“Climb—in—the—wagon.” He bit each word out, in no mood to argue any longer. Turning, he fired his pistol toward the shots, not expecting to hit anything, but he wanted their assailants to know he was no easy mark.
In answer two shots were fired back. And Miss Harrell had yet to move.
His temper short, Ian put his hand on Miss Harrell’s rump and boosted her up into the wagon in a most ungentlemanly manner. He then dove in after her, feeling the shot as it breezed by his feet.
It was very dark in the wagon and he landed right on top of Miss Harrell who was attempting to roll over in a flurry of petticoats and skirt. He found himself between her legs, his hand on her breast.
“Pardon,” he murmured quickly. With difficulty he moved off of her. There was little floor space, and the walls were covered with well-stocked shelves, so that every square inch was used to advantage. Ian banged his head on an iron kettle. Ducking, he reached for his knapsack, fumbling in the dark for his shot and powder flask to reload his gun.
“You honestly don’t know who is shooting at us?” she questioned.
Ian spit out the cap to his gunpowder. “I thought perhaps your father had sent someone after Charley. I’m wrong.”
She snorted her agreement…and Ian began to like her even less. He reloaded his pistol, his movements economical and efficient in the dark from years of practice.
“And you say they must have followed you to me?”
“Apparently,” Ian said. He tucked his gunpowder back in his knapsack.
“I was safer with Charley,” was her tart reply.
At that moment, the shadow of a head poked around the front opening of the wagon, directly behind Miss Harrell. Ian didn’t hesitate. He fired the pistol and hit his mark. Miss Harrell screamed and scrambled to Ian’s other side. The victim gave a soft grunt and fell to the ground.
“One down,” Ian said with satisfaction.
Outside there were shouts of alarm. Whoever thought he was easy pickings was wrong. However, now that he and Miss Harrell were in the wagon, their attackers had the upper hand. Ian didn’t like feeling trapped, but he was certain he could stave them off until morning. In daylight, the game would be different. He reloaded the pistol.
Scrunched beside him, her arms around her knees, Miss Harrell read his mind. “Do you believe we can escape them?”
“I’m hoping Charley has gone for help.”
“Do you really think he will?”
“No.”
There was a space of silence. Ian listened, straining to hear any and all sounds. The night was deadly quiet. He sensed that their attackers were regrouping—but to what purpose?
His eyes were growing accustomed to the dark. He felt the walls with his hand, hoping there was another weapon of some sort he could use hidden there. Instead, all he found were books. Stacks and stacks of books. Miss Harrell’s precious books. He couldn’t stop a chuckle. Here they were, fighting for their lives, and if push came to shove, he supposed they could throw books at their assailants.
He’d start with the romantic novels, then all books of poetry.
“Whoareyou?” she said softly. “You aren’t like any of the other men in my father’s employ.”
“He hired me special.” He slung his knapsack on one arm.
“But he doesn’t like the Irish.”
“No one does.”
His answer was not what she had expected. Even in the dark, he could feel her staring at him, as if taking new measure.
But she was nothing if not her father’s daughter. “How do I know you’ve come from him?”
Ian wanted to ask who else would be willing to serve as her human shield, but bit his tongue. “You took these books from the house. They are the only possessions you left with, save for the clothes you were wearing when you left.”
“You are correct.” There was a beat of silence. Then she asked, “Who do you think is shooting at us?”
“I don’t know. For all I know, they could bewithyour father.”
