Ahead, the scene that began to unfold made his heart slam in horror. Rosalind was lying on the cold ground, her auburn hair spread around her as though a halo of flame against the white snow. The curate was straddling her body, and his hands were tight around her neck; she was limp beneath him and fury raged through Lucas like fire. Urging Goliath faster, he saw the man thump her head against the frosted ground and Lucas roared his anger. The curate looked up, only then seeing the horse crashing through the woods towards them.
In that moment, Lucas felt terror, exhilaration and relief as he saw Rosalind’s arm rise from the man’s side, something glinting in her hand. Suddenly, the curate released his grip and reared up, a knife hilt sticking from his chest.
A surge of snow from Goliath’s hooves sprayed the two people on the ground and Lucas flung himself from the animal, dragging the whoreson from Rosalind, his fists raised in savage wrath.
The curate crumpled in front of him, his jaw crunching under the force of the impact, and Lucas saw blood seeping from the man’s lips – it was not from the punch but the knife to his lung, the wound dripping crimson down his jacket.
Lucas threw himself to Rosalind as she dragged desperate breaths of air into her throat, gasping and pained.
“God, you’re alive. Rosalind, you’re alive.” And he pulled her into his arms to cradle her body against his, hands clutching her close and tight. She coughed, needing room to breathe but he didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to release her ever.
“You’re hurt?”
“Leg,” she rasped and he hauled up the many skirts. The stockings were ripped, a gash lacerating her calf but the bleeding had slowed and he dabbed at the wound with her petticoat.
“That might scar, my love, but it won’t match mine,” he joked feebly as he returned to kiss her forehead, cheeks and eyes. She licked her lips to speak, the whisper so quiet he had to lower his head.
“It’s not the vicar.” she croaked.
Lucas chuckled warmly, leaning down again to kiss her mouth.
“How fuckin’ touching, but I got another blade to carve you both up.”
The curate was standing, only just, and swaying precariously with a wicked-looking dagger in his hand. Blood burbled from his lips and he gagged on his own words, red froth staining his chin like some savage ghoul. He was dead already, Lucas knew that, but he could still throw that blade.
Calmly, Lucas eyed him. “Put it down. You’re finished.”
The curate grinned, his teeth smeared crimson, in stark contrast to his guileless blue eyes and soft baby cheeks, and he started to twist the dagger in his hands.
Lucas could rush at him, but he would have to let go of Rosalind. Or he could throw his own knife which was tucked into his right boot. But all of that took time, so instead he withdrew the pistol from the harness at his thigh, cocked it and shot him dead.
The man fell back and landed with a heavy thud on the trampled snow, head turned and eyes staring out, the smooth hilt of the stag antler knife still protruding from his chest.
Rosalind’s soft body shivered in his arms. “He’s dead now,” Lucas said quietly, “I killed him. It’s done.” And he brushed his lips over her forehead to soothe her fright.
A snort met his gentle administrations and he looked down. Rosalind was reaching to his boot with a trembling hand and then she mimed stabbing movements at his chest.
Lucas’s laughter roared through the woods and Goliath strolled up, lowering his head to softly nudge them. “Are you trying to tell me, Rosalind Trewent, that you killed him, and not me?”
She nodded vigorously and pointed to herself.
“I’m the soldier and you are my maiden in distress. You won’t be able to speak for at least a week, so my version of this story is the one that will be told…for now.” He grinned at her.
A clenched fist clouted his shoulder and her eyes widened in anger; he had never felt anything so sweet.
