My Fair Princess (13 page)

“What the devil?” He heard a muffled shout and the neighing protest of the horses, and then nothing.

He reached for the door, but it swung open before he could grasp the handle. The barrel of a pistol stared him right in the face.

* * *

“Confound it,” Gillian muttered. All they needed after another long, dreary day on the road was bandits. She was so bloody sick of bandits.

Come to think of it, she was sick of most everything English, with the possible exception of the people in the carriage. And if the English bastard holding a gun on them dared to lay a hand on her mother or anyone else, she would throttle him.

Leverton shot her a sharp glance. “Let me handle this.”

She widened her eyes, as if to suggest that she wouldn't
dream
of causing trouble. He snorted and went back to eyeing the pistol with disdain.

“You, Mr. Fancy. Get out of the bloody carriage,” barked the man with the pistol.

“If you will cease waving that weapon in my face, I will be happy to comply,” Leverton said coldly. The duke was managing to convey a perfect mix of contempt and irritation. It would take more than highwaymen to rattle His Grace, the Duke of Leverton.

Her mother, however, was trembling like a leaf in the wind. Gillian wanted to hug her, but needed her hands free in case the situation spun out of control. Stealthily, she reached for her reticule.

Leverton uncurled his big body and moved to the carriage door. The brute with the pistol—an exceedingly large fellow, sporting a battered felt cap and a dirty kerchief over his mouth and nose—retreated to let the duke disembark.

“Just be quiet and stay still,” the duke said over his shoulder.

Lady Filby looked almost as calm as her brother, although she'd gone a bit green around the gills. “I will be as quiet as a mouse, I assure you.”

“I wasn't talking to you.” He flicked Gillian a warning glance.

She scowled, but Leverton had already stepped down to the road. “Who's in charge here?” he said in his haughtiest voice, before stalking out of her line of sight.

By the sound of the answering voices, there were at least two other men besides their guard, who stood a few feet away with his weapon still pointed in their direction.

Her reticule in hand, Gillian leaned in to her mother. “Change places with me, Mamma.”

Her mother jerked, her eyes wide and frightened. Gillian's anger flared into a cold, steady flame. This incident would be a terrifying reminder of everything Mamma had lost, and of how helpless they'd all been to prevent it.

“What are you going to do?” Mamma whispered.

“I just want to see what's going on,” Gillian said soothingly.

Her mother reluctantly nodded. As they switched places, Elizabeth shot Gillian a sharp glance, but didn't object.

“Oy, you two settle down in there,” ordered their guard.

Leverton, now back in her sights, sent her a hard look.

“I had to get my mother out of the draft,” Gillian said in a meek voice. “She's quite prone to taking a chill.”

“Well, just sit yer arse down and be still,” the man said. “Or I'll give you what for.” He waggled the pistol for emphasis.

“There's no need for threats,” Leverton said. “Especially not to three defenseless women.”

“I'll be the judge of that,” snapped one of the other bandits.

“No, I will,” Leverton replied. “Or there will be hell to pay, on my word as Duke of Leverton.”

His words silenced their captors for several long seconds. Even the pugnacious guard seemed taken aback. Gillian was quite sure that everyone in the county knew how powerful the duke was, including the bandits.

She craned out a bit, trying to see around the edge of the doorframe. Leverton fell back into discussion with a tall, spare man in a long, dark coat, a slouchy hat, and a kerchief that effectively obscured his features in the fading light. She could make out four other armed men, scattered behind the fellow who she guessed was their leader.

In front of the duke's carriage, two carts hooked up to ponies blocked the road. The carts were stacked with small barrels and square bundles bound up in some sort of cloth. Oddly, the wheels of the carts were wrapped with straw. A boy stood at the head of one of the ponies, holding the bridle.

Leverton's coachman and groom were nowhere in sight.

“Can you see anything?” Elizabeth whispered.

Gillian nodded. “Two carts are blocking the road, as if they were crossing from the field on the other side. And there's straw tied to the wheels.”

