Out Of The Frying Pan

T he carriage commandeered by Uxbridge's aide turned out to be a relic from the previous century. It reeked of chicken shit. Feathers floated in the air and poked out of the threadbare squabs.

"Best I could do, Sir," the young aide claimed, clearly attempting to forestall his superior's anger.

The earl struggled visibly to control his temper. "Yes, well, I suppose it is difficult to find good transportation in the circumstances."

The aide's shoulders relaxed, his mouth curved in a tentative smile, until Uxbridge informed him he wouldn't be making the journey. "Not enough room with two legless men, the Scot and my surgeon." He tapped his bearded chin before declaring, "Hah! Legless men! Get it?"

Niven could only hope the dilapidated contraption made it to Antwerp. It was as well Rowan was still inside the hospital and hadn't heard the earl's attempt at humor. It seemed Willow's brother was determined to be morose. Nothing Niven said or did brought a smile to his face.

The presence of a surgeon en route might turn out to be a blessing. Only Uxbridge's influence had kept Thaddeus Wharf from accompanying Wellington's march on Paris with the rest of the medical men. Niven suspected the smooth-faced youth hadn't been long out of medical college.

The horses looked about the same vintage as the carriage. The aide had hired the sorry looking nags from a local farmer and paid the fellow even more coin to drive them to the coast. "Too generous, of course," Uxbridge declared. "The least we could do since his fields are in ruins. We might end up pulling the carriage ourselves," he quipped.

Niven smiled, wondering how two men could deal with the loss of a limb in such different ways. He feared for Daisy if Rowan didn't recover his will to live.

"So, it's come to this," Rowan mumbled as Niven lifted him aboard an ancient carriage. "Reliant on the Scot to help me board. Waste of time."

"Stop whining, Halstead," Uxbridge demanded, managing to get himself aboard with the aid of his crutches.

"Sorry, Sir," Rowan replied. "It's just…"

"Yes, yes, believe me, I'm as concerned about this carriage and the team as you are, but I'd rather make a stab at getting home than stay here, wouldn't you?"

The earl didn't know it, but he'd hit the nail on the head. Rowan didn't want to go home. He'd have to face Daisy and break off their engagement. There'd be no happily-ever-after for them. The prospect constricted his throat.

His father would fuss over him, all the while pretending nothing had changed.

Heaven forfend that Willow might decide to devote her life to looking after him—the man who'd ruined her chance at happiness with Niven King.

Worst of all, the Highlander seemed to have made it his life's mission to get them both home safely.

Better to have died in battle than live with the guilt of ruining the lives of all those dear to him. A duke on crutches—whoever heard of such a thing?

"At this rate," Uxbridge groused after they'd been underway mostly downhill for more than two hours. "It will take us a week to reach Antwerp."

"Aye," Niven replied, frustrated by the slow progress but unwilling to complain to two men who must still be in considerable pain.

Rowan and Wharf dozed as they passed through the outskirts of Brussels.

Rowan's pallor and the sweat beading his brow worried Niven, but there wasn't anything he could do about it.

Growing increasingly agitated, the earl suddenly produced a pistol and thrust it at Niven. "I've a prickly feeling on the back of my neck," he said. "And I've learned over the years to trust such instincts. Do you know how to use it?"

"Of course he doesn't," Rowan replied, suddenly wide awake and exhibiting signs of his former supercilious self. "He's a whisky distiller, not a soldier. Give it to me."

"We're in the middle o' nowhere," Niven said, relieved to hand the weapon over to Rowan. "Where lies the danger?"

"Thousands of the enemy deserted after their defeat," Uxbridge explained. "Most of them headed south to the French border, but some may have thought their chances of eluding pursuit better if they came this way and tried to cross into north-eastern France."

Shots rang out, preempting further discussion of the matter. The old farmer let out a piercing scream. The carriage halted abruptly.

"They've shot our driver," Wharf exclaimed hoarsely.

This proved not to be the case when the driver thrust open the door and dove inside with surprising agility. " Fran?ais !" he hissed.

"Right!" Uxbridge declared. "We'll see about that. Wait for my signal, Halstead."

Rowan primed the pistol the earl had given him.

Uxbridge ordered Niven and Wharf to squat down on the floor of the carriage. "Rather them than me," he murmured to himself, chuckling at the thought of splinters in Niven's arse. A kilt definitely wasn't the best attire for the circumstances and the stern set of Niven's jaw showed he knew it.

The humor surprised him, as did the realization he wanted to live. They had no idea how many deserters they faced and, basically, they were sitting ducks in the ancient carriage, but he'd be damned if he'd survived Waterloo only to fall here.

He and Uxbridge may be amputees, but they were still bloody good soldiers who knew how to make each shot count.

Oblivious of the pain in his stump, he threw himself onto the seat opposite the earl and leaned back out of view of any sniper. Every minute or so, Uxbridge peeked out the window that had long since lost its leather covering—if it ever had one. "Two at most, I estimate," he said. "Waiting in the ditch for us to step outside."

"Little do they know they're dealing with legless men," Rowan quipped, appreciating Niven's curious grin.

He'd thought the ebullient earl would enjoy the humor, but a deep scowl indicated he didn't find it amusing.

"As I guessed," Uxbridge said after glancing quickly out of the window of the carriage once more. "Two, coming this way."

Feeling a useless fool cowering on the splintered floor of the carriage with a surgeon and the driver, Niven cradled his bagpipes and cursed their luck. Any Frenchman with good sense would have fled to France without stopping. These two had apparently decided they wanted the carriage. Idiots. He was reminded of a tale told by his brother. Payton and Kenneth were ambushed by French deserters in Spain. Payton's future wife shot the two enemy soldiers. It was hard to imagine the gentle Alba shooting anyone but war gave people no choice. Kill or be killed.

"Wait until you hear them breathing," the earl commanded, tapping a finger to the side of his nose.

"Sir," Rowan acknowledged.

"Now," Uxbridge roared a few seconds later. The three men huddled on the floor held their breath when two shots shattered the silence. The driver crossed himself.

"Well done, Halstead," the earl crowed. "Right between the eyes."

Uxbridge flung open the door and maneuvered himself out of the carriage with the help of his crutches. In his haste to escape, the driver trampled over Niven and the surgeon before propelling himself outside. Grinning, Wharf helped Niven to his feet then stepped out.

"Ye got him," Niven said to Rowan, glad to see a smile on his face.

"No problem," Rowan replied smugly.

"Let me get out and I'll help ye alight," Niven told him.

Outside, the earl, the driver and Wharf were examining the bodies and relieving the would-be killers of their weapons. Babbling in French which the two Englishmen apparently didn't understand, the driver seemed intent on keeping the muskets.

Still clutching his bagpipes, Niven turned to help Rowan who was clearly getting frustrated with his crutches.

"For God's sake, man, put the damn pipes down for…"

A chill swept across Niven's nape. He turned to see what Rowan had seen, only to be knocked off balance by a bayonet thrust into him by a pimple-faced youth.

"Niven," Rowan screamed before guffawing loudly. "Those fyking bagpipes saved you."

Confused by a lack of pain, Niven looked down. The bayonet had pierced the bag of the pipes.

Infuriated, he scrambled to his feet in time to see Rowan clock the lad on the head with the business end of his crutch.

They both looked on in amazement when the ancient farmer rushed over, slit the dazed boy's throat and spat on the body. " Cochon fran?ais! " he hissed.

"Let's get out of this godforsaken place," Rowan urged.

As if nothing untoward had taken place, the driver climbed up to his seat, Uxbridge and Wharf boarded and they were on their way again.