Stephanie Laurens - Fair Juno

He was gently urging the horses over the rutted stretch, dredging his memory in an effort to recall any nearby shelter, when a scream rent the air. The horses plunged. Rapidly bringing them under control, Martin leapt from his perch and ran to their heads. He caught hold of their bits just in time to prevent them rearing as a second scream sliced through the night. No doubt about it, a woman’s scream, coming from the woods just ahead. Swiftly, Martin tied the team securely to a nearby gate and, grabbing the pair of loaded pistols from beneath the seat, made for the trees. Once in their shadow, he took care to move silently, thanking the years of his misspent youth, when he had often gone poaching on his father’s preserves with young Johnny Hobbs from the village.

Some distance into the wood, he froze. Before him lay a small clearing, a track leading into it from the opposite direction. Sounds of a struggle came from an ill-assorted trio, waltzing in the shadows in the centre.

‘Keep still, you little…!’

‘ Ow ! Gawd! She bit my finger, the doxy!’

As one man pulled away, the group resolved into two burly men dressed in unkempt frieze and a lady, unquestionably a lady, in a silk gown which shimmered in the twilight. The larger of the men succeeded in grabbing the woman from behind, trapping her arms by her sides. Despite her efforts to kick him, he managed to hold her.

‘Listen, missus. The master said to hold you ’ere and not to harm a single hair of your head. Now how’s we to do that if’n you don’t stop still?’

The exasperation in the man’s voice brought a sympathetic smile to Martin’s face. The clearing was too large to allow him to creep up on them. Quietly, he worked his way around so that the man holding the woman would have his back to him.

‘You fools!’ The woman and her captor teetered perilously. ‘Don’t you know the price for kidnapping? If you let me go, I’ll pay you double what your master will!’

Martin’s brows rose. The woman’s voice was unexpectedly mature. Clearly, she had not lost her head.

‘Maybe so, lady,’ growled the man nursing his finger. ‘But the master’s gentry and they’re mean when crossed. No—I don’t rightly see as how we can oblige.’

Holding both pistols fully cocked, Martin stepped from the trees. ‘Dear me. Haven’t you been taught to always oblige a lady?’

The man holding the woman let her go and swung to face Martin. In the same moment, Martin saw the second man draw a knife. He had a clear shot and took it, the ball passing into the man’s elbow. The man dropped the knife and howled. His comrade turned to the source of the sound and so missed the pretty sight of ex-Major Martin Willesden, soldier of fortune and experienced man at arms, being laid low by a right to the jaw, delivered by a very small fist. Martin, his attention on the man he had shot, did not see the blow coming. His head jerked back from the contact and struck a low branch. Stunned, he crumpled slowly to the ground.

Helen Walford stared at the long form stretched somnolent at her feet. God in heaven! It wasn’t Hedley Swayne after all! The discharged pistol, still smoking, was clutched in the man’s left hand. His right hand held a second pistol, cocked and ready. She darted forward and grabbed it. Catching her skirts in one hand, she leapt over the sprawled form and swung to train the pistol on her captor, hampered in his efforts to reach her by the body between. ‘Keep your distance!’ she warned. ‘I know how to use this.’

Noting the steadiness of the pistol pointed at his chest, the man who had held her decided to accept her word. He glanced back at his accomplice, now on his knees, moaning in pain. He threw Helen a malevolent glance. ‘Blast!’

He eyed her menacingly, then turned and stumped over to his mate. Helping him up, he growled, ‘Let’s get out of this. The master’s bound to be along shortly. To my mind, he can sort this lot out hisself.’

His words carried to Helen. Her eyes widened in shock. ‘You mean this man isn’t your master?’ She spared a glance for the still form at her feet. Heavens! What had she done?

The men looked at the crumpled figure. ‘That swell? Never set eyes on him afore, missus.’

‘Whoever he be, he’s goin’ to be none too pleased with you when he wakes up,’ added the second man with relish.

Helen swallowed and gestured with the gun. Grumbling, the two rogues made their way to the edge of the clearing where stood a disreputable gig pulled by a single broken-down nag. They clambered aboard and, whistling up the horse, departed down the rough track.

Left alone in the gloom with her unconscious rescuer, Helen stood and stared at the recumbent form. ‘Oh, lord!’

Thus far, her day had been a resounding disaster. Kidnapped in the small hours, bundled up in a distinctly odoriferous blanket, bustled from one carriage to another until the sounds of London had been left far behind, she had spent the day being battered and jostled, tied and gagged, trussed and trapped in a worn-out chaise. Her head was still pounding. And now she had been rescued, only to lay her rescuer low.

With a groan, Helen pressed a hand to her temple.

Fate was having a field day.

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