Poison or Protect
Page 25
She didn’t wait to see if he followed her instructions. Keeping her gun steady, Preshea marched up the hill after Gavin. It was muddy and her velvet riding habit was never going to be the same, but sometimes sacrifices must be made.
* * *
Weel, she’s definitely na the assassin. Gavin’s heart expanded in relief.
He fancied he acquitted himself well from Preshea’s vantage point, although he was more winded than he liked. I’m getting old. He dashed over the hill to find, as she’d said, the rifleman.
He was sprinting down the other side to where a little dirigible was moored, bobbing softly. Gavin yelled and cursed.
The man turned, hoisted his rifle, and fired in one smooth movement that spoke of professional training. I could’ve used a man of such skill in the Crimea.
Gavin registered only that much before heat scalded his upper arm. He gave an animal roar (more of frustrated surprise than pain).
Curse it. He’s getting away.
The man swung himself over the lip of the gondola. Floating wasn’t the fastest method of escape – a horse would be quicker – but it was effective. Plus, Gavin realized, once the enemy cast off and started to rise, he could turn around, rest the gun on the lip of the basket, and fire once more.
Which is exactly what the bastard did.
Gavin rolled.
Dirt spit up where his head had just been.
Bloody good shot. Gavin wished with a passion that he’d his own rifle. I’m also a bloody good shot.
Two pretty kid boots appeared in the corner of his vision.
“Temper, temper.” Preshea did not look down at him.
“Good afternoon, Lady Villentia. Know this laddie, do you?”
She was holding a ruthless-looking little revolver. It was small enough for a lady but big enough to pack a punch. “Not my kind of training. More your people’s.”
She raised both hands, took careful aim, and shot.
Her bullet embedded itself in the gondola of the dirigible.
The aircraft bobbed higher.
Gavin sat up and held out a hand. “May I?”
With an expression that might have been relief, Preshea passed it over. She dusted off her hands on the rich brown velvet of her skirts.
The gun was lighter than Gavin expected. “Rimfire?”
“Of course.”
“American?”
“Naturally.”
“That’s not verra patriotic.” He needed only one hand to aim such a featherweight. Good thing, too, for the other was currently useless. He was also feeling slightly light-headed. Surely he wasn’t losing that much blood?
Gavin shot, getting close enough to the rifleman to splinter the gondola’s railing in his face. Deciding on caution over killing, the blackguard hunkered down, his gun with him.
“That one is soldier-trained,” said Gavin.
“The War Office needs to get its house in order.”
Gavin wrinkled his nose. “Can’t keep record of them all.”
“No? Pity.”
The airship floated higher, caught a stiff breeze, and began drifting away.
“We should set someone to track him from the ground.” Preshea took her gun back from Gavin and set it down within easy reach of both of them. Without asking, she bent to his upper arm.
He craned his neck to see. “Bad?”
She cut away the cloth of his shirt and coat with a wicked little knife. “I’m sure you’ve had worse.”
He had. This one was a shallow dig through the flesh of his upper bicep, not bad at all. It was bleeding, of course, but not so much as it might have elsewhere.
Preshea picked up her revolver and wiggled the hot barrel at him. “Cauterize?”
“You canna be serious, woman! It’s na the bloody Dark Ages!”
“No need to be crass, my dear captain—”
“Gavin,” he grumbled at her.
“I’m only trained in limited field dressings, those designed to keep a girl moving.”
“Curious training, for a lass.”
“I disagree.” She lifted her skirts at that and began fishing about under them. She showed no embarrassment and a good deal of shapely leg. She was wearing bloomers, of course, but only to the knee, and she’d fine white stockings below. If I stroke with one finger, might she excuse a wounded man?
His thoughts were arrested by a ripping noise. “What are you doing?”
“Tearing a strip off my chemise. Needs to be clean for field dressing. Cauterization may be out of date, but I assume that truth still holds?”
Practical lass. The hem of her petticoat was muddied from the terrain, so she needed to reach farther up to get at something unsoiled.
Triumphant, Preshea produced a length of fine muslin, beautifully embroidered. The chemise she’d just casually destroyed cost more than his favorite boots.
“Would rather enjoy you in your best underpinnings than have you rip them apart for a mere scratch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She began wrapping his arm, efficiently but with unexpected solicitude.
“It is a mere scratch!”
“I know that. What’s ridiculous is the idea that I should be wearing my best underpinnings when riding!”
“Nay?”
“Certainly not.”
