The Cornish Heiress by Roberta Gellis

ahead. Instinctively
he tightened his rein and Spite slowed.
    It was fortunate he had done so. Just around the turn a
masked rider waited with his horse athwart the road. As Philip appeared he
brandished a pistol in each hand and shouted for Philip to “stand and deliver”.
If Spite had been going faster, Philip might have had his hands too full with
his horse to plan his moves. As it was, he uttered a startled gasp as he pulled
Spite to a halt. The highwayman laughed. “Get you down,” he ordered, and fired the
pistol in his left hand. “A warning,” he said. “The next one will hit.”
    The highwayman’s horse, accustomed to shots, stood like a
rock, but Spite danced and bucked to Philip’s intense delight. Since the stupid
clot had already fired one gun, he had only one shot left and probably would
not dare fire again. Even if he did, there was little chance of his hitting
Philip while Spite was cavorting all over the road. The man shouted threats,
but Philip allowed Spite to whirl right around while he shoved his left arm
through his reins so that both hands were essentially free. As his right side was
hidden by the movement, he dropped his hand and pulled one of the Lorenzonis
from his boot. A single pull brought the gun to full cock and, as Spite came
around the full turn, Philip raised his arm and fired.
    Simultaneously he dug his spurs into Spite’s ribs and bent
low. The horse sprang forward frantically. Surprised out of his wits, by the
shot and by Spite charging down at him, the highwayman forgot all about his instructions
not to harm Philip and fired his second pistol. However, his horse, which was
proof against pistol shots, was not indifferent to collisions. Seeing Spite thundering
toward her, the mare began to move aside, and the variety of motions made the
highwayman’s shot as wide as Philip’s. As he bent, Philip reloaded his gun.
    Spite had just passed the highwayman’s mare, but Philip now grabbed
the reins in his left hand and wheeled the horse around. He had no intention of
galloping off down the road. For one thing, that was an open invitation for a
bullet in the back; for another, Philip had no idea the man was only hired
help. He thought he was facing one of the French agents and was quite
determined that the world would be better off without him. He could not
understand why the “agent’s” companion had not burst out of hiding or fired at
him from concealment. Perhaps there had been only one man.
    Even so, had the highwayman fled, Philip could not have
brought himself to shoot him in the back. Instead, shouting curses, the man was
fumbling in his pocket, either for a cartridge with which to reload his gun or possibly
for a third pistol. Philip did not wait to find out. From nearly point-blank
range, he shot him in the head.
    The body went over sideways, limp hands dropping the reins.
This, together with being twice charged by Spite, was too much for the mare.
With a whinny of fear the animal took off down the road. Philip started to
follow, thinking it would be best to examine what the man was carrying.
However, when the bumping tipped the corpse over so that one foot tangled in the
stirrup and it was dragged, Philip drew Spite in sharply. His gorge rose and
tears filled his eyes.
    In the excitement of the fight he had acted as circumstance
dictated, but the sight of that limp, helpless thing that had once been a man
bumping along on the road brought home to him what he had done. He sat
trembling, wishing it undone, blaming himself for aiming for the head rather than
the shoulder. It was no good now telling himself that the man had been a spy,
perhaps had been planning to kill him. When he was in France, he would be the
spy. How was he different from the man he had killed? All he could see was that
pathetic body being dragged along by a terrified horse as it rounded the curve in
the road.
    Philip fought back the lunch that was rising in his throat, wondering
whether he should try to