some pot-valiant lobcock with a pistol in second-class who started shooting, and that rattlepate of an engineer who did his best to smash the train!”

“Then why were you waving your rifle?” she shouted, dashing snow from her cheeks.

“Oh, for your amusement,” he said caustically.

Zenia half-turned in the saddle. She could not see his face, only his jaw and mouth and the bright colored wool about his throat.

“Foolish of me,” he said, his voice harsh. “I meant to ride down beside the train, meet you at Goathland, and carry you off. Very romantic, you see. Mr. Jocelyn would never think of it.”

“Of course not,” she cried. “He is perfectly sane!”

The flakes of snow flew against Lord Winter’s jaw, white crystals that poised for a moment and then melted on his skin. “Yes,” he said tightly, “and if it had been up to him, you’d still be cowering in a corner at Dar Joon, wouldn’t you?”

“At least,” she said, turning to face the front and pulling the edges of her bonnet close, “I would not be riding through snowstorms in the midst of nowhere!”

He brought his cloak up, drawing her back against his chest and covering her with the dark, loose folds, lifting his arm to envelop her mouth and chin and shoulders. He pressed his open palm against her face, holding the cloak there against the wind. Through the layers of wool and silk, she could smell his scent. She could feel the pulse of his inner wrist against her cheekbone, the familiar life of him.

He bent his head, nuzzling his mouth to her jaw and throat. “There are other things you won’t be doing with Jocelyn,” he murmured, his voice low in his chest. “Because I’ll kill him first, and then you.”

Zenia drew in a breath, her body responding to his as it always did, against her will and judgment. “He told me that he prefers no physical intimacy in marriage,” she said coldly.

“Then he’s a liar,” Lord Winter said, warming her cheek with his words. “Or something else.”

“He is a good, kind man, who will give Elizabeth and me a safe home. He would not threaten to kill me.”

“But does he know what he’s bargained for? Does he know who you’re going to be, once you have your fill of a safe little home in Bentinck Street?”

“I could never have my fill of it.”

“You told Mrs. Lamb you were the only one who knew me.” He held her, his arm taut. “But you’ve forgotten the other half of that, Zenia. You’ve forgotten that I know you too.”

A strange shiver, something deeper than the cold, seemed to seep into her limbs and heart. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I mean,” he said softly near her ear, “that I am your demon. In you and beside you and over you. Run where you will, little wolf, but I’m always with you.”