Page 2 of Some Like It Wild
While her sister ducked behind the periodical to mope, Pamela settled back among the cracked leather squabs with a sigh, all out of both cheer and convincing arguments. Unfortunately, their mother had been as impractical as she was beautiful. Upon discovering from the solicitor that she had left them nearly penniless, Pamela and Sophie had sought to make their fortunes in the only way they knew how—on the stage. But their one attempt to tread the boards had begun in triumph and ended in disaster.
Sophie’s ethereal beauty had captivated the audience, generating gasps when she first floated onto the stage. But that spell had been broken the minute she opened her mouth and began to recite her lines in a delivery so wooden that one critic had suggested the manager should have nailed her into her coffin to prevent her from taking the stage. All their dreams of fame and fortune had died in a hail of rotting vegetables and shouted insults. They’d been forced to pack up their belongings that very night and flee the theater one step ahead of a howling mob.
They’d been running ever since. If they didn’t find some way to plump up their purses before returning to London, their next stop wouldn’t be the theater, but the workhouse.
Pamela gazed out the carriage window at the gathering gloom of twilight. There was much more at stake than even Sophie realized. But she couldn’t bear to burden her sister with the ugly truth. Clouds drifted over the distant crests of the mountains like the ghosts of all her fears. Weary of facing them alone, she allowed the rocking of the coach and the growing weight of her eyelids to lull her into a restless doze.
Pamela awoke to the same sounds she’d heard in countless productions through the years—the crack of a pistol, followed by the bold cry of “Stand and deliver!”
“Did you ’member to light the flash pots, Soph?” she murmured without opening her eyes. “And don’t f’get to bring down the curtain after the villain is vanquished.”
She was sinking deeper into both the squabs and her dreams when a sharp claw bit into her shoulder and gave her a harsh shake. “Pamela!Pamela, wake up!We’ve been set upon by bandits!”
Pamela’s eyes flew open to meet her sister’s frantic gaze.
The carriage was no longer rocking, but had lurched to a shuddering halt. One of the horses let out a nervous whicker, which then subsided into ominous silence. Full dark had fallen while Pamela napped, and the window was veiled by a velvety-black curtain of night.
She sucked in a breath laced with raw panic. What if the coachman could no longer be relied upon to defend their virtue or their lives? What if he was lying in a limp heap in the middle of the road, a ragged hole blasted through his scrawny chest?
Swallowing her terror, she touched a finger to her lips, then clutched at Sophie’s gloved hands. They huddled together, holding their collective breath to listen.
The silence seemed to swell and thicken. It was finally broken by the measured tread of footsteps moving around the side of the carriage. Perhaps it was simply the coachman coming to tell them that all was well, Pamela prayed. That the pistol report and the chilling cry had been nothing more than a prank played by village lads with more spirit than good sense.
But the muffled footfalls made a mockery of that cheerful thought. It took both grace and practice to be able to navigate such a road without disturbing a single rock. And anyone who had mastered that skill could just as easily slit a man’s throat for his purse or creep into a woman’s bedchamber in the dark of night to put his hand over her mouth and have his wicked way with her.
Since it seemed there was to be no escaping the inexorable approach of those footsteps, Pamela gave Sophie’s hand one last reassuring squeeze, then slipped her hand out of her sister’s grip and into her reticule. As her fingers curled around the solid weight of the object within, they ceased their trembling.
The footsteps also ceased, leaving in their wake a silence that was even more chilling.
Pamela drew Sophie behind her with her free arm, waiting for the carriage door to fly open, waiting for a ruthless arm to reach in and yank her out by her hair.
The carriage door slowly creaked open on its hinges. There was no sign of their attacker. There was nothing but a yawning maw of darkness that threatened to swallow them whole.
A voice came out of that darkness, laced with gravel and menace. “I know you’re in there. I can hear you breathin’. Step out of the carriage with your hands raised or I’ll blast you straight to hell.”
Pamela could feel Sophie pressed to her back, trembling like a baby bird in the talons of some fearsome predator. It was the scent of her sister’s fear that tightened her jaw and stiffened her spine. This faceless bully might be able to rob her of her life and her virtue, but there was one thing she’d always been able to lose without anyone else’s help—her temper.
Ignoring the frantic clutch of Sophie’s hands on the back of her skirt, she lurched forward and went spilling out of the carriage.
She tripped over the hem of her pelisse but quickly righted herself, straightening her crooked bonnet with a furious jerk. “For the love of God, sir, who writes your dialogue? I’ve never heard such atrocious tripe. ‘Stand and deliver’? ‘Step out of the carriage with your hands raised or I’ll blast you straight to hell’? Why, you wouldn’t last through one performance on Drury Lane! They’d bring the curtain down on your thick head before the end of Act One. Has it never occurred to you that you might make a more convincing villain if you didn’t spout such horrendous drivel?”
As the angry ringing in Pamela’s ears subsided, she realized she was standing nearly toe to toe with a faceless shadow. A faceless shadow that towered over her by more than a foot. The imposing expanse of his shoulders blocked out the light of the rising moon.
His silence was a weapon all its own, so effective that she nearly jumped out of her skin when he finally said, “What would you prefer, lass? Should I blast you to hell first and spout the drivel later? I fear it would be even less convincin’ without an audience to appreciate it.”
His mocking burr was as rough as burlap, yet soft as velvet. It was like having both the rose and the thorn dragged across her quivering flesh at the same time.
Pamela inched sideways, thinking to lure his attention away from Sophie and the carriage door. But she had cause to regret the motion when he shifted his own weight, inviting the moonlight to spill over the long, polished barrel of the pistol cradled in his hand. The weapon rested there as if he’d been born to wield it.
Too late, she remembered the poor coachman. She glanced toward the front of the carriage to find him sprawled in the road just as she had feared. A sharp cry of dismay escaped her. She lifted the hem of her skirts and took an involuntary step toward him.
The highwayman blocked her way, his silent grace more menacing than another man’s shout. “He’s not dead. He’ll come ’round after a while with nothin’ more than an achin’ head and a story to tell his mates down at the tavern while they buy him a few pints.”
As if to prove his words, the coachman stirred and uttered a weak groan. Pamela glanced at the coach box. His musket was still neatly sheathed in its holder. He’d never even had a chance to draw it.
Emboldened by relief, she glared up at their assailant. “What a fine profession you’ve chosen for yourself, sir! Assaulting old men and frightening helpless women.”
He took a step forward, bringing them so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body through the fabric of his shirt. “You don’t seem very frightened, lass. Or very helpless.”
