Page 88 of The Bastard's Iberian Bride
The two men glared back. He fingered a pistol at his waist, strained to define the difference between them and the others, and could not. It was only instinct discerning. “These two here. Were they with you at the gathering?”
“T’were thousands there,” one man grumbled.
“We saw women before,” Kincaid said. “There are no women with you.”
The spokesman drew himself up to his full height. “There were many, it’s true, but we wouldn’t allow our women to such as this. And we’re honest laborers, not highwaymen. Leave off.”
Tension crackled. The two suspicious ones merged back with the larger group. Kincaid’s man with a shotgun had turned their way, and Bink backed out of the Scotsman’s range.
“See if they’re hungry, Da.” The voice, feminine, loud, and convincingly burred, reached all the way to the crowd of men.
Blast her. The coach door opened a crack.
Ewan swung from the roof like a carnival trickster and both of his feet hit the door. “I’ll see to them, mistress,” he said.
The boy was fast, like his kin, who’d reined up behind Bink.
Ah well, Johnny was Shaldon’s man, as was the young Ewan.
Inside the coach, Paulette muttered a curse as the door shut firmly, and leaned down to shift one of the hampers of food wedged up against her lap desk, all of it crowding her feet.
“Thieves?” Jenny asked.
“Weavers, most likely, come from the demonstration.” Mabel gripped Paulette’s hand. “Leave it to the boy.”
“Mistress.” The ginger-haired man at her window was Johnny and he kept his voice low. “There may be goats in this sheep herd. Keep low, mistress.”
Fear pricked every nerve. Hand shaking, she fingered her knife and pulled her bonnet lower.
Mabel stumbled over the hampers and sat next to her.
“Mind the knife in the seat,” Paulette whispered.
Mabel shifted and brought out the sheathed knife. “I don’t know how to use this.”
“I do,” Jenny said.
Paulette nodded, and Mabel handed it over.
She leaned her ear to the open window. Mr. Gibson was asking questions, gathering information about the rally and the riot that had followed, about the army’s attack, the workers’ grievances. In the long stretches of listening, she could not make out the responses.
He was acutely interested, though, that much she could tell, and so could the men on the road. His interest and sincerity would disarm them, she hoped.
“As my wife suggested,” he boomed loudly, “we have food to share if you’ll have it.”
Men’s voices rumbled and the door opened. Ewan tipped his hat and pulled out one of the hampers.
“Take them both.” Paulette nudged the other one over.
This was why he’d purchased them and kept them filled—not to push forward without ceasing, but to buy them some peace on the road.
She watched from the window as he directed Ewan. Buying peace wasn’t his only reason—Bink Gibson had real compassion for those men and women, running from their own British troops. He had a strong protective instinct, and not just for the woman he’d taken to wife.
With an estate and an income, he’d never leave for India. He’d always be underfoot, slamming the coach doors closed if he thought there was danger.
And she’d not yet told him of her father’s treasure.
The carriage began to move and as they rolled down the road, she saw men grouped on the embankment, delving into the food baskets. At a flat stretch, they picked up speed. From a fast walk, to a trot, to almost a gallop.
