and pressed sullenly forward, pushing people against the sides of the carriage and across the path of the frightened horses. The low rumble of voices resolved itself into a chant of “Bread or blood!”
Jack judged that the horses would not tolerate much more of the jostling and pushed his way into the crowd, indifferent to hostile glares and rude remarks. He wondered that the driver did not get down to take the horses’ heads, but then he saw that the young woman next to the driver had grasped his arm and appeared to be holding on for dear life. Jack twisted and sidestepped, working his way through the press, keeping his eye on the carriage. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to move through a crowd.
A sharp crack sounded against the wooden sign above the shop. Then a hail of stones rattled the windows. Jack pushed harder. Another rock hit the hindquarters of the horse on the right, and the animal tossed its head and backed abruptly. The carriage lurched toward Jack, knocking several people into one another. A woman screamed, and the crowd’s anger suddenly turned against the three in the carriage.
“Get the hell out, you bloody toff,” someone shouted, and a rock knocked the young gentleman’s hat off. Jack had reached the back wheel. He opened his mouth to shout at the driver when the young woman in burgundy jumped lightly down from the carriage and began to work her way toward the horses’ heads. It was remarkable, Jack thought, that leap from the comfort and safety of a superior position into the danger of the mob.
The animals were on the verge of lunging out of control, and Jack swore as he saw the peril to the slim wine-clad figure. He shouldered his way roughly toward the horses’ heads and reached them just behind the girl as the nearest horse reared, hooves lashing out. People screamed and shoved wildly.
Jack shot out a hand and caught the girl about the waist, pulling her against his body as he stepped between her and the horses. A hoof caught him in the thigh, and he grunted, still holding the girl, who spun in his grasp, her hands coming up to brush his chest and push at his shoulder. He grasped her waist with his other hand, steadying her and keeping himself between her and the horses’ plunging hooves. Her chin came up, and Jack looked down into her face. The wine-dark bonnet had slipped from her head, and its fall had loosened golden-brown tendrils about her cheeks. Her eyes, gray and clear and unafraid, fringed with the longest, blackest lashes he had seen outside of Spain, met his briefly.
“The horses,” she pleaded.
Run, Jack , said the voice in his head.
He released the girl, and, springing forward, grabbed the chin harness of the nearest horse with his left hand and pulled the tossing head down. Lunging to his right, he reached the harness of the second horse and pulled down again. Slowly, he increased the downward pressure on the leather straps, curbing the rearing animals.
When the horses had settled to a snorting, eye-rolling measure of tranquility, Jack looked over his shoulder at the people blocking the road. Directly in his path was a gaunt ruffian with an evil scar that ran from the corner of his left eye to the black beard on his jaw. The fellow clutched a tattered blanket the color of pond scum around his shoulders, but what struck Jack was the wide cuff of the man’s sleeve with its distinctive strips of braid. He met the man’s gaze which was proud and unyielding.
“The Third Foot?” asked Jack.
The man’s eyes registered his surprise, but he nodded, and gave Jack a keen look.
“The 95th,” said Jack.
“I know you,” replied the stranger. “You’re the Bandit.”
It was Jack’s turn to nod.
“If you let us pass,” he said, “I’ll come back to help.” The man seemed to weigh his words, but Jack was more conscious of the girl at his side. He was careful not to look at her again.
The tattered soldier nodded once, twisted around, and shouted at
Jack judged that the horses would not tolerate much more of the jostling and pushed his way into the crowd, indifferent to hostile glares and rude remarks. He wondered that the driver did not get down to take the horses’ heads, but then he saw that the young woman next to the driver had grasped his arm and appeared to be holding on for dear life. Jack twisted and sidestepped, working his way through the press, keeping his eye on the carriage. If there was one thing he knew, it was how to move through a crowd.
A sharp crack sounded against the wooden sign above the shop. Then a hail of stones rattled the windows. Jack pushed harder. Another rock hit the hindquarters of the horse on the right, and the animal tossed its head and backed abruptly. The carriage lurched toward Jack, knocking several people into one another. A woman screamed, and the crowd’s anger suddenly turned against the three in the carriage.
“Get the hell out, you bloody toff,” someone shouted, and a rock knocked the young gentleman’s hat off. Jack had reached the back wheel. He opened his mouth to shout at the driver when the young woman in burgundy jumped lightly down from the carriage and began to work her way toward the horses’ heads. It was remarkable, Jack thought, that leap from the comfort and safety of a superior position into the danger of the mob.
The animals were on the verge of lunging out of control, and Jack swore as he saw the peril to the slim wine-clad figure. He shouldered his way roughly toward the horses’ heads and reached them just behind the girl as the nearest horse reared, hooves lashing out. People screamed and shoved wildly.
Jack shot out a hand and caught the girl about the waist, pulling her against his body as he stepped between her and the horses. A hoof caught him in the thigh, and he grunted, still holding the girl, who spun in his grasp, her hands coming up to brush his chest and push at his shoulder. He grasped her waist with his other hand, steadying her and keeping himself between her and the horses’ plunging hooves. Her chin came up, and Jack looked down into her face. The wine-dark bonnet had slipped from her head, and its fall had loosened golden-brown tendrils about her cheeks. Her eyes, gray and clear and unafraid, fringed with the longest, blackest lashes he had seen outside of Spain, met his briefly.
“The horses,” she pleaded.
Run, Jack , said the voice in his head.
He released the girl, and, springing forward, grabbed the chin harness of the nearest horse with his left hand and pulled the tossing head down. Lunging to his right, he reached the harness of the second horse and pulled down again. Slowly, he increased the downward pressure on the leather straps, curbing the rearing animals.
When the horses had settled to a snorting, eye-rolling measure of tranquility, Jack looked over his shoulder at the people blocking the road. Directly in his path was a gaunt ruffian with an evil scar that ran from the corner of his left eye to the black beard on his jaw. The fellow clutched a tattered blanket the color of pond scum around his shoulders, but what struck Jack was the wide cuff of the man’s sleeve with its distinctive strips of braid. He met the man’s gaze which was proud and unyielding.
“The Third Foot?” asked Jack.
The man’s eyes registered his surprise, but he nodded, and gave Jack a keen look.
“The 95th,” said Jack.
“I know you,” replied the stranger. “You’re the Bandit.”
It was Jack’s turn to nod.
“If you let us pass,” he said, “I’ll come back to help.” The man seemed to weigh his words, but Jack was more conscious of the girl at his side. He was careful not to look at her again.
The tattered soldier nodded once, twisted around, and shouted at