He grabbed me by the hair and forced my head back. “Aren’t ye a pretty little wench,” he said, his breath a revolting mixture of whiskey and rot. “A mighty fine reward for helping Dirk get back that boy ye stole from him.”
I caught a glimpse of Henry and Ben not too far away, swords drawn and engaged in serious fighting. A third man lay still on the ground while a fourth circled Henry like a bird of prey, a rope in one hand as he waited for just the right moment to jump in. No matter what happened to Ben and me, it was clear they meant to take Henry alive.
The demon wrenched my arm, jerking me around the side of the carriage and away from the other men. “I’ll be enjoying ye first.” He pressed closer until our bodies were crushed together. “Dirk likes his wenches fresh, but he’ll have to wait his turn for ye.”
Terror rippled through me and I shrieked like a banshee, my knee flying straight up toward his groin. He shifted at the last second, taking the blow in his thigh.
“Play nice, my sweet,” he said, “or I may need to get rough.”
I wrestled one hand free and raked my nails down his cheek, leaving behind four long gouges that made him howl in pain. Scowling, he drew back his arm and punched me full force in the stomach. The air rushed from my lungs and I dropped to the ground like a rag doll.
“That’s better,” he laughed darkly.
I landed in a disheveled heap, my breath gone and my face resting in the dirt just inches from his filthy boots. Black spots dotted my vision as he placed the sole of one boot against my shoulder to nudge me over. From my back, I stared up at his depraved face, at the breeches that now flapped open around his hips. With a grunt, he came down on top of me and started to tug at the multiple layers of silk and linen in his way. The vicious blow had taken my strength, allowing him to hold me in place even once my chest released, and I wheezed for air.
Unable to escape, I had clamped my knees together hard when his weight shifted and then suddenly lifted from me altogether. His evil grin transformed into shock, and I watched as the point of a sword emerged through the front of his chest, the bloodstained tip stopping inches from my nose. Henry pulled the blade free and pushed the demon’s lifeless form to the side, where it landed in a clump of ferns.
“Are you hurt, Selah?” he asked. Sweat dripped from his face and his green eyes gleamed fiercely as he leaned over to help me up.
Shaking my head, I reached for his hand. A flash of movement caught my eye behind him. Before there was time to scream a warning, a pistol discharged, and Henry jerked forward from the impact. He stood for a moment, suspended above me. Then his knees gave out and he fell slowly to the ground.
Chapter Four
Behind Closed Doors
Dirk Fletcher sat astride a large brown horse in a lingering cloud of smoke, his outstretched hand gripping a flintlock pistol.
“No!” I screamed, my voice piercing the still air as though the one word had power enough to pull back time and change what had happened. Henry dropped to his knees before me, his face a deathly white. There was no fear in his eyes, only the sad acceptance of his own death. He said nothing, but gave me a weary smile, nearly tearing my poor heart to pieces.
“You will not die, Henry Alan,” I said, as much an order as a statement of fact. “Not while I’m here.” Reaching out, I bid him to me, and he fell forward, collapsing onto my lap. On his back just below the right shoulder blade, a bloodstain blossomed where his coat had been shredded by the shot. Thank heavens his heart had not been struck, or he would have died immediately and moved beyond my care. By good fortune he still lived, though the sound of his labored breathing indicated a punctured lung. I had to act quickly to keep him from drowning in his own blood.
A horse snorted and stamped the ground, and I glanced up as Fletcher tossed the empty pistol to the ground. Drawing his sword, he urged the beast forward, preparing for another attack. His initial plan in shambles, he seemed ready to kill us both, and I threw my arms protectively over Henry.
Heavy footsteps ran along the other side of the carriage. Ben lunged out, blade drawn and yelling like a madman. Slamming into the horse’s side, he sliced Fletcher’s arm, knocking the sword from his hand.
An angry cry rent the air. Blood streamed from beneath Fletcher’s coat sleeve, slicked his hand red on a path to the ground. Ben edged closer, sword raised for another attack. The horse pranced nervously, and Fletcher jerked one-handed on the reins, choosing to retreat rather than further risk his life.
The last of our enemies defeated, Ben rushed to my side. “Where are you hurt?” he demanded, seeing my hands smeared with blood.
“It’s Henry. He’s been shot.”
Ben looked again, this time registering the wounded man lying in my lap.