military?”
“The 15th Hussars, my lord.”
“A cavalryman without a horse. Excellent. Now answer me, Mr. Wilkes. How many men do we have at our disposal?”
“Nine, if we count young Pickford.”
“I said men, not children. And I loathe those odds. Do you have weapons enough to arm my men here?”
“Weapons aren’t the trouble, my lord.” Wilkes pointed to the way station. “We’re always fully armed. Probably another dozen rifles in there. It’s manpower we lack.”
Miles nodded, easing his nerves with every crack of his knuckles. But when his thumb touched his gold wedding band, his trepidation redoubled. He wanted to protect Viv, but how the bloody hell was he going to manage that?
By doing whatever it took.
“I’ll find enough fingers to pull triggers,” he said tightly. “You determine the best position for the coaches and the guards. Mr. Nolan, Mr. Kato—with me.”
Four
V iv gouged her nails into the velvet upholstery as the stage lurched. Chloe gasped and clutched tighter to Viv’s arm. “They’re moving the wagons into a defensive formation,” said one of the four other passengers. He was in his early fifties and wore a bowler hat, a fine twill suit, and a smirk. “These raiders try everything to keep prosperity and progress from coming to this land.”
“Your pardon, sir,” Viv said, “but at the moment, they are keeping us from progressing. That should be our sole concern.”
“A mere delay.” He waved his hand and set about stuffing tobacco into a carved ivory pipe. “Besides, should the worst happen and we never make our destination, Her Majesty will have no recourse but to wipe out the entire population—Boer or bushman, whoever they are.”
Viv’s mind was still twirling. One minute she’d stood with Miles atop a bluff that overlooked what felt like the entire Earth. Kissing him. Holding him again. Wanting hisbare skin pressed against hers. The next minute she huddled with her maid in a well-appointed coach, its shades drawn and its male occupants unbelievably resigned despite a cloying atmosphere of sweat, dust, and fear.
“Such retribution is your comfort?” she asked the man in the bowler.
He didn’t reply, not when the coach jerked to a stop and feet pounded on the roof. Chloe buried her face against Viv’s upper arm and muttered a breathless, indistinct prayer.
“It’s the guards with the shotguns,” Viv said close to her maid’s ear. “Raiders would be shouting or firing.”
“Quite right. I’m Charles Haverstock, by the way.” He removed his bowler and smoothed a sallow hand across a bald head shiny with sweat. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss . . . ?”
“Viscountess Bancroft,” she said coolly, adding the slightest emphasis to her title.
His eyes, made narrow by heavy wrinkles and drooping upper lids, opened painfully wide. “My lady,” he stammered. “Forgive me, I—”
“I doubt this is the appropriate time, Mr. Haverstock.”
A gnawing sense of claustrophobia made her want to rip out her hair and run screaming from the prison of that stagecoach. The elegant high lace neckline of her gown choked off what little hot air she managed to inhale. Needing relief—and her curiosity like a tick gnawing in her brain—she eased aside the window screen.
“They’ll see you!” Chloe hissed.
“Nonsense.” Viv managed a sense of detached composure. She had endured every day in London with just such fortitude. “They’ll be watching the men with guns, not the passengers cowering in here.”
Shouts continued as the guards moved into place around the circled coaches. Nine men carried a variety of armaments, their expressions honed of determination. But where was Miles? And what under heaven could her wastrel husband do against armed horsemen? The surprising, protective sense of panic skittering across her nerves left her dizzy.
If he died today . . .
She shook her head, dislodging her hat. She unpinned it and handed it to Chloe, who
“The 15th Hussars, my lord.”
“A cavalryman without a horse. Excellent. Now answer me, Mr. Wilkes. How many men do we have at our disposal?”
“Nine, if we count young Pickford.”
“I said men, not children. And I loathe those odds. Do you have weapons enough to arm my men here?”
“Weapons aren’t the trouble, my lord.” Wilkes pointed to the way station. “We’re always fully armed. Probably another dozen rifles in there. It’s manpower we lack.”
Miles nodded, easing his nerves with every crack of his knuckles. But when his thumb touched his gold wedding band, his trepidation redoubled. He wanted to protect Viv, but how the bloody hell was he going to manage that?
By doing whatever it took.
“I’ll find enough fingers to pull triggers,” he said tightly. “You determine the best position for the coaches and the guards. Mr. Nolan, Mr. Kato—with me.”
Four
V iv gouged her nails into the velvet upholstery as the stage lurched. Chloe gasped and clutched tighter to Viv’s arm. “They’re moving the wagons into a defensive formation,” said one of the four other passengers. He was in his early fifties and wore a bowler hat, a fine twill suit, and a smirk. “These raiders try everything to keep prosperity and progress from coming to this land.”
“Your pardon, sir,” Viv said, “but at the moment, they are keeping us from progressing. That should be our sole concern.”
“A mere delay.” He waved his hand and set about stuffing tobacco into a carved ivory pipe. “Besides, should the worst happen and we never make our destination, Her Majesty will have no recourse but to wipe out the entire population—Boer or bushman, whoever they are.”
Viv’s mind was still twirling. One minute she’d stood with Miles atop a bluff that overlooked what felt like the entire Earth. Kissing him. Holding him again. Wanting hisbare skin pressed against hers. The next minute she huddled with her maid in a well-appointed coach, its shades drawn and its male occupants unbelievably resigned despite a cloying atmosphere of sweat, dust, and fear.
“Such retribution is your comfort?” she asked the man in the bowler.
He didn’t reply, not when the coach jerked to a stop and feet pounded on the roof. Chloe buried her face against Viv’s upper arm and muttered a breathless, indistinct prayer.
“It’s the guards with the shotguns,” Viv said close to her maid’s ear. “Raiders would be shouting or firing.”
“Quite right. I’m Charles Haverstock, by the way.” He removed his bowler and smoothed a sallow hand across a bald head shiny with sweat. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss . . . ?”
“Viscountess Bancroft,” she said coolly, adding the slightest emphasis to her title.
His eyes, made narrow by heavy wrinkles and drooping upper lids, opened painfully wide. “My lady,” he stammered. “Forgive me, I—”
“I doubt this is the appropriate time, Mr. Haverstock.”
A gnawing sense of claustrophobia made her want to rip out her hair and run screaming from the prison of that stagecoach. The elegant high lace neckline of her gown choked off what little hot air she managed to inhale. Needing relief—and her curiosity like a tick gnawing in her brain—she eased aside the window screen.
“They’ll see you!” Chloe hissed.
“Nonsense.” Viv managed a sense of detached composure. She had endured every day in London with just such fortitude. “They’ll be watching the men with guns, not the passengers cowering in here.”
Shouts continued as the guards moved into place around the circled coaches. Nine men carried a variety of armaments, their expressions honed of determination. But where was Miles? And what under heaven could her wastrel husband do against armed horsemen? The surprising, protective sense of panic skittering across her nerves left her dizzy.
If he died today . . .
She shook her head, dislodging her hat. She unpinned it and handed it to Chloe, who
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