“You’ve finer than this?” He fingered the end of the bandage where it now dangled. She’d done an excellent job with the dressing, although she’d tied the tails into a bow.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you take me for, an amateur?”
* * *
Weel, she’s definitely na the assassin. Gavin’s heart expanded in relief.
He fancied he acquitted himself well from Preshea’s vantage point, although he was more winded than he liked. I’m getting old. He dashed over the hill to find, as she’d said, the rifleman.
He was sprinting down the other side to where a little dirigible was moored, bobbing softly. Gavin yelled and cursed.
The man turned, hoisted his rifle, and fired in one smooth movement that spoke of professional training. I could’ve used a man of such skill in the Crimea.
Gavin registered only that much before heat scalded his upper arm. He gave an animal roar (more of frustrated surprise than pain).
Curse it. He’s getting away.
The man swung himself over the lip of the gondola. Floating wasn’t the fastest method of escape – a horse would be quicker – but it was effective. Plus, Gavin realized, once the enemy cast off and started to rise, he could turn around, rest the gun on the lip of the basket, and fire once more.
Which is exactly what the bastard did.
Gavin rolled.
Dirt spit up where his head had just been.
Bloody good shot. Gavin wished with a passion that he’d his own rifle. I’m also a bloody good shot.
Two pretty kid boots appeared in the corner of his vision.
“Temper, temper.” Preshea did not look down at him.
“Good afternoon, Lady Villentia. Know this laddie, do you?”
She was holding a ruthless-looking little revolver. It was small enough for a lady but big enough to pack a punch. “Not my kind of training. More your people’s.”
She raised both hands, took careful aim, and shot.
Her bullet embedded itself in the gondola of the dirigible.
The aircraft bobbed higher.
Gavin sat up and held out a hand. “May I?”
With an expression that might have been relief, Preshea passed it over. She dusted off her hands on the rich brown velvet of her skirts.
The gun was lighter than Gavin expected. “Rimfire?”
“Of course.”
“American?”
“Naturally.”
“That’s not verra patriotic.” He needed only one hand to aim such a featherweight. Good thing, too, for the other was currently useless. He was also feeling slightly light-headed. Surely he wasn’t losing that much blood?
Gavin shot, getting close enough to the rifleman to splinter the gondola’s railing in his face. Deciding on caution over killing, the blackguard hunkered down, his gun with him.
“That one is soldier-trained,” said Gavin.
“The War Office needs to get its house in order.”
Gavin wrinkled his nose. “Can’t keep record of them all.”
“No? Pity.”
The airship floated higher, caught a stiff breeze, and began drifting away.
“We should set someone to track him from the ground.” Preshea took her gun back from Gavin and set it down within easy reach of both of them. Without asking, she bent to his upper arm.
He craned his neck to see. “Bad?”
She cut away the cloth of his shirt and coat with a wicked little knife. “I’m sure you’ve had worse.”
He had. This one was a shallow dig through the flesh of his upper bicep, not bad at all. It was bleeding, of course, but not so much as it might have elsewhere.
Preshea picked up her revolver and wiggled the hot barrel at him. “Cauterize?”
“You canna be serious, woman! It’s na the bloody Dark Ages!”
“No need to be crass, my dear captain—”
“Gavin,” he grumbled at her.
“I’m only trained in limited field dressings, those designed to keep a girl moving.”
“Curious training, for a lass.”
“I disagree.” She lifted her skirts at that and began fishing about under them. She showed no embarrassment and a good deal of shapely leg. She was wearing bloomers, of course, but only to the knee, and she’d fine white stockings below. If I stroke with one finger, might she excuse a wounded man?
His thoughts were arrested by a ripping noise. “What are you doing?”
“Tearing a strip off my chemise. Needs to be clean for field dressing. Cauterization may be out of date, but I assume that truth still holds?”
Practical lass. The hem of her petticoat was muddied from the terrain, so she needed to reach farther up to get at something unsoiled.
Triumphant, Preshea produced a length of fine muslin, beautifully embroidered. The chemise she’d just casually destroyed cost more than his favorite boots.
“Would rather enjoy you in your best underpinnings than have you rip them apart for a mere scratch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She began wrapping his arm, efficiently but with unexpected solicitude.
“It is a mere scratch!”
“I know that. What’s ridiculous is the idea that I should be wearing my best underpinnings when riding!”
“Nay?”
“Certainly not.”
“You’ve finer than this?” He fingered the end of the bandage where it now dangled. She’d done an excellent job with the dressing, although she’d tied the tails into a bow.
She narrowed her eyes at him. “What do you take me for, an amateur?”
