“I think he would dare. He believes he is the arbiter of our moral conduct and he has always thought your independence a sign of a wanton mind.” She looked over her shoulder. “Here he comes again.”

I risked taking my attention from the road to look him straight in the eyes. “You do not control our lives, Duffy. We are well beyond anyone’s guardianship other than our own. You are sadly mistaken if—”

“Gus!” Julia shrieked.

Three men. Standing across the road. Guns aimed. In reflex I wrenched at the reins, the two horses bunching back upon their haunches, shrilling their distress. Beside me, Duffy’s horse reared. I heard him yell “Christ” as I struggled to hold my pair, the phaeton lurching back, beginning to tip. I saw Evan run past me, off his own mount and heading for my plunging pair. He caught the bridle of the nearside horse and brought its head down. The two horses surged forward, but I held them firm, Evan deftly bracing against their fear.

“All is well, all is well,” he chanted to the quivering horses.

“What on earth is this outrage!” Duffy demanded from behind us.

Panting, I checked on Julia—still beside me, hanging on to the edge of the now stable phaeton for dear life. And then all I could see were the rifles aimed at us, the men behind them a blur of worn coats and battered hats.

“Who are you?” Duffy’s voice again.

I looked over my shoulder. Three other men in worn military greatcoats, one struggling to hold Evan’s frightened horse, the other two with pistols aimed at Kent and my brother, who were both still mounted. Kent had clearly attempted to draw his Baker, for he had it half out of its holster, his hand still upon its grip. In the groom’s seat behind Julia and me, Weatherly had raised Hades but had never got the blunderbuss braced. He held it half-raised, his eyes fixed upon another scruffy man on the ground with a pistol aimed at his head.

“Get their guns.”

I knew that voice, the sudden recognition squeezing the breath from my lungs.

Mulholland.

41

He stepped out from the dark shadows at the side of the road: a tall, muscular figure holding his rifle under his arm, as if he were on a pheasant shoot.

“Dear God,” Julia whispered. She seemed about to crumple.

“Stay still,” I murmured. We could not show our fear to this man.

From my seat, I looked down at Evan. He held the bridle of the nearside horse, his eyes fixed upon me.

A tiny jerk of my chin: Step back. I can run them down.

An infinitesimal shake of his head: Too many men.

And too many guns. Besides, I could not trust these horses and the attempt might get Julia or Evan shot.