Flawless (7 page)

“Weapons aren’t the trouble, my lord.” Wilkes pointed to the way station. “We’re always fully armed. Probably another dozen rifles in there. It’s manpower we lack.”

Miles nodded, easing his nerves with every crack of his knuckles. But when his thumb touched his gold wedding band, his trepidation redoubled. He wanted to protect Viv, but how the bloody hell was he going to manage that?

By doing whatever it took.

“I’ll find enough fingers to pull triggers,” he said tightly. “You determine the best position for the coaches and the guards. Mr. Nolan, Mr. Kato—with me.”

V
iv gouged her nails into
the velvet upholstery as the stage lurched. Chloe gasped and clutched tighter to Viv’s arm. “They’re moving the wagons into a defensive formation,” said one of the four other passengers. He was in his early fifties and wore a bowler hat, a fine twill suit, and a smirk. “These raiders try everything to keep prosperity and progress from coming to this land.”

“Your pardon, sir,” Viv said, “but at the moment, they are keeping
us
from progressing. That should be our sole concern.”

“A mere delay.” He waved his hand and set about stuffing tobacco into a carved ivory pipe. “Besides, should the worst happen and we never make our destination, Her Majesty will have no recourse but to wipe out the entire population—Boer or bushman, whoever they are.”

Viv’s mind was still twirling. One minute she’d stood with Miles atop a bluff that overlooked what felt like the entire Earth. Kissing him. Holding him again. Wanting his
bare skin pressed against hers. The next minute she huddled with her maid in a well-appointed coach, its shades drawn and its male occupants unbelievably resigned despite a cloying atmosphere of sweat, dust, and fear.

“Such retribution is your comfort?” she asked the man in the bowler.

He didn’t reply, not when the coach jerked to a stop and feet pounded on the roof. Chloe buried her face against Viv’s upper arm and muttered a breathless, indistinct prayer.

“It’s the guards with the shotguns,” Viv said close to her maid’s ear. “Raiders would be shouting or firing.”

“Quite right. I’m Charles Haverstock, by the way.” He removed his bowler and smoothed a sallow hand across a bald head shiny with sweat. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss . . . ?”

“Viscountess Bancroft,” she said coolly, adding the slightest emphasis to her title.

His eyes, made narrow by heavy wrinkles and drooping upper lids, opened painfully wide. “My lady,” he stammered. “Forgive me, I—”

“I doubt this is the appropriate time, Mr. Haverstock.”

A gnawing sense of claustrophobia made her want to rip out her hair and run screaming from the prison of that stagecoach. The elegant high lace neckline of her gown choked off what little hot air she managed to inhale. Needing relief—and her curiosity like a tick gnawing in her brain—she eased aside the window screen.

“They’ll see you!” Chloe hissed.

“Nonsense.” Viv managed a sense of detached composure. She had endured every day in London with just such fortitude. “They’ll be watching the men with guns, not the passengers cowering in here.”

Shouts continued as the guards moved into place around the circled coaches. Nine men carried a variety of armaments, their expressions honed of determination. But where was Miles? And what under heaven could her wastrel husband do against armed horsemen? The surprising, protective sense of panic skittering across her nerves left her dizzy.

If he died today . . .

She shook her head, dislodging her hat. She unpinned it and handed it to Chloe, who promptly began to worry the beadwork off the flared brim.

Time melted around them, slowing and lengthening until Viv heard every whorl of wind, saw every restless shuffle of men’s boots, heard every thump of oncoming hooves against packed ground.

Fierce cries broke her trance. Shots exploded. A dozen raiders vaulted over the bluff, down toward the wagons. Smoke from gunfire and the quick kick of dust smoothed distinct bodies into a gauzy mass of movement, shadow, and muted color.

From out of the cacophony came a low, loud command. “Hold steady! Wait for Wilkes’s signal!”

Miles?

Viv peered through the disorder and found him kneeling behind a wagon wheel, sighting with a leveled rifle. Adam,
Mr. Kato, and even the blond tradesman occupied various points of cover. Each was armed. Their deadly expressions matched those of the hired guards.

“Ready?” came a distant command. “Fire!”

The raiders’ gunfire had been sporadic, but the barrage from the coaches’ defense came as a unified blast. Masculine screams answered, as did the squealing pain of downed horses.

