Page 38 of The Hired Hero
He eyed it with distaste but merely shrugged. “I suggest you eat something. We must leave shortly.”
Without bothering to note whether she heeded his advice, he turned and picked up the jug of cider, then let it thump back to the table with a grunt of disgust. “I don’t suppose you have any brandy?” he growled at his friend.
When Jeremy shook his head, Davenport ran his hand through his freshly combed locks, undoing his careful efforts, and went to stand by the window, his back to the room, his gaze riveted somewhere in the distance.
He stayed there, unmoving, until announcing it was time to go.
Jeremy took up his coat. “I’ll come with you,” he said as he followed them down the stairs. “I think it would be wise if I showed you a way to the inn that avoids the streets, where someone might observe you passing.”
Davenport looked as if to argue but then seemed to sense how much his friend wished to be of help. “Very well.”
They threaded their way through a series of darkened alleyways. The sun had nearly set, and the air had taken on a distinct chill. It promised to be an uncomfortable passage to Salisbury, thought Caroline as she quickened her steps to keep pace with the two men ahead of her. But at least she would have plenty of time to think on all that Jeremy Leighton had revealed during?—
She was nearly jerked off her feet as an arm snaked around her neck and pulled her into an adjoining passageway.
“Look ’e what I have here,” rasped a low voice that she nonetheless recognized as that of the coachman from the mysterious carriage. “What a stroke of luck to have you stumble across my path.” The cold barrel of a pistol pressed against her temple. “Quiet!” he snarled, cutting off her cry of surprise. “Ye nearly cost me my position this morning. Well, ye won’t get away this time.”
The sound of hurried steps caused the spin. “Stay where ye are,” he warned as Davenport and Jeremy drew to a halt in front of him. “None of yer bloody tricks this time. Get off with ye, or the chit will pay.”
Caroline started to speak, but the man struck her, drawing blood from a split lip. “Shut yer gob!”
Davenport grabbed Jeremy’s collar to keep him from rushing at Caroline’s captor and then shoved him back. “You heard him, Leighton. There’s nothing more we can do.”
The coachman waited until they had disappeared in the gloom and the echo of their footsteps had grown faint against the grimy bricks. With a satisfied smirk, he tightened his grip on Caroline’s jacket and forced her to start moving.
* * *
“Julian!”protested Jeremy as soon as they had rounded the corner.
“Quiet,” hissed Davenport. He pushed his friend forward. “Lead us to where that passageway comes out—and quickly!”
Without hesitation, Jeremy broke into a run and guided them between a row of decaying wooden houses, avoiding the piles of garbage strewn around their feet and the snapping jaws of a roving mongrel. In a short time, after racing through a few more twists and turns, Jeremy skidded to a stop and pointed to a dark gap between two low warehouses.
Davenport nodded and pressed his finger to his lips. After stealthily approaching the opening, the earl signaled Jeremy to move away into the shadows while he took up position to one side of the gap and drew the pistol from his pocket.
Within several minutes, the scrabbling of boots over loose stones indicated that someone was approaching from the inky depths of the passageway. Caroline stumbled out first, the coachman’s hand still firmly fisted in her jacket’s collar. The pistol was no longer pressed up against her skull but now aimed at the small of her back.
Muscles coiled and ready to spring, the earl waited…
Closer, closer… Gauging exactly the right moment, Davenport grabbed the weapon’s barrel, wrenching up and away from Caroline.
A shot rang out.
With a muffled oath, Davenport pried the pistol free and flung it away. But the coachman—clearly no stranger to bare-knuckle fisticuffs—recovered with astonishing speed. Pushing Caroline to the ground, he lashed out a vicious kick at the earl, catching him on the knee and sending him staggering. A chopping blow sent Davenport’s pistol skittering under a jumble of hogsheads.
Both men began circling each other.
“Want a beating to that pretty face o’ yers?” sneered the coachman, feinting to the right. “I’ll be happy to oblige. When I finish with ye, yer own doxy won’t recognize ye.”
With a bob of his head, he sought an opening, but the earl hadn’t been fooled. “I see the snivelin’ cripple has run off,” he snarled. “Not that ’e be any use te ye.”
Davenport parried a wicked left, then countered with a hard shot that caught the coachman square on the nose. As blood spurted out, he gave a roar of pain and lunged straight ahead, knocking the earl back into the wall.
His beefy fist came up, poised to deliver a punishing blow…when, suddenly, a length of stout hickory whipped out of the shadows and smacked the side of his head. Reeling from the unexpected impact, he staggered back, and then a lashing punch to the jaw from Davenport laid him out cold.
“He likes to hit people until they hit back,” muttered the earl. He looked up at his friend, who was brandishing a broken broom handle in one hand. “Well done, Jeremy. My thanks.”
“Milord, you are hurt!” Caroline had picked herself up from the mud and was staring at the dark stain that was spreading on Davenport’s shoulder.
