Page 53 of The Hired Hero
“There are four of us. And only one bullet, you fool,” he snarled, but he didn’t come any closer.
“That’s true. So which one of you wishes to be the martyr?” She shifted her aim to the one who was holding Davenport’s left arm. “You?”
He dropped his hold and retreated backward.
“How about you?”
The man gripping the earl’s right arm slunk away to join his friend.
Davenport staggered slightly but managed to stay on his feet.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“What a damn fool question—I suppose I shall live, but one never knows when one is around you,” he snapped. “What the devil are you doing here anyway? I told you to be off.”
“Oh, stubble it, milord. You should be thankful that I didn’t scamper as ordered,” she retorted. “In fact, you might try to sound a little grateful, rather than growling at me as usual.” A huff. “You have to admit, it’s hardly fair to blame this little incident on me.”
The four men had listened to the brief exchange with increasing disbelief.
“Why, it’s…it’s a woman!” sputtered the man with the stick.
“And no less able to send a maggoty worm like you to your Maker,” she replied with a credible attempt at a snarl.
The man fell back, his ponderous jaw dropping onto his chest.
“Now, are you going to stand there all night, Julian, or can we be on our way?”
Davenport limped past her, muttering darkly under his breath.
She found she was rather relishing her role. “Any of you bastards try to follow us, you’ll get a bellyful of lead for your troubles.”
Davenport stopped in his tracks. “You are actually enjoying this, aren’t you?” he said through gritted teeth.
Caroline grinned. “Actually, it’s rather novel to be able to scrape you out of the mud for a change.”
With a last flourish of the pistol, she backed down the street until the men were lost in the darkness. Then she turned and slipped an arm around Davenport’s waist.
* * *
Caroline litthe small lantern in the deserted stable and surveyed the surroundings with a slight frown.
“At least the straw is plentiful and looks moderately fresh.” She turned back to where the earl was standing slumped against the rough-hewn door. “I think you had better lie down right away, sir, and let me see to your injuries. One of the stalls is empty and should provide a bit more shelter.”
As she spoke, she gathered a few extra armfuls of hay and piled them into a makeshift bed. Davenport made his way slowly through the opening and sank down upon it, stifling a grunt of pain as she helped him out of his coat. His breathing had begun to sound less labored, but the tightness of his mouth indicated he was still in a great deal of pain. Caroline spied a bucket under a bench piled high with an assortment of farrier tools. She filled it with water from a wooden barrel standing by the door, then carried it back and knelt beside the earl.
There was the sound of fabric ripping.
“Ah, well, another shirt ruined,” she remarked with a wry grimace as she dipped a strip of linen in the cold water and started to gently dab at Davenport’s face.
He made a weak sound of protest.
“Stay still, milord, and let me see to these cuts without squirming like a stuck pig.”
Davenport finally found his tongue. “Would that they had cut out my liver and been done with it. It’s getting quite tiresome to be—” He bit off an oath as Caroline touched a raw scrape on his cheek.
“Sorry,” she muttered as she wrung out the cloth and applied a compress to the swelling.
“You are getting very good at this.”
