Yankee Earl (43 page)

      
Uncertain if she had heard him aright, Rachel turned in his embrace, trying to see his face by moonlight. “What do you—”

      
His hand suddenly covered her mouth and he whispered, “Be still. I hear something.”

      
As he quickly pulled on his pants, she searched frantically for her scattered clothing. Before she could do more than draw the blouse over her head, he knelt beside her, covering her with the blanket as he whispered in her ear, “Wait here and do not move or make a sound until I say 'tis clear.”

      
With that, he vanished silently into the night. His life among the Shawnee had certainly taught him much that she wished she knew in a dangerous situation such as this. She was left to fume as she struggled into her skirt, heeding his admonition to make no noise. But she would not huddle idly beneath a blanket while danger threatened him and Fox.

      
Jason circled the dying campfire and saw that Fox was awake, lying tensely beneath his blanket, feigning sleep. The boy had a keen ear. His Manton pistols lay close beside him, ready to fire as LaFarge had taught him.
Good man, that Frenchie
. Jason heard another snap and a guttural curse from the opposite side of the camp. Grateful that Rachel was safely out of harm's way, he made the low call of an owl, signaling Fox, who threw off his covers and seized his weapons. As he rushed toward Jason's hiding place, a shot whizzed past his head, missing him in the darkness.

      
“Follow me and don't make a sound,” Jason whispered, taking one of the pistols from the boy. With his other hand he removed the knife from his boot.

      
“Your pistols are by the fire,” Fox whispered back, adding in a frightened tone, “So are Rachel's. Where is she?”

      
“Safe,” was all he replied.

      
He could hear them, doubtless clumsy street toughs who might be adept in back alleys but cow-handed, or rather, hoofed, in the woods. Keeping them from Rachel was his paramount concern. They must be more of Forrestal's minions, paid to kill him and most likely kidnap her so the disgraced lordling could drag her to Gretna Green. He cursed the man as they moved swiftly toward the sounds of faint thrashing. Then he heard the distant wicker of horses and turned to Fox. “Let us see how many mounts.”

      
“Then we will know how many are in the woods.” Fox followed his hero.

      
Five horses were being held by a skinny fellow who had the smell of the London streets upon him. After motioning Fox to stand still, Jason slipped quickly up behind the thug and coshed him on the skull with the butt of his pistol. The man slumped to the ground unconscious.

      
“Get to their mounts and send them flying when I signal you. Then find cover and wait until I call you. Fire only if you are attacked, and then shoot to kill. Understand?”

      
The boy nodded calmly. Jason's heart would have burst with pride if their situation were not so dangerous. He retraced his steps toward the other four, knowing that only one shot and his blade stood between him and death. He had to shoot at least one man before he signaled Fox. That would leave three who would, he hoped, rush toward their horses and thus allow him to ambush them in their headlong escape. If he could take out another with his knife, he hoped Fox could handle at least one of the survivors. Then, with luck, he could take out the last man from behind. He shivered. Too much of his strategy seemed built upon hope and luck.

      
Above all, Rachel must not be taken. Rachel. His wife. His love. How would she have answered his question if he'd not heard that distant sound of horses and stopped her from speaking?

      
He had no time to consider it as he waited behind the trunk of an oak, freezing at the sound to his right. Twenty yards? The sound of snapping twigs came closer, and Jason raised his pistol.

      
Rachel reached the rim of faint light cast by the campfire, then stopped. She could detect no sign of Jason or Fox. Where in blazes were they, and who or what was out there that so concerned them? Fools. She knew how to shoot as well as they, in fact probably better, and her Clark pistols lay clearly visible beside her saddlebags. She cursed herself for not taking one with her when she had slipped off with Jason, but considering the passion of that moment, well…

      
“No help for it,” she murmured softly as she made a dash toward her weapons, only then seeing Jason's Hawkens also lying in plain sight. Something was definitely wrong! Just as she stepped forward, leaves crunched behind her, and a big meaty paw covered her mouth, muffling her scream.

      
Even before she heard his voice, the acrid stench of Mace Bings signaled her attacker's identity. After that day in the stables, she would never forget the way he smelled.

      
“Well now, sweeting, wot 'ave I got ‘ere?” he whispered, then gasped as her elbow connected wickedly with his gut.

      
She kicked, twisting in his arms for better leverage, but his brawny arms held her tightly in spite of the blows she dealt. Then his fist smashed into her jaw, and all went dark as her head snapped backward. He threw her over his shoulder with a grunt and began running to the horses.

      
As long as they had the gel, they could get Beaumont in time. Besides, it was safer this way, since the earl and that boy were lurking somewhere in the woods. Just then he heard the sound of a shot nearby, almost immediately followed by a struggle beyond the thicket of buckthorn off to his right. Murray? Or was it Percy engaging Beaumont? One of them must be down.

      
He did not wait to find out.

      
Fortunately, Jason's shot had hit its mark and the lumbering assassin was flat on his back and not moving. Unfortunately, the second brute behind him was twice the size of the one stretched on the ground. He was also much more agile than any human his size had a right to be. Jason grazed the thug's throat with his blade, but the man ducked swiftly enough to avoid being cleanly sliced, then raised his own blade.

      
With their hands locked over each other's knife hands, the two antagonists fought with the viciousness of men schooled in combat on waterfront wharves. When his foe slammed Jason against a tree and almost succeeded in kneeing him in the groin, the earl decided it was time for a diversion. He took a quick breath and made the call.