“Drat,” muttered Lady Filby. “They're smugglers, probably carrying gin and tobacco. It's quite common in these parts.”

“Smugglers? Oh, no,” moaned Mamma. She slumped against the squabs, as if on the edge of a swoon.

Gillian mentally cursed as she supported her mother. Smugglers could be exceedingly dangerous if they perceived their run to be jeopardized.

Their guard jabbed the pistol through the door of the carriage. “Keep that ninny quiet, or you'll be sorry. We don't need no wailin' and carryin' on. You'll bring the law down on us.”

“Come now, sir,” Lady Filby said in a credibly calm voice. “There isn't a soul around for miles. I'm sure you're quite safe.”

The brute moved in closer to peer at the countess, or more specifically, at her generous bosom.

I think not.
Gillian leaned forward to draw his attention. “You're making more noise than we are. If anyone is calling attention to this lovely little gathering, it's you.”

Her gambit worked, since his focus swung round to her. “I said stow it, you silly bitch.”

Leverton whipped around, the tails of his driving coat whirling about his legs. “You, there. You will leave the ladies alone. Now.”

Their guard straightened. “Or you'll do what, Mr. Fancy? Beat me to a bloody pulp?”

The duke didn't move a muscle, but the look on his face caused the man to take a step back. Gillian couldn't blame the lout. In the flickering light of the carriage lamps, Leverton's eyes and expression conveyed a cold, dangerous fury.

“For Christ's sake,” growled the apparent leader of the gang, “the last thing we need is the bleedin' Duke of Leverton up our arses. Just keep watch on them women and keep
your
bleedin' mouth shut, you stupid yob.”

The guard reluctantly retreated a few paces, muttering under his breath.

Gillian went back to watching Leverton. “It sounds like the duke is trying to negotiate our way out of this,” she murmured.

“We've obviously stumbled into the middle of a run,” Lady Filby answered in a low voice. “Although I'm surprised they'd take such a risk before nightfall. But with any luck, we should be on our way in a few minutes.”

Gillian blinked. “Just like that?”

“Smuggling has been going on in this part of England for decades. Most landowners find it easier to turn a blind eye than to fight it.”

Everything in Gillian automatically rebelled at the notion. In her experience, nothing good came from ignoring acts committed by ruthless thugs.

The countess obviously deduced her thoughts. “It's the safest thing to do, truly,” she murmured.

Perhaps, but Gillian had no intention of sitting there like hapless prey, hoping for the best. Keeping the movement as small as possible, she slipped her hand inside her reticule.

A moment later, their guard reappeared in the door of the carriage, waving his pistol at Gillian. “Wot's that you got around your neck?”

Gillian sucked in a breath.
Hell and damnation.

At some point, the gold chain around her neck had slipped out from under her collar. That meant that the gold St. Michael medallion embedded with tiny rubies was clearly visible against the dark green of her spencer. While Gillian didn't give a hang about jewels or other fripperies, her stepfather had given her the necklace shortly before he was murdered. It was meant to place her under the protection of the most powerful of archangels and to keep her safe when Step-papa wasn't there to watch over her. Gillian never took it off.

“Just a paste necklace,” she said, slipping it back under her collar. Impatiently, she glanced over at Leverton. What in heaven's name was taking so long?

“It don't look like paste to me,” the guard said. “Hand it over.”

“Here, take this instead.” Lady Filby rummaged in her reticule and pulled out a wad of pound notes.

The man plucked the notes from her hand and shoved them in his pocket. “And I'll take the pretty gel's necklace as well. Got to get somethin' more for all the trouble yer causin' us.”

“No, you won't,” Gillian said in a pleasant voice.

“Feisty, are you? I like 'em that way. If you don't wants to give me your bauble, how about you give me something else?”

It would be a miracle if she didn't end up killing the swine. “Really? What do you have in mind?”

“Gillian, don't,” her mother whispered.

