But whatever else she was about to say was lost, as she was yanked, unceremoniously, from her seat, and into the wintry eve. Phoebe spun instinctively, theatrical épée outstretched – offering silent thanks that she’d always bested Fred at swordplay – to find herself, for the very first time in her very tedious life, face to face with arealhighwayman.
And he was quite the disappointment.
Not only was he not at all tall, rugged, or even the remotest bit enigmatic, he also had the audacity to be smirking! She ran her gaze over his fair hair and grubby clothing, before spying his equally unimpressive second, standing a short distance away with a horse.
‘Where are the coachmen?’ she demanded, conscious her fellow travellers were jostling for the best view out of the coach window.
‘Watching the inside of their eyelids!’ her adversary grinned.
Phoebe glanced in the direction of his nod, and spied two trussed figures lying in the grass behind his friend.
‘Temporarily,’ he added with a shrug.
A surge of annoyance coursed through her as she took a step closer, angling the épée, confident she had shaken the worst of her haze.
‘Untie them!’ she demanded.
She wasn’t sure why she was quite so angry, except that this rogue was tarnishing the reputation of all highwaymen, and didn’t deserve to be holding up coaches. He wasn’t even wearing a proper mask! His was made from old sackcloth, and dirty around the edges. Highwayman indeed, she’d met fiercer chickens!
He laughed and stepped closer.
‘Make me?’ he smirked, pulling a hand from behind his back to reveal a smoking musket.
‘With pleasure!’ Phoebe threw, lunging and flicking his musket into the long grass with one swift manoeuvre.
She allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction; it was as much a surprise to her as her grubby-masked opponent that one of Fred’s disarming moves had worked so well.
‘Hey!’ The highwayman scowled, starting after it, but Phoebe followed up too quickly, pressing him back.
‘Why doesn’t he take off his hat?’ someone muttered.
‘Macassar oil!’ Effie and her mother chimed, just as her adversary stumbled backwards and found himself prostrate, with the tip of Phoebe’s dress sword pressed firmly against his open neck.
‘You were saying?’ she asked, scowling.
There was such a gasp of admiration from Effie, that Phoebe felt a brief moment of triumph. She couldn’t wait to relate the whole affair to her sisters. It was the finest moment of her life, and they would all live off the drama for months.
‘I said … make me!’ he growled, reaching out to snatch up another sword thrown by his second.
Instantly, Effie filled the wintry air with one of her loudest shrieks.
‘Oh, no! He’s going to run the young gentl’man through! My heart will be broke in two, like in one of them fancy plays!’ she moaned, clutching her chest.
This was followed by a loud chorus of sympathy, from which Phoebe could only conclude that everyone shared exactly the same degree of faith in her skill.
Briefly, she considered declaring her inferior weapon as a point of honour, but then the highwayman was upon her, thrusting his sword so vehemently that her own theatrical counterpart shuddered under the strain.
She gritted her teeth and parried with all her strength, determined not to lose to a blackguard who set such a terrible example for all highwaymen, when she heard the distant echo of galloping horses.
‘Go at dusk, they said … it’ll be quiet, they said…’ the highwayman grumbled as the soft thunder grew louder beneath the pale and wintry sky.
‘It’s like Taunt’n High Street on bleedin’ Market Day!’
He started forward again, his thrusts and swipes wilder and more urgent than before.
‘Come on, Will!’ his second called nervously, already astride his mare.
‘This one ain’t worth it!’
