Her cheeks continued to burn. “We shall see about that. Now, should we be on our way, or do you wish to instruct me further?”
Steadman laughed then, a deep rumble like a cello. “Keep that up, boy, and I may take a liking to you. And as most of my friends have landed in jail or at the end of a rope, you should not wish for my friendship.”
With that, he spun his horse about and spurred it briskly westward through the streets of London. She kicked her mount into motion and nearly tumbled backwards to the pavement from the ensuing lurch. Regaining her saddle, she followed in his wake. Although adept sidesaddle, she had only ridden astride a few times when her father was not around to disapprove. How would she maintain this pace? How could she continue this ruse? As Morgan struggled to keep up, she considered Steadman’s words. Was she truly safe with him? Safefromhim? Despite his upper crust origin and supposed reform, he was an outlaw of the first order. And even if he were the archbishop himself, what would happen to her reputation if anyone learned that she had been alone on the road with a man? After a time, she came to a dismal realization. Her reputation didn’t matter. Her prospects of marriage had dissolved long ago thanks toher father’s actions and her plain looks. Who could love her, anyway?
She and Steadman reached the countryside by the time the sun cleared the horizon. Thankfully, the rain had abated. After her chattering teeth finally stilled, Morgan drew alongside her traveling companion and studied the pair of pistols secured to the back of his saddle. Heavy double-barreled flintlocks—two barrels, two hammers, two shots apiece. He must have noticed.
“Do you know how to load and fire a pistol, Brady?”
She yanked her attention away from the weapons but recalled one of her few pleasant memories of her father. “Yes. My father taught me so that I might protect the parsonage during his absences. We practiced together until he was satisfied with my aim at thirty paces.”
“Then I will be sure to remain at least forty paces distant when you handle a pistol.”
“If only I had known a pistol would keep you away, I might have brought several.”
He snorted and wiped his nose. “That’s the spirit. I might make a man of you yet. And I will begin by telling you that true mastery of the pistol is in avoiding its use.”
“Avoiding its use? What do you mean?”
“Let me demonstrate.” He pulled one of the weapons from behind his saddle and looped the other arm through his horse’s reins. “A pistol properly wielded can dissuade violence. Like this.”
He lifted the weapon in his hand to aim at a tree some distance ahead, arm straight as an arrow. He then brought his other hand from underneath to grip his wrist and leaned forward slightly. “Point the pistol at the right eye of your adversary. Your left hand keeps your right hand deathly still.Maintain a stone expression for a count of three, then calmly say, ‘Lower your weapon, sir.’”
“Why the right eye?”
“Trust me,” he said while returning the pistol to its original stowage. “It works nearly every time.”
“Nearly?”
“I am still here, am I not?”
She chuckled. “Yes, you are. And when it does not work?”
“Put a shot into his thigh. The wound is survivable, and no man shot in the thigh has the wherewithal to shoot back.”
“Is that why you carry the double-barreled flintlocks, Sir Steadman? To have one shot left just in case?”
“Naturally. But, please, cease calling me Sir Steadman. Simply Steadman is perfectly adequate.”
“Very well, simply Steadman.” She cocked her head. “Are you really a knight?”
“No. The title of ‘Sir Steadman’ was invented by the adoring public, and I chose not to correct them.”
“But you correct me?”
He barked a laugh. “You do not appear to number among the adoring public.”
“Perhaps not, though you have ample time to change my mind. But shouldn’t I call you by your surname? Mr. Drew?”
“No,” he said too curtly. “I have never been Mr. Drew to anyone.” He peeked at her sidelong. “And what of you? We have days of familiarity ahead of us. Shall it be Mr. Brady or Morgan?”
She stilled a quiver of her chin.Mr. Brady, she said silently,Mr. Brady. Then she opened her mouth to repeat it. “Morgan.”
“Morgan it is.” Although chastising her uncooperative mouth, she considered how the sound of her name from his lips stirred her heart. She shook her head sharply to dispel the notion, only to find him speaking again.
“As we are on a Christian name basis, Morgan, tell me about your disastrous suit.”
She plucked at her coat. “Loaned to me by a dead man, as I mentioned. For my new position at Bow Street, I wanted to look the part.”