The man leaned in and rested a huge, gloved hand on Gillian's thigh. “How's about you and me get behind one of these trees over there? You give me what I want, and you gets to keep yer bauble.”

“Unhand her instantly,” Lady Filby said, “or the duke will have your head.”

“Shut your gob or you'll be next,” the man snarled. “Maybe you'll be next, anyway. I've a fancy to see what's under all that fine frippery.”

The countess went pale.

“I think not,” Gillian scoffed.

“You ain't givin' the orders.” The brute squeezed her thigh hard, then reached for the chain.

He froze when Gillian pressed the barrel of her small pistol under his jaw. “Do not touch my necklace.”

He snatched his hand back.

“Now, I would hate to make a mess of this lovely upholstery by blowing out your brains,” she said. “Please back away before I am forced to do just that.” When he hesitated, she parted her lips in her most vicious smile. “I
will
blow your brains out, without hesitation.”

“You're barking mad,” he rasped out.

“Then I suggest you do as I say, since you have no idea what I might do next.”

He started a slow retreat. Gillian followed, keeping her pistol under his chin. He was poised awkwardly on the steps when he slipped and pitched forward, practically into her lap. His weight threw her off balance, jogging her pistol and causing it to discharge.

“Bloody hell, you shot me!” he yelped, clutching his shoulder.

“So it would seem,” she muttered, annoyed that she'd lost control of the situation.

He stared at her, clearly in shock. Then a large, gloved hand clamped on to his shoulder and flung him backwards out of the carriage. The duke loomed in the doorway.

“What the devil is going on here?” he said over the uproar going on outside the coach.

His eyes widened as he took in the pistol in Gillian's hand. He glanced behind him, then back at Gillian.

“Did you just shoot that man?” He plucked the weapon from her hand.

She shrugged.

“Charles, he was robbing us,” Lady Filby said in a shaky voice. “And he was threatening to do much worse. What else was Gillian to do?”

“Not start a riot,” he said as he shoved the pistol into his coat pocket. “You have just made our lives infinitely more complicated, Miss Dryden.”

“I didn't plan it, I assure you. Besides, what else was I to do? You were otherwise engaged,” Gillian said with heavy sarcasm.

He was clearly about to retort when somebody shoved him from behind. Cursing, Leverton glared over his shoulder. “What now?”

“Get 'em all out of the carriage,” someone growled from behind him.

“Your man attacked one of my companions,” the duke said in a cold voice. “She was simply defending herself.”

“She bloody well shot my brother. Get 'em out, or I'll drag 'em out myself.”

Leverton started to protest, but a moment later a man, presumably the one who'd just spoken, appeared behind the duke and jabbed a pistol against his skull.

Gillian's heart lurched. “All right, we're coming.”

The man with the gun retreated, allowing the three women to alight with the duke's assistance. They lined up along the side of the carriage. In the fading dusk, Gillian could make out six men, including the idiot she'd shot and one attending to his wound. One man held a gun on the coachman and the groom, who were sitting on the ground by the carriage, while the others leveled their weapons at the women. Their leader squared off with Leverton.

A quick glance around showed Gillian only one dim light on the other side of the field flanking the road, presumably from a farmhouse or cottage in the distance. The road itself was deserted.

“How is he?” the gang leader asked the man who was tending to his brother.

“Just hit his upper arm. Bullet went clean through.”

“Which one shot you?” the leader growled to his brother.

“The skinny gel,” the smuggler said in a whining voice.

The leader kicked him in the leg. “Lettin' a girl shoot you—yer a disgrace to the family, you are,” he said, ignoring his brother's offended yowl.

“Just tell me how much, and we'll be on our way,” Leverton said in an impatient voice.

“We'll be wantin' more than just a few pound notes, Yer Grace. You've caused me a great deal of trouble tonight.”

The leader's gaze moved to Gillian, interest flickering in his expression. Fortunately, she had a small but very sharp knife in her boot if she needed to defend herself. Unfortunately, that meant there would still be four armed, angry men to deal with.