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“Sure and that’s a sight better than being shot.”
She didn’t argue and followed as he sprinted to the hedgerow. A glance over his shoulder told him two of the men were in the field searching for them and another had stayed with the horses. The men would spot him and Bridget any moment, but it didn’t matter. They’d never find them in the hedgerow.
Cal went into the gnarled trees and shrubs first, putting his arm up to protect his face. Bridget was right about the sharp branches. They tore at his coat and caught in his hair. He ignored the pain and the blood on his hands, breaking branches and making a small opening for them to hide. She had a scratch across her face and her hair was wild and disheveled, but she appeared otherwise unhurt. He grasped her coat and tucked it around her white night rail and legs. “Now, be silent, lass.”
It seemed his heart beat loud enough for half the countryside to hear. Bridget, contorted in what looked to be an uncomfortable position, stared at him, her eyes wide with fear. A moment later he knew why. She must have heard the footsteps coming closer. Cal lifted his head slightly to look through a thin section of the hedgerow. One of MacDonald’s men was coming closer, walking straight toward the hedgerow. He moved out of Cal’s view as he walked along the shrubbery, but he was coming inexorably closer to their hiding spot. Cal shifted closer to the edge, and Bridget grasped his arm and mouthed, No!
He shook her off, listening for the man’s approach. As soon as the footfalls were close, he risked peering out of the opening. The man was almost to them. Cal gave him three more steps. Then two. Just one...
Cal tore out of the hedgerow, ignoring the pain as branches clawed at his body, tearing out pieces of hair and drawing blood. He tackled the man, his weight and the element of surprise causing the bigger man to lose his balance and go down to his knees. Cal’s arms and face stung with pain, but he managed to see through the blood clouding his vision to punch the man under the chin. The man punched back, and Cal landed flat on his back. It wasn’t an unfamiliar position to him. In a move he’d perfected on the streets of London, he jumped to his feet and plowed his foot into the man’s testicles. This time when he went down, he stayed down.
Cal turned to look for MacDonald, but the pistol ball that screamed past his ear made MacDonald easy to find. Fortunately, MacDonald had to take time to reload, and Cal was on him before he could finish the task. The two men went down, Cal on top but losing ground when MacDonald rolled him over.
MacDonald punched him hard in the cheek, and it would have done some damage, but Cal’s bloody face caused MacDonald’s fist to slip. Cal grasped MacDonald’s lapels and brought the man down, hitting him hard in the head with his own head. It hurt like hell, but it worked nine times out of ten. This time was no different. MacDonald reeled backward, and Cal climbed out from under him. He rose to his feet, fists up and ready.
Sean MacDonald stumbled to his own feet. “Thought you could escape me, so you did.”
The two men circled each other. “Oh, I don’t know. I had a feeling I’d see you again.” Cal jabbed a fist at MacDonald, who cut hard to the right and escaped the blow.
“I trusted you.” MacDonald aimed for Cal’s breadbox, but he jumped back, bringing his leg up to land a kick hard to MacDonald’s thigh. MacDonald let out a breath.
“Your mistake.”
“No, it’s yours,” MacDonald said, panting. “You’re the worst kind of scum. Working for the British.”
The insult hit home, but Cal shrugged in response. “They pay better than the Irish.”
The color rose in MacDonald’s face, and he swung wildly at Cal, a punch Cal easily sidestepped. But he recovered quickly enough to throw his own jab, and he hit home, just to the side of MacDonald’s temple. The leader of Innishfree stumbled to the side.
“Callahan! Watch out!” Bridget called. Cal ducked and rolled and knew the shot hadn’t even come close. He’d almost forgotten about the man back with the horses. Clearly, he had been waiting for his chance to take a shot.
From the ground he saw Bridget fall, but the way she moved was more defensive than offensive. “Bridget!” He crawled toward her, his eyes going to the growing patch of red on the sleeve of her coat.
He’d almost reached her when someone grabbed his foot. He turned, kicked MacDonald in the chin and rose to his feet. MacDonald was groaning on the ground, and in the distance, Cal saw the third man priming his pistol. He started for him.
“Put it down!”
The man looked up at him. He wasn’t even really a man, just a boy of perhaps sixteen. His hands shook as he tried to pour powder into the weapon.
“Drop it, lad! I don’t want to hurt you.”
But the lad dropped the powder and shoved the patch into the barrel. He primed the pan then raised the pistol. Cal prepared to duck, but just as he bent, someone grabbed him from behind. He turned to see MacDonald catch him around the waist and swing him around. Cal fell to the ground, and MacDonald looked down at him with a triumphant smile.
A crack exploded through the air and MacDonald jerked then put a hand to his chest. A flower of scarlet bloomed in the center and MacDonald fell forward. Cal stumbled out of the way as MacDonald fell hard on his face.
Over the stone wall, the youth was white as snow. His hand shook so badly, he dropped the pistol, ran for his horse, and climbed on the beast’s back. Cal called after him, but he was already riding away.
And then Cal was running back to Bridget. She was sitting where he had left her, one hand cradling her injured arm. She looked up at him, her face so pale he could all but see the veins beneath her skin.
“No.” His voice was barely audible, just a hoarse rasp. Bridget was supposed to be safe in the hedgerow. He was supposed to deliver her to The Farm, where she’d go on terrorizing unsuspecting agents with her clipboard. She would marry some other man one day, perhaps have children.
She couldn’t die.
He fell to his knees before her. “You’re fine, lass. A flesh wound.” But she didn’t look fine. She looked as though she’d seen Death and bought her ticket to travel with him.
“Bridget.” He cupped her face, and her skin was so cold. So very, very cold. “Lass, hold on. Be strong now. I can’t lose you.”
And they were the truest words he’d ever spoken. How had he thought he could ever walk away from her? She was his. She’d been his since he’d spied her in the train station. He couldn’t lose her now, when he’d just realized how much he cared for her.
How much he...loved her.
“Bridget, say something, lass.”
Her unfocused gaze met his. “I’m sorry,” she said and fell over.
