a fainthearted, timid young girl; she was capable of taking care of hersel f — t he way she always had, not only in the years following her father's death, but long before as well.
Which brought to mind her immediate circumstances and her guard. Sliding the window up, she leaned out to check the position of the soldier left to protect her. Turning at the sound of the window rising, he broke off his conversation with the driver and when she smiled at him, he smiled back and wished her good-day. The Portuguese phrase was one of the few familiar to her.
Resting back against the seat a moment later, she drummed her fingers against the worn leather, hoping she wouldn't have to be shut away too long in the carriage. She detested waiting, as she disliked being ordered to play the m issah lady, protected and coddled like some simpleton. She knew how to shoot as well as any man and if the old harbormaster hadn't been so gracious, she wouldn't have felt the need to acquiesce so readily. On the other hand, perhaps salvaging her luggage was worth a politic show of submission.
She restlessly flicked a dust mote from her skirt, leaned over to brush a smudge from the toe of her shoe, impatiently restraightened the hem of her pelisse as she sat upright again.
Twenty seconds had passed.
Fidgety, she wondered what would happen if she stepped from the carriage and looked around. Beau was well away by now. How would he know? She briefly debated, not sure how hindered she was by her coerced agreement or Beau's orders to stay inside the carriage. Perhaps he only meant she was to stay out of danger, she conveniently rationalized. How could it hurt if she strolled around the immediate vicinity?
Pursing her lips, she gazed out the window, contemplating the possible consequence s — w hen a gunshot exploded.
She had the door open before the second shot resounded and at the third shot she was halfway to the ground, only to be faced with the young guardsman ordering her back inside in a rush of Portuguese. Slamming the door shut once again, he stationed himself directly in front, barring her exit. Which meant she could only peer out the window to try to catch a glimpse of the disturbance. Leaning way back, she could see down the extremity of the quay. A tall, burly man was racing for the shore well ahead of his pursuers.
She suspected he was Horton; who else would flee from the Betty Lee} Her guard, panicking at the continued sound of gunfire, was trying to load his rifle. "Not like that," she murmured, her fingers twitching as she helplessly watched him fumble with the cartridge. Careful, don't jam the barrel, she silently commanded. "Oh, god . . ." she groaned, his clumsy operation of the ramrod excruciating to observe.
Quickly glancing out the window, she took note of Horton's progress. Beau, who was within her range of vision now, led the chase, his long stride closing the distance between himself and the sprinting man. Bullets whined around Horton as the guards shot at him. But he had an enormous advantage in distance and once he reached the street bordering the quay, he could lose himself in any of the labyrinthine alleyways winding up the hillside.
Tense and agitated with her confinement, she longed for one of her fine Manton pistols that had been auctioned off with their household goods. There had to be horse pistols somewhere in the carriages, she decided; everyone carried them. Shifting onto her knees, she quickly lifted the seat, searching the storage area beneath. "Eureka," she softly exclaimed, catching sight of an old relic of a weapon resting on a coil of rope. Pulling out the dusty pistol, she ripped away the small cartridge pouch attached to the handle and found three paper-wrapped cartridges inside. Hopefully one would be enough, she thought, swiftly loading the pistol. Horton had almost reached the end of the quay.
Her guard, well away from the carriage, had positioned himself in the middle of the empty street, the
Which brought to mind her immediate circumstances and her guard. Sliding the window up, she leaned out to check the position of the soldier left to protect her. Turning at the sound of the window rising, he broke off his conversation with the driver and when she smiled at him, he smiled back and wished her good-day. The Portuguese phrase was one of the few familiar to her.
Resting back against the seat a moment later, she drummed her fingers against the worn leather, hoping she wouldn't have to be shut away too long in the carriage. She detested waiting, as she disliked being ordered to play the m issah lady, protected and coddled like some simpleton. She knew how to shoot as well as any man and if the old harbormaster hadn't been so gracious, she wouldn't have felt the need to acquiesce so readily. On the other hand, perhaps salvaging her luggage was worth a politic show of submission.
She restlessly flicked a dust mote from her skirt, leaned over to brush a smudge from the toe of her shoe, impatiently restraightened the hem of her pelisse as she sat upright again.
Twenty seconds had passed.
Fidgety, she wondered what would happen if she stepped from the carriage and looked around. Beau was well away by now. How would he know? She briefly debated, not sure how hindered she was by her coerced agreement or Beau's orders to stay inside the carriage. Perhaps he only meant she was to stay out of danger, she conveniently rationalized. How could it hurt if she strolled around the immediate vicinity?
Pursing her lips, she gazed out the window, contemplating the possible consequence s — w hen a gunshot exploded.
She had the door open before the second shot resounded and at the third shot she was halfway to the ground, only to be faced with the young guardsman ordering her back inside in a rush of Portuguese. Slamming the door shut once again, he stationed himself directly in front, barring her exit. Which meant she could only peer out the window to try to catch a glimpse of the disturbance. Leaning way back, she could see down the extremity of the quay. A tall, burly man was racing for the shore well ahead of his pursuers.
She suspected he was Horton; who else would flee from the Betty Lee} Her guard, panicking at the continued sound of gunfire, was trying to load his rifle. "Not like that," she murmured, her fingers twitching as she helplessly watched him fumble with the cartridge. Careful, don't jam the barrel, she silently commanded. "Oh, god . . ." she groaned, his clumsy operation of the ramrod excruciating to observe.
Quickly glancing out the window, she took note of Horton's progress. Beau, who was within her range of vision now, led the chase, his long stride closing the distance between himself and the sprinting man. Bullets whined around Horton as the guards shot at him. But he had an enormous advantage in distance and once he reached the street bordering the quay, he could lose himself in any of the labyrinthine alleyways winding up the hillside.
Tense and agitated with her confinement, she longed for one of her fine Manton pistols that had been auctioned off with their household goods. There had to be horse pistols somewhere in the carriages, she decided; everyone carried them. Shifting onto her knees, she quickly lifted the seat, searching the storage area beneath. "Eureka," she softly exclaimed, catching sight of an old relic of a weapon resting on a coil of rope. Pulling out the dusty pistol, she ripped away the small cartridge pouch attached to the handle and found three paper-wrapped cartridges inside. Hopefully one would be enough, she thought, swiftly loading the pistol. Horton had almost reached the end of the quay.
Her guard, well away from the carriage, had positioned himself in the middle of the empty street, the
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