When several seconds passed and Diana failed to obey his command, a smile spread across Patched Coat’s face. He swiveled the blade back and forth, taunting. “I think she likes me.”
Aaron swung on instinct, wanting to knock that smile straight off the bastard’s face and grind his nose into the gravel. His punch connected—but so did Patched Coat’s blade, slashing through the wool of Aaron’s coat sleeve.
They reeled apart from each other and prepared to clash again.
On some level, Aaron registered the fact that he’d been cut. But his mind took the pain and stashed it away for later. He could weather far worse—and he would. He was the human equivalent of an oak tree. If this bastard wanted to bring him down with that puny blade, he’d have to hack at Aaron all night long.
“Diana,” he said, keeping his eyes on that glittering, twisting blade. “For the last time, go.”
Patched Coat began to chuckle. “See now, my missus always listens to me.” He lifted his voice and called to his wife. “Search the wagon while I hold him here.”
A sound stopped them all cold.
The click of a pistol being cocked.
“I don’t think so.” Diana’s voice, as cool and calm as he’d ever heard it. “Step away from him,” she told Patched Coat. “Or I will shoot.”
Aaron cringed. Damn it all. Why had she refused to drive away? This couldn’t end well. If she lost her nerve, she could lose her life. And if she did shoot . . . He knew Diana. Taking a life would weigh heavy on her, even if the act was justified.
“Step away from him now,” she repeated, “or I will shoot.”
She didn’t give a third warning.
Bang.
As the smoke cleared, Patched Coat let out a howl of pain, clutching his right hand in his left. The hand didn’t appear to be bleeding, but the knife was gone.
Good Lord. Aaron realized what had happened. She’d shot the thing clean out of his hand. And the force of the weapon ripping free must have hurt—perhaps broken some of his fingers or his wrist.
Good.
“Jesus,” the man whimpered, doubling over and nursing his wounded hand. “That sodding bitch.”
Aaron had spent a lifetime staring into red-hot flames. And in that moment, he saw shades of red he’d never dreamed existed. He whipped a back-handed blow across the man’s face. Then he grabbed that patched overcoat by the lapels and held the despicable knave close.
“I will rip out your tongue,” he growled, “and feed it back to you.”
He drove his knee into the blackguard’s gut.
He wanted to follow with a crushing punch to the jaw. Then a kick to the ribs. He could have pummeled the bastard into the mud and left him for the carrion birds.
But Diana’s voice called to him, dragging him back from the edge of further violence. “Aaron, please. Please, you’re bleeding. Let’s just go.”
Diana knew she’d look back on this half hour and wonder how she’d held herself together. But what mattered now was that she did. Her body and emotions went numb. Some stronger force in her had taken over the moment she’d raised that pistol. All those years of staying calm paid their dividends today. She didn’t fret, didn’t cry. Her breathing never faltered. She simply did what needed to be done.
She drove the horses a few miles down the road, until they reached a safe place to draw the wagon aside. If she waited any longer, they’d lose all daylight.
She helped Aaron out of his coat and ripped his sleeve apart to expose his wound. Unable to see it well, she took water from their drinking supply and washed the blood away.
A narrow, clean cut, some two inches long. Unless it festered, it wasn’t a life-threatening wound—the wool of his coat had served as weak armor—but it was significantly more than a scratch.
“It will need to be stitched,” she said dispassionately.
She washed it again, making sure no fibers from his shirt and coat were caught in the wound. Then she rummaged through the goods they’d purchased at the draper’s until she found a needle and strong thread.
She was halfway through her third stitch when she thought she felt a drop of rain land on her head. Looking up, she realized it wasn’t rain at all but a drop of Aaron’s sweat. The poor man. He was shaking, slick with cold perspiration. And here she hadn’t offered him anything to help with the pain—not even a scrap of leather to bite down on.
“Go on,” he said through gritted teeth. “Finish it.”
After three more stitches, she was able to tie the knot off with her teeth. She wrapped a length of white, gauzy fabric about his arm.
“It’s a fortunate thing we came from the draper’s today and not the millinery,” she said dryly.
He stared down at the makeshift bandage. “I’m sorry. This was meant for your costume.”
“Never mind the silly play. There’s plenty of surplus, anyhow. I’m just glad I chose to buy needle and thread today, too.”
Now that the bandaging was finished, he mopped his face and composed himself. Then asked the question she’d been dreading.
“Why’d you do that? I told you to drive. You were supposed to drive away. Like you promised me.”