      
Almost at once, the sound of horses whinnying and galloping in all directions filled the quiet night. His opponent's momentary distraction provided Jason the opening he needed to land his own blow, which connected sharply between the thug's legs. The instant his knife hand was freed, Jason plied his weapon and disposed of another enemy.

      
Where in bloody hell were the other two?

      
He stood still for a moment, waiting to hear sounds of footfalls over the receding noise of pounding hooves. Instead, he heard a familiar voice yell out, “Meet at Beckworth's, lads!”

      
Bings! As Jason raced toward the sound of the man's retreat, he remembered that day in the stables when he and Rachel had discussed Bristol, believing Mace to be unconscious. “The bastard is more cunning than I would have credited,” he muttered as he ran.

      
Suddenly he realized that Mace's voice came not from the direction where Fox had scattered their horses, but from where his own mounts were tethered. He whistled for Araby just as a shot rang out. “Fox!”

      
“I got him, Jace,” the boy yelled, obviously pursuing his prey even though he was now unarmed.

      
Jason could hear Araby's frantic cry as the big stallion tried to break free, mingled with the sounds of the other two horses stamping and jumping in distress. He ran blindly now as a sense of impending doom surrounded him like the heavy night air.

      
Where was Rachel? He'd heard not a sound from her throughout all the fighting. Suddenly Araby came thundering through the brush toward him. Without a thought, he swung up on the black's back and turned him toward his wife's hiding place just outside the dying coals of the campfire. All that remained there was the blanket, lying in a twisted heap on the mossy earth.

      
“Rachel!” he yelled as he wheeled Araby around and headed toward the sound of two horses galloping away over the hill.

      
She did not reply.

      
Fox came running from the trees just as Jason reached the spot where their horses had been. “Mace Bings has Rachel,” he said as he swung down from Araby and scooped up his brace of Hawken pistols as well as her Clarks. “Reload both of your weapons and wait here,” he instructed, tossing one spent Manton to the boy.

      
“Jace, wait. Araby—”

      
Jason could see the blood on the horse's neck in the dying firelight. The bastard must have tried to slash his throat when he couldn't get him to go with the other horses,” Jason snarled with an oath. Already he could feel the big black shuddering in pain. He slid down, knowing that Araby could not carry him fast or far enough to overtake Mace and retrieve Rachel.

      
“What are we going to do?” the boy asked, his voice breaking.

      
“Reload the guns,” he said grimly. “We'll have to run down two of the horses you scattered.”

      
“But how will we find Rachel?” Fox was fighting tears now.

      
“Mace knew how to find us, following the road from Bristol east. He's working for Forrestal, who wants me dead. That's why he virtually gave us an invitation to this Beckworth's.”

      
“A trap? Aye,” Fox said, with evident relief in his voice. “Then we can save her. If Forrestal wants to marry her, he won't allow her to come to harm.”

      
Jason nodded, but thought to himself,
Frederick Forrestal had better pray that bastard he hired does not touch her before we reach them…else he as well as Mace Bings will learn how the Shawnee kill their blood enemies.

In the dying firelight the Yankee earl's face looked demonic.

* * * *

      
“So, m'boy, thought you'd take a bit of warm Mediterranean air, did you? Could you possibly be so dense as to think the scandal over your botched kidnapping attempt would simply evaporate like fog in Florentine sunlight?” Drum tsked at the sullen-looking Frederick Forrestal, who sprawled his lanky frame over a splintery wooden chair in a private room of what could most charitably be called a modest inn in Gravesend.

      
Forrestal's yellow eyes narrowed, catlike, on his diminutive captor. “You have no right to threaten your betters.”

      
Drum made a show of looking around the Spartan room. “I see none such hereabouts.”

      
“I will one day soon be Duke of Etherington, you son of some back country baronet,” Forrestal said with a sneer.

      
“Give me leave to doubt that, considering that your beloved Pater was in the process of filing a petition with his closest companions in Lords to relieve you of the burden of succession. He's already divested you of his unentailed wealth. I shall still be the Honorable Alfred Francis Edward Drummond when you are naught but another inhabitant of Newgate. Oh, and by the by, my father is a baron, not a baronet.”

      
With fury contorting his features, Forrestal attempted to lunge at Drum. The dandy flicked his wrist with blurring speed and the razor-sharp tip of his foil made a prick directly beneath Forrestal s chin, drawing a trickle of blood.

      
“Now be a good chap and sit down. The sheriff should be here anon. I do hope the fellow is prompt. I so detest missing my morning tea. It puts me quite out of sorts.”

      
He did not add that he still had other business to attend to at the shipyards nearby.

* * * *

      
The fellow Jason had coshed on the head was still unconscious as they started the search for the kidnappers' scattered horses. Fox's deadly Manton had dispatched one tough. Jason had disposed of the other two during the earlier fight, so he knew that Mace was alone with Rachel. The earl did not like it, but said nothing to the boy. They would both need their wits about them when they reached Beckworth's.

      
It did not take them long to find the horses grazing peacefully in a meadow a half mile across a small stream just off the road. They quickly caught the best two and set out, armed to the teeth with three sets of pistols as well as Jason's knife. Fox even carried Rachel's small stiletto, which she had left in her saddlebags along with extra ammunition for her Clark pistols.

      
As soon as they reached the outlying portions of the bustling port city, they learned that Beckworth's was a dilapidated warehouse somewhere on the Bristol wharf. Rumor had it that the building had recently been sold by its owner. As Jason and Fox neared the waterfront, the smell of dead fish and rotting wood blended with the choking stench of coal smoke, which poured from every chimney.