CHAPTER 7
The Devonshire road narrowed after the last market town, squeezed between thick hedgerows. The late afternoon was quiet, as if the world were waiting for sunset. Maximilian sensed it first as a faint unease in the horses, then in the stillness of the woods. The birds that had chirped moments ago fell silent.
He signaled the driver with a tap on the roof, and the man reined in, uncertain. The dowager settled on the seat beside Lydia, who leaned out of the carriage window, her crimson shawl contrasting against the gray, scanning the ditch. She did not look at Maximilian, but he knew she sensed the same absence of sound. All that could be heard was thequick stamp of the lead horse and the countess's soft snore.
Then, from the shadows at the road’s bend, emerged the first of them.
The highwayman’s pistol caught the fading light, aimed directly at the coachman’s heart. His face, beneath a knotted scarf, was unreadable, but his stance radiated hunger—lanky and leaning forward, as if he might leap onto the carriage roof. Another figure flanked him, then a third, closing in like wolves circling prey.
Maximilian moved before he could think. He swung down from the step, boots sinking into the wet lane, positioning himself between the carriage and the men.
The leader’s voice was rough but not unintelligent. “Out, all of you. Hands where I can see them.”
Maximilian’s hand was already at his sword, thumb unfastening the loop with a practiced flick. “If you want charity, start with a request rather than a threat.”
The second man laughed, a harsh sound. The pistol did not waver. “We'll take the coin and the dark-haired lady.”
Lydia’s eyes scanned the scene, assessing thesituation. With unexpected speed, she yanked the travel hamper from the footwell. She pried open the lid, rummaging past a book, a flask, and an envelope of candied ginger, then found what she was looking for. A compact, ugly pistol, kept for emergencies more social than lethal.
She cocked it with a decisive snap and aimed it at the highwayman closest to the door.
Maximilian noticed the change in Lydia’s profile—the tightness of her mouth, the straightening of her back—and braced himself for the impending clash.
The lead highwayman missed the signal, his focus fixed on Maximilian’s sword. “Drop it,” he snarled.
“I will,” Maximilian replied, “if you lower yours.”
Without warning, the man fired, the gunshot shattering the stillness. The bullet went wild, ricocheting through the hedgerow. Maximilian drew his weapon and parried the second man’s blade. Their swords clashed in a spray of mud and curses.
Inside the carriage, Lydia inhaled sharply and pulled the trigger.
The recoil jolted her wrist, but the shot found its mark. The third highwayman, barely visible in the dusk, was thrown backward off his horse, his pistolclattering to the ground. The woods absorbed the sound of his body hitting the earth.
For a moment, silence reigned. Then the dowager's voice punctuated the air, "Beat the tar out of him, Duke!"
Maximilian pivoted, his sword gleaming in the fading light as he pressed forward. The second highwayman, caught off guard, stumbled on the churned mud and fell. The leader, witnessing his companion’s fall, raised his weapon again, but Lydia was already reloading, her hands steady despite the tremor in her chest.
"Watch out, Duke. Lydia is going to shoot," the countess called. She scooted closer to the door, peering out. "Take that scoundrel!"
It ended as quickly as it began. The leader, sensing the tide had turned, spat a curse and bolted for the underbrush, his boots sliding on the clay. Maximilian let him flee, his gaze shifting from the fallen to Lydia, whose pistol now hung at her side, barrel smoking, her expression unreadable.
He closed the distance in two strides. “You are hit.”
“No,” she lied. “Just winded.”
He pulled her arm into the light. A musket ballhad grazed her shoulder, and she winced as he pressed a handkerchief to the wound.
“Hold still.” The command was brisk, but his touch was gentle as he secured the cloth.
She searched his face for judgment or horror but found instead something closer to admiration.
“Is it bad?”
He shook his head. “You will wear it like a medal.”
The driver crawled out from behind the rear wheel, eyes wide. “Did… did Miss Montague just…?”
Maximilian nodded. “She did.” He kept his hand on her arm, steadying her, and she let him.
