off.
“Are you certain they could recognize you, Mason?”
“How could they not?”
“How unfortunate,” was the only warning Lyssa, or apparently even Mason had, before a pistol shot was fired.
Mason hit the ground with a thud, falling on hisback, his left hand outstretched toward where she and the Irishman hid. She could even see his fingers twitch one last time.
She wanted to cry out, to gasp, to react in some way to the horror. The Irishman caught her in time, raising his fingers up to her lips, his own mouth close to hers as if he would swallow any sound she made. They both waited, their bodies tense, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air.
“Did you have to kill him, Fielder?” the other mounted man complained.
“Couldn’t you see him shaking? He would have broke and turned us all in. Here, you two bury him.”
“With what, Fielder?” one of them asked.
“There’s a ravine down that way. Throw him in it and put some logs over him. He’ll decay before he is discovered.”
Mason’s body was unceremoniously picked up by his arms and legs and carried off.
Once they were alone, the horseman with Fielder said, “We started off with six and now we are down by two, and we still haven’t gotten the girl. Campion is better than we thought. What do you want to do? Keep searching the woods?”
“No,” Fielder responded. “It’s a waste of time. We’ll head back to the inn. Campion needs to get the girl to London as quickly as possibly or else he won’t get paid. After all is said and done, he’s still nothing more than a mercenary. I’ll wager he’ll try and beat us to the inn where the maid and coachwait and then attempt to outrun us to London. He knows it will be harder for us to kill her on English soil.”
“What if he gets by us?”
“He won’t,” Fielder answered with certainty. “We’ll guard the roads.”
“By ourselves?” his companion asked incredulously.
“We’ll hire help,” Fielder answered. “The girl’s hair is a damn beacon. Anyone who sees it doesn’t forget her. They can’t go far on foot. We’ll catch up with them and then we’ll see if Campion feels like such a bloody hero.” There was a clicking sound that she remembered from recently and she realized Fielder had been reloading his weapon.
The two other men tramped back to join the party. “Is it done?” Fielder asked.
“Aye,” was the answer.
“Then get your horses and let’s head to the inn.”
“What about the maid?”
“We’ll pay her off. She did a good job of leaving signs of the path they were taking and deserves her money. She is also smart enough to go running off and keep her mouth shut.”
One man asked what they were going to do with Campion’s horses.
“Sell them,” Fielder said. “He won’t be needing them.” The others laughed with confidence, as if he’d made a great joke. They moved off down the road.
Lyssa’s heart beat in her ears and she tasted fear. The Irishman didn’t move and so she dared not.
They waited for what seemed hours but was in actuality fifteen minutes, maybe less. The Irishman removed his hand from her mouth and crawled over her. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“Seeing if it is all clear.” He rose to his feet. A moment later, he offered her his hand. “Come. We’re safe.” He pulled her up as if she weighed nothing.
Lyssa ran a distracted hand through her hair. It hung loose, a hopeless mess, and she didn’t have a pin to use to tidy it—such an odd thing to think about when one had murderers on her trail…
She reached for her precious plaid and held it out for inspection. There was a hole torn in the corner but it was not completely ruined. She wrapped it around her shoulders, needing something to help her combat the terrible coldness stealing through her.
The Irishman spoke. “Who wants you dead, Miss Harrell?”
She didn’t know, didn’t want to think on it. Instead, she said, “Which maid did you
“Are you certain they could recognize you, Mason?”
“How could they not?”
“How unfortunate,” was the only warning Lyssa, or apparently even Mason had, before a pistol shot was fired.
Mason hit the ground with a thud, falling on hisback, his left hand outstretched toward where she and the Irishman hid. She could even see his fingers twitch one last time.
She wanted to cry out, to gasp, to react in some way to the horror. The Irishman caught her in time, raising his fingers up to her lips, his own mouth close to hers as if he would swallow any sound she made. They both waited, their bodies tense, the smell of gunpowder lingering in the air.
“Did you have to kill him, Fielder?” the other mounted man complained.
“Couldn’t you see him shaking? He would have broke and turned us all in. Here, you two bury him.”
“With what, Fielder?” one of them asked.
“There’s a ravine down that way. Throw him in it and put some logs over him. He’ll decay before he is discovered.”
Mason’s body was unceremoniously picked up by his arms and legs and carried off.
Once they were alone, the horseman with Fielder said, “We started off with six and now we are down by two, and we still haven’t gotten the girl. Campion is better than we thought. What do you want to do? Keep searching the woods?”
“No,” Fielder responded. “It’s a waste of time. We’ll head back to the inn. Campion needs to get the girl to London as quickly as possibly or else he won’t get paid. After all is said and done, he’s still nothing more than a mercenary. I’ll wager he’ll try and beat us to the inn where the maid and coachwait and then attempt to outrun us to London. He knows it will be harder for us to kill her on English soil.”
“What if he gets by us?”
“He won’t,” Fielder answered with certainty. “We’ll guard the roads.”
“By ourselves?” his companion asked incredulously.
“We’ll hire help,” Fielder answered. “The girl’s hair is a damn beacon. Anyone who sees it doesn’t forget her. They can’t go far on foot. We’ll catch up with them and then we’ll see if Campion feels like such a bloody hero.” There was a clicking sound that she remembered from recently and she realized Fielder had been reloading his weapon.
The two other men tramped back to join the party. “Is it done?” Fielder asked.
“Aye,” was the answer.
“Then get your horses and let’s head to the inn.”
“What about the maid?”
“We’ll pay her off. She did a good job of leaving signs of the path they were taking and deserves her money. She is also smart enough to go running off and keep her mouth shut.”
One man asked what they were going to do with Campion’s horses.
“Sell them,” Fielder said. “He won’t be needing them.” The others laughed with confidence, as if he’d made a great joke. They moved off down the road.
Lyssa’s heart beat in her ears and she tasted fear. The Irishman didn’t move and so she dared not.
They waited for what seemed hours but was in actuality fifteen minutes, maybe less. The Irishman removed his hand from her mouth and crawled over her. “Where are you going?” she asked.
“Seeing if it is all clear.” He rose to his feet. A moment later, he offered her his hand. “Come. We’re safe.” He pulled her up as if she weighed nothing.
Lyssa ran a distracted hand through her hair. It hung loose, a hopeless mess, and she didn’t have a pin to use to tidy it—such an odd thing to think about when one had murderers on her trail…
She reached for her precious plaid and held it out for inspection. There was a hole torn in the corner but it was not completely ruined. She wrapped it around her shoulders, needing something to help her combat the terrible coldness stealing through her.
The Irishman spoke. “Who wants you dead, Miss Harrell?”
She didn’t know, didn’t want to think on it. Instead, she said, “Which maid did you
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