Susanne Dietze - The Reluctant Guardian

Unlike a list of blessings. She had much to be grateful for, regardless of her circumstances. All around her, the glossy green leaves of bluebells carpeted the landscape. Gusts of wind stirred yellow-flowered gorse and rustled through the budding oaks, carrying the clean fragrance of rain.

Thank Thee, Lord.

How pleasant it would be to reach the summit of the little hill and enjoy the view. Gemma marched on. Then stopped.

She was no longer alone.

A plain-dressed man hiked toward her, his gaze on the trees. Skirting the hill behind him, a loaded cart trudged across the chalky Smuggler’s Road. A small party of musket-bearing men trailed in its wake, followed by a lone rider on an ink-dark horse.

Free traders.

Not that ladies spoke of such things in polite company. Nevertheless, the wealthy and poor alike avoided paying taxes and Customs duties on their tea or laces by purchasing smuggled goods, illegal though it might be. Who knew how much revenue the government had lost to smugglers? Peter and Wyling obeyed the law and shunned smuggled goods, of course. But as a child, Gemma hadn’t understood the illegal nature of the smugglers’ work. Years ago she and Hugh had followed Smuggler’s Road, pretending they hauled exotic wares from Christchurch Harbor, with plans to sell their imaginary spoils from the sanctuary of a ditch under the trees.

It was one thing to play a criminal as a child. It was quite another to engage the illicit fellows. Gemma hastened back down her side of the hill. Perhaps she had gone unnoticed.

“Ho!” The yell dispelled the notion she had not been seen. She quickened her steps, rolling her ankle in the process and slowing her gait to a painful, awkward trot.

A hand gripped her shoulder and turned her about. He was young, this smuggler, with pocked cheeks, a slack jaw and protruding teeth. “’Oo are you?”

“No one who wants trouble.”

“’Oo is it, Bill?” A shout called from above.

“Nobody, I think.”

Then let go of my arm.

A shot boomed from the trees, echoing off the hill. The sound reverberated while the smugglers burst into activity. The inky horse galloped up the hill. Its rider wore a look of thunder to match the rumble of his horse’s hooves.

“She’s not nobody, you fool.” He dismounted and yanked her from Bill. His free hand smacked her cheek, sending shock and pain through her jaw.

“She’s a trap.”

Gemma’s vision sparked red. “I don’t know what you mean. Unhand me.”

Another shot cracked through the drizzle. “Hide before you’re shot,” the horseman ordered his fellows. Then he ripped her bonnet from her head. “You’re too young for the Lady in Red. Too refined of speech to be a government girl. Whom do you serve?”

She wrestled against him. “I said unhand me.”

“I’ll not be generous because you are female, Jezebel. Whom do you serve?”

“No one—”

“Lies.” He yanked her arm as if she were a cloth doll, pulling her toward his horse.

The world seemed to darken at the edges, but she fought against the sensation. She must stay alert. Memorize his features so she could describe him to the magistrate when she escaped.

Taller than Peter but shorter than Hugh. Brown hair, gray at the temples. Blue eyes. About forty years of age. And a fetter-strong grip she had to break.

She twisted into him. Her free hand grasped the fingers shackling her and jerked them back. Then she kicked.

Her boot found his knee. He let go and she ran.

Her rolled ankle protested each step, but she dared not slow. The sting of the smuggler’s slap still prickled her cheek, and she didn’t care to suffer more from his hands.

Dashing through a gap in the trees, she hurtled into the dark of the woods toward home. Perhaps if she screamed for help—

Fresh pain pressed her arm and tethered her to the spot. A grip far tighter than the smuggler’s captured her and spun her around. She prepared to kick.

Father, make my aim true.

* * *

Pain split Tavin’s shin, but his Hessian boots did a fair job protecting him. He swept Miss Lyfeld’s leg back with his and covered her mouth with his hand. “I’m here to help,” he whispered. “But you must be quiet, or they will find us.”

Her clear blue eyes narrowed when she recognized him. At her nod, his hand fell. He beckoned her deeper into the woods. “Let’s go.”

“What are you doing here?” Her tone was an accusation, as if this was his fault. Well, it was. In part. Still, she had no way of knowing that. Could she speak to him—even in a whisper—without sounding like a wasp about to sting?

“Later.” He’d not noticed the welt blossoming across her cheek until now. Tavin’s fingers itched to return the favor to the man responsible. “Are you hurt?”

“More furious than anything.”

“I want to hear the details, but we must hurry.”

“Aren’t we safe now that we’re in the trees?”

A shot cracked into the trunk of a nearby oak. Not as safe as she’d hoped.

He pulled her by the hand and ran. Dodged trees. She slid, and when he pulled her back to stand, she winced. “Did I hurt you?”

“No. My ankle twisted on the hilltop.”

“I’ll carry you.” One arm swept around her shoulders. The other scooped behind her knees, but she stepped out of his hold.

“I won’t slow us down.”

His estimation of her raised a notch. “Come on, then.”

Crack. Would they never stop shooting? Another crack, as a bullet struck a tree. Then a third, hitting ground. Moldy leaves skittered up the hem of her cloak. Of course. He tugged her behind a thick oak and pulled on the cloak’s fastener at her throat.

Her fingers fought his. “What you are doing?”

“The red draws his eye.” He yanked the garment off and wadded it, inside out, into a ball. He stuffed it under his arm and gripped her hand again. To his surprise, she curled her fingers around his, pulling him to the right.

“My home is that way.”

“Not yet.” He jogged with her in tow for a short distance. Releasing her hand, he slid into a ditch, then lifted his arms. Before he could instruct her, she leaned into him. Her breath was hot against his cheek when he lowered her beside him. “Not much farther.”

He’d spent the past few days scouting these woods, never imagining he’d be running from gunfire with Gemma. He pushed aside a clump of foliage and gestured for her to precede him through.

Smelling of decay and earth, the small clearing offered slight protection. “A moment’s rest.” He gestured to a fallen oak where she could sit while he thought.

“The Gypsy camp.” She touched her ankle and winced. “Why did we not go straight home?”

“We cannot risk being followed.” He walked the clearing’s perimeter, straining to see movement through the trees. “You don’t want them to know where you live and thereby learn your identity.”

“But I meant them no harm.”

“They may have believed that, until someone started firing a weapon.”

“That was not you?”

“Do you see a musket?” He didn’t even have a pistol.

“Then who shot at them?”

“It came from here in the trees. I’d fathom a guess I’m not the only person in Hampshire displeased with that particular group of smugglers.”

“There are more?”

It was hard not to laugh. “Many. And it’s a competitive field.”

She pushed a damp curl from her cheek. Without her bonnet or cloak, she appeared vulnerable and young, but not as young as he’d first thought. Her cheeks had lost some of the fullness of girlhood. She may be about to embark on her come-out, but she was no chit fresh from the schoolroom. “This makes no sense.”