Beauty in Disguise

* * *

His Bible was doing him little good this night. He could not concentrate on the words for all of the noise in his head.

He could not sit still any longer; he had to get out of this room. He would walk to the bridge again. He knew it was far too early to expect his late-night visitor, if indeed she intended to visit at all. That was not his purpose in going. He only wanted some air.

So he took up his position at last night’s tree, listening to the gurgling water and taking in deep breaths of the country breezes. He could not resume his search for his fairy, but if there was any chance of seeing her or finding out her identity, he would take it.

Dalton’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a scream, cut off hastily, on the other side of the bridge. As he pushed away from the solid trunk and stepped quietly onto the ancient structure, the sight that met his eyes stopped his heart.

Chapter Five

Dalton froze. It was her, the woman he had met last night, but in no way situated as he had imagined. There on the other end of the span, less than one hundred feet from him, she stood with her head held tightly against the bridge’s stone pillar with a hand covering her mouth. Dalton could only be thankful that the hood that covered her head might provide a small cushion as her attacker held her so tightly against the stones.

She was imprisoned by the weight of a man’s body, and her neck arched to avoid the knife pressed dangerously close to her skin. He could tangibly feel her terror.

He pulled up short, his heart no longer stopped, but beating very fast. Dear Lord, You are more than capable of protecting this woman, but if Your way of protecting her involves me, show me the way. He had hoped to surprise her attacker by stealth, but the woman saw him from under the folds of her hood. That single glance in his direction gave his presence away.

The man wielding the knife had complete control over the woman, but he turned his lecherous gaze to Lord Dalton. “Stay where ye are or I’ll slit ’er throat, don’t think I won’t. Even in the dark, it looks too purty to scar.”

The cur’s voice was raspy and common, and Dalton heard the girl’s slight whimpers as he pushed the point of his dagger just a little farther into her skin.

“Let her go,” Dalton said, his command in deadly earnest. Anyone who knew him would have followed those orders instantly. His opponent, however, though now more hesitant, did not know enough to recognize the menace in his words.

Instead, the assailant laughed and seemed to wedge his knee tighter against the woman’s fragile frame, effectively pinning her closer and, no doubt, making breathing even more difficult for her. “It don’t seem to me you be the one in the position to be hagglin’ now does it? Looks like this be my lucky night. I found me a purty wench with a rich cove to pay for ’er life!”

“There will be no bargaining. You will let her go or I will kill you.” Evil was evil, whether in wartime or not.

Dalton thought the woman would be in shock. She kept rolling her head from side to side, trying to get away from the grimy hand that covered her mouth. The attacker only pushed a little harder on his knife to make her stop each time.

“Mighty uppity you are when it’s me what ’as the knife.” Her attacker laughed. “Now jest toss me your purse,” the man continued, “then back off. Ye get on that ’orse of yours and ride away. Ye do all that and the ’arpy comes out of this with a whole skin.”

His voice held no fear, and Dalton knew this was the worst kind of enemy.

He was screaming so close to the woman that she jumped, feeling the knife as she did so. “Do what I say, now—’er life makes no never mind to me.” With that he actually punctured her skin with the tip of the blade and sniggered as blood trickled down her neck.

Her cry led him to comply. He removed his purse from his coat and tossed it to the center of the bridge. He could have thrown it as far as the man’s feet, but he wanted the cutthroat to come and get it.

The release of his coins seemed to lighten her attacker’s mood, if not his hold. “Sounds ’eavy enough. Might even be all I need for this night’s work and I can give meself a little reward. Ol’ Jack Dawkins might even let this wench live.” He became deadly serious once more. “Now pick up the brass and toss it all the way to me...don’t make me kill ’er.”

Dalton knew if he could keep the man distracted, there was more of a chance that he would slip up, giving him an opportunity get the woman away safely. If that did not happen, Dalton was more than prepared to face the man’s knife. But it must first be pointed at him instead of the fairy.

Suddenly the night burst into a flurry of sounds and movement that took all three participants by surprise.

She had been telling the truth! She was armed and, apparently, not afraid to use her weapon.

The flash of powder and the crack of the pistol sounded like thunder in the quiet night. But the scream of pain and the surprise of the counterattack allowed her to push against him with all her might. Dalton ran toward the man, ready to kill him if necessary, but he was stopped by the woman who ran straight into his arms.

He held her so tightly that his anger abated for a moment at the thought of her being safe and secure in his grasp, as if she belonged there.

But reality flooded back when Ol’ Jack began howling. “She shot me! The ’ussy shot me!” Her attacker lifted the arm he had been using to cover her mouth, and examined his wound. It was clear that the bullet had entered the man’s lower left side, and he was growling in pain.

Dalton could see the hole in the back of the man’s coat, however, and knew their troubles were not yet over; the bullet must have grazed his side before exiting the back of the man’s grimy jacket. There was no debilitating damage.

As pain and anger filled the eyes of the ruffian, Dalton knew they might as well be dealing with a wounded bear, and he determined nothing would prevent him from protecting the frightened woman in his arms. His military training took over, and he was a force to be reckoned with. He gripped her upper shoulders tightly, moving her quickly behind him.

“Your light-skirt ain’t done nothin’ but caused ’er own death and I don’t care if I ’ave to go through ten of you to get to ’er.” His voice was a slow growl, the sound of an injured animal. He tossed his knife back and forth between his hands then began to charge Dalton, thrusting his dagger, wildly intent on murder.

But Dalton was more than prepared, and with one swift kick to the wrist of the injured thatchgallow, the knife went flying far into the high river grasses on the other side of the bridge.

Ol’ Jack was stunned but not cowed. “No gentry cove is gettin’ the best o’ me,” he swore, but was stopped short by the punishing left Dalton landed in the center of his face. The blood gushing into his mouth finally seemed to turn the tide. While Dalton prepared for whatever response the cutthroat threw at him next, Jack Dawkins turned on his heels and dashed away, doing the one thing Dalton did not expect. And Dalton had not been granted near enough time with the villain to assuage his anger.

As he prepared to follow the man, he took a quick look over his shoulder and stopped dead in his tracks. The brave young woman so recently in his arms had quietly slid to the ground into a sitting position, her back against the stone wall of the bridge. Her head was down on her pulled-up knees, and she was shrouded in her cloak. He could see, even from where he stood, that she shivered uncontrollably in silence. He had witnessed many shattering experiences in battle, but his heart had never been touched so deeply by any sight.