She knew her voice would never carry into the common room.
Octavian, where are you? Come upstairs.
Sir Henry reached into the lip of his boot and withdrew a pistol.
At the same moment, Syd lunged forward and struck him with the fire iron. The blow grazed his head, but it was enough to bring him to his knees and momentarily stun him.
Since he still blocked the door, she dared not run past him.
Nor could she bring herself to hit him again and crack his skull open.
Instead, she threw open the window, tossed down the fire iron, and then climbed down a conveniently placed rose trestle beside her chamber. Thorns dug into her hands and feet, but sheignored the pain. It was nothing compared to what Sir Henry meant to do to her.
She picked up the fire iron the moment her feet touched the cold ground, and quickly looked around for any rogues Sir Henry might have brought along with him.
But there was no one else around.
She started to run back into the inn and immediately stepped into a puddle of mud.
So much for bathing.
Her hands and feet were dirty again…and she was wearing nothing but a thin shift that hid little from view.
Well, there was nothing to do but brazen it out.
She entered the now crowded common room and desperately searched for Octavian. The place quieted as everyone turned to stare at her.
She must have looked like a demented harpy.
Feet covered in mud, half-combed wet hair, dressed shamelessly and too much of her body revealed. She was gripping that fire iron with hands torn up by those thorns.
Perhaps she ought to have taken a moment to find the proprietor or even a cloak room where she might grab something to cover herself. But she hadn’t thought of it, and now there was no time to spare. Sir Henry was hobbling down the stairs, pistol in hand, and mad enough to breathe fire.
“Octavian!” Syd cried. “Where are you?”
Octavian had just finished his ale and was tossing a coin to the serving maid when she had rushed in. “Syd! What the…?”
He immediately removed his jacket and wrapped it around her, pushed her behind him, and in the same motion retrieved his own pistol just as Sir Henry stepped through the door. The patrons all scrambled as far away from her and Octavian as possible.
“Put your weapon down, Sir Henry,” Octavian said with a remarkably calming voice of authority. But Syd knew Sir Henry was too enraged to listen to reason.
“She’s mine! You stole her from me!” He snarled like a vicious dog and aimed his weapon at Octavian’s chest.
Syd tried to step around Octavian to stand in front of him, but he kept pushing her behind him. “Don’t be a fool, Sir Henry. She was never yours and never will be. Put down your pistol. Don’t make me have to kill you.”
This seemed to be Octavian’s way, always preferring to come to terms without need of resorting to violence. Syd adored him for it, but was worried. Sir Henry was a snake and had no code of honor.
“Get down, Syd,” Octavian whispered urgently.
She crouched behind a sturdy wooden chair and closed her eyes just as two shots were fired.
She screamed.
Before she could move, Octavian’s arms came around her. “Syd, are you all right?”
She let out a sob. “Are you?”
“Yes, love.”
