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tuated by something that sounded like a slap, and the woman cried out in
reaction.
Groaning, I tried to sit up, and that's when a truly terrible pain lanced th
rough my whole body. My groan turned into a gasp and I instantly gave up try
ing to move.
A large and unkempt man knelt over me. He had a smoking pistol in one hand
and wore an expression in which fear and hatred had been fused into a sin
gle vile mask. I was already somewhat stunned from being shot; his face co
mpleted the work. All I could do was lie on the floor and gape as one of h
is rough hands probed my chest.
Behind him, Mrs. Montagu was staring at me, her usually pleasant features m
arred by a look of utter horror.
"This 'un's dead, Nat," said the man. "Or he's a-dyin'. Either way, 'e won't tr
ouble us."
"You sure?" asked Nat, sounding peevish.
The big man's hand was momentarily heavy on my chest. He was pushing against
me to get to his feet. "'E's dead, I say. Let's git 'fore others follow 'im
."
"Too late. I see 'em comin'. They heard yer shot."
"I'll give 'em 'nother, then." He drew a second pistol from his belt.
"Right, soon as one's through the door, you take 'im an' I get the next."
"For God's sake, just leave us!" Mrs. Montagu pleaded. I could see her hud
dled off to one side. Except for a red patch where the bastard had struck
her, she seemed unharmed, though very frightened. Gathered around her were
several of her servants; they also appeared to be well, but thoroughly co
wed by the thieves. None of them were armed.
"Shut yer mouth or I'll cut yer throat," said Nat casually. He had a knife in
one hand and a candle in the other. He blew the candle out and left it on the
table, then stood with his partner on one side of the door leading to the scul
lery. Father and the others would most likely use it, as that was the fastest
way into the kitchen. After hearing the shot, they'd not wait, but charge righ
t in, and Father would be the first.. .
The pain was still with me, but so was the overwhelming need to get up and
do something. Gritting my teeth seemed to help. I was very, very careful no
t to breathe in. With air in my
lungs I might involuntarily vocalize what I felt.
Then Mrs. Montagu gasped when I moved, startled that I could move. I was te
rrified she'd draw the attention of the villains toward me.
"Shut yer face," hissed Nat, and I wholeheartedly agreed with him. He did not
, fortunately, turn around, but continued to listen at the door.
Glaring at Mrs. Montagu, I raised one hand in a sharp gesture, hoping she w
ould correctly take it as a sign to be silent. It cost me, for any motion o
n my right side doubled my pain. I wasn't even sure she could see well enou
gh to know what I wanted until she bit her lips and nodded, her eyes wide a
nd supremely unhappy.
"They're comin'!" whispered the big one gleefully.
Nat slipped back a little so as to be out of the line of fire.
I was on my feet, ready to take them on ...
. . . weaponless.
The realization hammered home too late. I'd naught but my hands, not even
a club. My swordstick . . . God knows where that had dropped when I'd been
shot.
Father was almost here; I recognized his step.
Hands. Both of them. Edge of the table.
Push.
It was a very heavy piece of oak, sturdy enough to stand up to decades of ab
use from various cooks over the years, but for me it might have been made fr
om paper, as it all but flew across the room. The far end struck the larger
of the two men in the back just below the waist with an ugly-sounding thud.
He may have made a noise himself, but it was lost in the general scrape, rat
tle, and bang of the table's swift passage.
His pistol went off toward the ceiling with a flash and a roar, and a cloud o
f smoke filled the air around him. I saw that much out of the corner of my ey
e as I lunged forward, reaching for Nat.
Surprised as he must have been, he was fast and whirled to meet me. He made
a quick stab at my left side, but I just managed to knock his arm away befor
e our collision. Balance lost, we crashed against a wall and fell. Kicking,
beating, biting, and finally flailing at me with his knife, he did me some d
amage as we rolled over the floor. My fingers found his neck in the confusio
n and froze around it. He thrashed and gurgled. I squeezed harder and harder
. His face went red, then
purple, with his tongue bulging out as I squeezed harder and harder and . . .
"Jonathan!" Father's voice. Shouting.
I could barely hear him. Didn't want to hear him. Wanted to finish my work.
"Let go of him, laddie!"
He'd never raised his voice to me like that before, not even when he was a
ngry. What was wrong? What had . .. ?
Hands on my arms. Pulling, tugging mine loose from their grip on Nat's thro
at.
What. . . ?
I let go, and they pulled me from him with a lurch. That's when my strength
left me. I went limp, shaken and shaking, and the pain of the shot hit me al
l over again afresh. There was blood. The smell of it filled the room, mixed
with the gunpowder . . . and the scent of death. For one awful moment I see
med to be spinning back in time to that hot August day in the woods, right t
o the very instant when I'd... died.
'Wo!" I said, forcing myself to sit up. I yelped and clutched at my wound.
"Lie back, Jonathan," said Father, kneeling over me.
I tried to push him off. I could bear the pain far easier than the memory. The
re was no way I could possibly lie still and let death steal up and seize me a
s it had before.
"Steady, now, it's all right." He stroked my hair as he used to do when I was lit
tle. "It's all right."
That calmed me as nothing else would. The panic faded, and I came to see t
he kitchen was suddenly a crowded, noisy, normal place again; the faces an
d voices were familiar, reassuring.
Beldon appeared. He was pale, but in control, and issued a few quiet comma
nds. Someone lighted candles; another went to find brandy. Before I knew i
t the stuff had been poured into a cup and was being pressed to my lips. I
sputtered and turned my head away.
"Don't force him, Doctor. Let him catch his breath," said Father. He turned
to Mrs. Montagu. "Mattie? How is it with you?"
She grasped his extended hand, her eyes all but lost for the tears. "I'll be fi
ne, but for God's sake, see to Jonathan. The poor child was shot."
"Shot?" exclaimed Beldon, who was just starting a closer examination of
my wound. "Come, gentlemen, help me with him. Quickly, please."
"I'm fine," I whispered.
They paid me no mind. Beldon, Father, and Norwood all lifted me onto the t
able. Orders were given to fetch water and bandaging.
"No, wait! Father . . . I'm "
"Be still, laddie."
"But I'm "
He bent over me. "Hush, laddie, let Beldon have a look at you."
"Remember my armV
"What?"
Beldon pulled open my bloodied coat and unbuttoned an equally stained waist
coat. This hurt like hell, as it pulled at something that seemed to be atta
ched to my flesh. When I protested, he asked Norwood to hold my hands out o
f the way. He thoroughly ruined both waistcoat and shirt by cutting them to
get to the source of all the bleeding.
"My arm!" I repeated, trying to fight off the well-intentioned Norwood.
Then Father remembered, but I could tell that he had no idea what to do next.
To be fair, there wasn't much that he could do, but no matter; it was a reli
ef that he finally understood me.
"What do you want?"
That was when I realized I had no idea, either. In the meanwhile, Beldon w
ent on with his grim examination.
"That's odd," he said, sounding mightily puzzled.
Damnation. "Father? Get the others away, please?"
He instantly saw the wisdom in that and took steps to clear the kitchen. M
rs. Montagu was in a bad state, as might be expected of a woman whose home [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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