amusement that had come from the groom when Anne had slammed the door. And suddenly, with that sound, everything fell into place.
These two, typical of those who frequented the public rooms of the scattered country inns, had probably overheard John or the groom asking about a carriage for hire. Obviously that request had been denied due to the unsettling effects of the fire or perhaps even because it had been the livery stable itself which had burned.
In any case, these scavengers must have heard enough to figure out the location of the stranded travelers on whose behalf his servants were inquiring. Or they had heard enough to know in what direction to search for the disabled coach. Then they had hurried here on horseback, beating the rescue party.
It was quite possible that they loitered at the posting inns, hoping for just such a situation. Ian wondered how many other travelers had fallen prey to their schemes.
“We’ll be on our way then,” the man with the torch said. “Since you won’t be needing our services.”
His eyes again shifted to Anne. He smiled at her, revealing the blackened hole of a missing front tooth, before he stepped back, lowering the torch. He began walking toward the horses and his companion, the wavering light he carried revealing both as Ian watched from the still-opened door of the carriage.
Just before he reached his mount, the leader threw the torch into the side of the roadbed. The flaming arc it made through the night drew Ian’s eyes. Unconsciously they followed its flight and landing. The fire sputtered and sizzled a moment in the snow before it went out, plunging the area into darkness.
Ian’s gaze refocused quickly on the place where the two men had been standing just before the scene had faded into the surrounding black. As he waited for his vision to adjust, he strained to keep track, by sound alone, of what they were doing.
There was almost no noise, however. At least none he could follow. Gradually his eyes had adjusted to the lack of light, other than what little moonlight found its way through the obscuring clouds. The horses were still there, exactly as they had been before the torch had been extinguished, but the two men had vanished as if they had never existed.
Ian turned on the seat, throwing his left arm in front of Anne and pulling her toward him. He shoved her behind his left shoulder. As he did, the two movements simultaneous, he brought the pistol around, pointing it at the rear door of the carriage.
He wasn’t disappointed. The door burst open and something came hurtling through it from the outer darkness. Ian delayed for half a second, unsure whether this was something the two had thrown into the carriage to make him fire. He was well aware that he had only one shot. And then, judging the bulk of the object to be man-sized, he knew he couldn’t take the chance that it was not one of the scavengers.
He squeezed the trigger, and the noise of the shot filled the coach, along with a smell as acrid as that from the make-shift torch. He had time to think that he couldn’t possibly have missed at that range before a body sprawled across his knees. He pushed the man to the floor with the hand that still held the empty pistol, just as another shape scrambled into the opening. It was the second man, who had a hand on either side of the frame of the door to pull himself in.
Ian reversed the pistol, holding it by the barrel and using the wooden stock to strike at the man climbing into the coach. The second highwayman put up his forearm, deflecting Ian’s blow, which had been aimed at his head.
Ian felt Anne begin to struggle beside him, but it took him too long to understand what was happening. The intruder wasn’t concerned with entering the coach. He had instead gripped Anne’s arm and was pulling her toward the open door.
Ian tried to get to his feet, hampered by the body on the floor and by his damaged leg, which had stiffened from the cold and an hours-long inactivity. Although he managed to lurch upward, the leg gave way, spilling him onto his knees on top of the body of the intruder, which had fallen between the two seats.
“Let me go,” Anne demanded, her small fists rising and falling as she flailed at the man who held her. Although she was struggling fiercely, she was being drawn inexorably to the door.
Ian reached for her and caught the sleeve of her coat between his fingers. Either they, too, were numb with the cold or his purchase had not been secure. The fabric was ripped from his hand as Anne was pulled forward and out of the coach.
He heard her outcry when she hit the ground. Whether it was an expression of pain or of fear, Ian couldn’t be certain, but the thought that the bastard might have hurt her infuriated him.
Discarding the useless pistol, Ian pushed himself upright. He lunged forward, stepping on the dead man. He stood poised a moment in the doorway of the coach, trying to decide which of the forms on the ground below, starkly highlighted against the white snow, was Anne’s. Then a foam of a pale petticoat amid the dark material of the girl’s skirt settled the question.
Knowing that his mobility was going to be limited no matter what he did, Ian simply dove out of the door on top of the man who was attempting to drag Anne to her feet and into the woods. A grunt of surprise and a whoosh of expelled breath as the man hit the ground indicated the accuracy of Ian’s landing. It also jarred every place in his body where a piece of shrapnel had embedded itself more than a year ago and especially those places where bits of metal still lodged deep in muscle and bone.
Now or never, Ian thought, ignoring the agony. He used the advantage of shock and his superior position to begin pounding the man’s head with his fists. The leather gloves he wore offered some protection, but his hands were so cold that each blow felt as if it might shatter his knuckles. He could only hope that the bones of the man writhing in the snow beneath him were experiencing that same punishment.
His opponent somehow managed to get his legs up. He fitted his knees under Ian’s stomach and threw him off. The blow to Ian’s midsection, which still harbored one of the fragments the surgeons had deemed too risky to remove, was nauseating.
Now he was no longer the one in the superior position. No longer the one raining blows on his opponent’s head. Ian put his arms and his hands up, protecting his face as well as he could, as he simply endured the onslaught of pain.
The other man fought with the brutal tenacity of a street brawler, which was undoubtedly where he had acquired his skills. Ian could smell him, a rank, fetid miasma of perspiration that surrounded him despite the bite of the cold, fresh air.
Finally Ian managed to jam his elbow into his opponent’s throat. The move was accomplished more by luck than design, but it distracted those punishing fists for a heartbeat, as the man raised both hands to grab at his injured windpipe.
Ian rolled to the side to free himself of his opponent’s hampering weight. The maneuver was at least partially successful. Then the ex-soldier attempted to take advantage of that success by putting his knee on the ground and pushing himself upright. Instead, his knee slid sideways in the snow, throwing him forward. His forehead met that of his opponent, who was at that instant attempting to sit up. The force of the hard contact between their skulls was enough to thin the air around Ian’s head, and he felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.
He fought the surging blackness, using his hands to hold himself off the ground. Moving as uncertainly as a drunkard, he pushed his body up, swaying on his hands and knees over his equally stunned assailant. Then, with every ounce of strength he possessed, he pushed off the ground and staggered to his feet. He pulled draught after draught of icy air into his aching lungs.
However, the man on the ground also seemed to be recovering from the blow to his