“Ready again! Fire!”

Another barrage followed. Chloe shrieked, clamped her arms around her ears and doubled over, sobbing. But Viv could hardly comfort her maid, not when she watched her husband fire and reload. Hunting trips with his noble kinsmen had provided him with certain skills, but this was calm, collected violence done to protect innocent people. With her palm flat against her breastbone, she pressed to keep her frantic heart from bursting.

“Fire!”

At first Viv thought the shout was yet another command, one to bolster that unified defense. But cries strengthened. Then came the stench of smoke—not cigars or gunpowder, but burning cloth and leather.

The coach is on fire.

She choked on words that wouldn’t come. Even swallowing wouldn’t help, her throat feeling blistered and tight. She gave up on speech. With a fierce tug, she yanked Chloe upright and shoved the mauled hat out of her lap. The copper handle wouldn’t budge. Viv rattled the door and even conjured a few long-buried French curses.

Haverstock pushed Chloe out of the way to get to Viv. “Let me.”

But he hadn’t touched the hot copper before the lock finally gave way and swung outward. Miles stood ready to receive her.

“And here I thought these accommodations were first class.” He hauled her down with one arm firmly encircling her waist. Whip held with his other hand, he’d slung a rifle over his shoulder. “Miserable is what they are. I fully intend to lodge a complaint.”

They turned as one—as a raider charged their position. The world at the edge of Viv’s vision grayed, but she clearly saw the attacking man’s virulent expression. Teeth bared. Eyes narrowed. Pistol raised.

She was going to die.

Miles snapped his arm to the side. The whip snaked through the air with a crack as loud as the nearby gunshots. Again and again he flicked the coiled leather. The attacker’s horse reared back on its hind legs, throwing off the man’s aim. A bullet shot from his pistol but flew high overhead.

Before Viv could protest, Miles pulled her to where a group of women and children huddled behind a boulder. “No, wait! Chloe!”

A frown knotted his brow, then he nodded. “Promise you’ll stay here.”

“I promise.”

Of course he would grin. Even at a time like that, as if she’d consented to sharing the next waltz. But this Miles was a feral cousin to the man she’d married. He gave her
waist one last squeeze before rejoining the fight at a full run.

Viv remained by that boulder but kept him in sight—as if watching him would keep him safe. Another onslaught of raiders barred his way back to the carriage. With whip and pistol and hoarse shouts, he blended seamlessly with the trained guards. The head of security directed his men, while Miles organized the ragtag band of volunteers. He knelt beside Adam, shoulder to shoulder, and aimed a rifle. They fired in unison.

What about Chloe?

The burn of smoke and bitterest guilt throbbed in her lungs. If anything happened to her maid, how could she forgive herself?

Rarely had she felt confidence in Miles. Maybe not ever. At that moment, however—unable to do anything else—she put her faith in her husband.

Please, Miles. Save her too.

As if hearing that silent plea, Miles handed his rifle to Adam. Bent low, he skittered through the fighting and returned to the carriage. Frenzied flames ate through canvas and leather and wood. Opaque smoke billowed heavenward. A raider without a horse charged behind him.

“Miles!”

But her warning went unheeded. The raider launched onto Miles’s back. A wickedly curved knife flashed in the sunlight. Viv’s heart lurched. She sank into the dirt, all strength gone from her trembling thighs.

Menacingly huge but wearing a placid expression, Mr.
Kato grabbed the raider with the ease of a mother lifting a newborn. He handled the man with no such care, flinging him against the carriage where he landed in a dusty heap.

Miles was safe. For now.

He reached the carriage door just as Chloe tumbled out. She hit the dirt on all fours, covered in soot and ash. Sparks and debris from the coach rained down and ignited Chloe’s dress. Miles simply swatted the flames, then rolled her onto her back. Mr. Kato stood nearby with a wide stance, his fists at the ready. Adam and the blond tradesman joined him as Miles gathered Chloe in his arms. The trio covered his retreat toward the safety of the boulder.

Viv couldn’t breathe as they crossed the field of battle, just willing them to be safe. Her tongue tasted sour, like unripe plums. But her gaze alit on a sight that exchanged fear for vitalizing anger. Haverstock, that fawning toad, cowered beneath the luggage wagon. Had he really been so spineless as to abandon the coach before a woman? Was that what constituted civilization in Cape Colony?

Not for every man, because Miles arrived at last. Breathing hard, eyes wild, he handed Chloe into Viv’s awestruck keeping.

“Stay low,” he said simply. “I’ll come back for you both.” The raider must have made use of that curved knife, because blood trickled from a gash on Miles’ss collarbone.

She smoothed hair back from her maid’s black-streaked face, but Viv couldn’t look away from her husband’s injury. “You’re hurt.”

“When I’m done pretending to be a soldier, you can pretend to be my nurse.” He turned back toward his peculiar little army. “Capital work, men. Now we end this!”

Viv stretched, arching her back
as far as her corset and stiff muscles would permit. She smelled of smoke, sweat, and the primal perfume of a hard, hot wind. Two other women sat with her in the lengthening shadows behind the way station. Each tended to patients injured in the skirmish. Coated in dust and soot and muted expressions of shock, the women appeared unnaturally identical. Viv assumed she would look little different.

Chloe lay curled on her side against the corrugated iron wall, head in Viv’s lap. Disheveled brown hair lay against her ashen cheek. A good, sweet girl, she deserved a life among people who cared for her, protected by a system of rules that meant never needing to dive from a burning stage in the midst of a gun battle.

Whatever morbid thrill Viv had experienced in surviving their ordeal was gone. Only lethargy remained. Her whole body felt sloppy, reeling in this quiet moment after a storm of violence. One coach was burnt and another lay tipped on its side, its axle cracked in two. Fatigued resignation slackened the survivors’ faces as they slogged through appointed tasks.

Exhausted, she watched Miles help redistribute luggage and passengers to the four remaining vehicles. His ragged shirt was a mess of dirt and blood, open at the neck, sleeves jerked up to his elbows. Sweat gleamed on his tanned skin. If
she stood closer, would she see little rivulets dripping down the hollow at the base of his bare throat?

Even more surprising than her lewd daydream was the fact Miles worked alongside Mr. Kato. The nobleman and the African, both laboring toward a common purpose as they had done in battle. Now they restored order and maintained calm.

A fantasy, to be sure. A mere trick of this challenging land and its dry desert mirages. She knew him too well. Only a fresh deck of cards and his other numerous vices held the power to drag her husband out of bed each afternoon. That he’d crossed the Atlantic was distinctly out of character. That he’d behaved like an avenging hero was like watching a myth become reality.

The blond tradesman’s wife approached the way station, her face drawn and flushed. “Pardon me,” she said softly, arms crossed protectively over the bulge of her belly. “My husband . . . Can you spare some bandages?”

“Of course.” Viv glanced at the other two women, who were busy with their own wounded charges. “Chloe, you stay here and rest,” she whispered.

Her maid only nodded and curled into a tighter ball. Viv hated to leave her in such a state, but the girl would survive until the worst had passed. No one had the luxury of extravagant choices on that morbid afternoon. Carry on . . . or quit.

Viv had no intention of quitting.

She stood and scooped up the makeshift bandages and medicines they’d scrounged from among the luggage.

“I wouldn’t want to trouble you.”

“No, please,” she said. “Let me do what I can.”

The woman nodded and led the way to the last stagecoach. Whereas Viv’s had contained no more than six people since setting off from Beaufort, the train line terminus, this coach held twelve. The passengers’ bodies were thinner, their clothes less ostentatious and bulky, and their possessions fewer. Four of them were children, including the woman’s young boys. In the shadow of the coach the two lads sat like bookends on either side of their father, who reclined on his elbows with his legs stretched out. The fabric of his trousers had been torn at the knee, revealing a huge gash.

“You’ve brought reinforcements to fuss over me, eh, Alice?” he said.

“I need reinforcements, you stubborn fool.” Alice knelt beside him and shooed the boys away. “David, John, go find trouble. But don’t touch anything, you hear?”

Viv grinned at the contradictory advice as the boys sped off toward the bluff. Although Alice turned to the task of cleaning her husband’s injury, he never took his eyes off their sons. Viv had done the same when watching Miles, as if will alone would keep them safe.