The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,20

Mrs. Tully,” she managed, voice choked.

Minx. But he could only conclude that this little lady was Jesslyn Chance’s aunt. They looked nothing alike. This lady had grey curls clustered tightly about her round face and a sharp, assessing light in her eyes. Nor did they act alike. At least, he hadn’t noticed Miss Chance discussing the probable habits of trolls and mermaids.

“Troop, assemble!”

Greer’s command echoed across the field, and all the spectators turned to watch the men of the Grace-by-the-Sea militia sort themselves out in a long, uneven line. Ethan moved closer to Linus, body stiff.

Greer, in a red coat with white facings edged in silver braid any captain might envy, strode down the line, nudging this one forward, that one back. Then he positioned himself in front of them.

“Thank you all for coming,” he said, voice carrying. “Your village appreciates all you do to keep us safe.”

“Better than being conscripted or picked off by the press gang,” someone called, and others nodded.

“Be that as it may,” Greer continued with a stern look up and down the line, “there have been rumors of strangers in the area—clothing and blankets being taken off the line, produce being plucked from gardens.” He thrust a finger into the air. “We must be vigilant, valiant, in doing our duty.”

“Are we going to shoot?” another of the men called, as if he had better ways to spend his time.

Greer dropped his hand. “As we discussed yesterday, we will be adding the rudiments of firearms to our drills while our magistrate is in London.”

“Takes that far to be safe from them, does it?” Abigail murmured to Mrs. Howland, who giggled.

Ethan shifted on his feet.

“Who’s teaching us, then?” someone asked.

Greer stood taller. “I will be your instructor for now.”

“Why?” someone else asked. “You’ve already proven you can go off half-cocked.”

Greer flamed as snickers sounded.

“Well, if he can hit Miss Archer in twilight, maybe he could hit a French soldier in broad daylight,” another teased.

So, Greer had been the one to shoot Abigail. Small wonder he’d quailed yesterday at the spa when reminded of her injury. Linus glanced at her and saw merriment in those green eyes. They shared a smile that made the day feel oddly warmer.

“Attention!” Greer barked, and even Linus’s gaze snapped forward. The laughter snuffed out as would-be soldiers straightened their shoulders.

“Right face,” Greer commanded.

Beside him, Abigail sucked in a breath, and Mrs. Tully clasped her hands as if praying.

To a man, they pivoted on their heels.

“Forward, march!” Greer ordered.

The youngest of them, drum slung about his narrow chest, set the beat, and they tramped across the field.

“Left face!” Greer called.

Again, they turned.

“Ooo,” Mrs. Howland enthused. “Right and left. James will be pleased.”

Some of the others went so far as to applaud. Ethan mimicked them. Again, Linus felt as if he had missed something.

Greer had them march a while longer, then lined them up again. But his audience was growing restless. Ethan had crouched on the grass and appeared to be studying it as if he suspected it of hiding pirate treasure. Abigail, her mother, and Mrs. Howland were chatting, while Mrs. Tully continued to regard Linus as if trying to find hidden flaws. He could have told her he had any number. He looked toward the spa group, where Mrs. Harding was fluttering her lashes at Doctor Owens while Mr. Crabapple’s face bunched as if he were about to burst into tears. Mrs. Rand was leaning so heavily on Lord Featherstone’s arm that the baron stood lopsidedly, and the Admiral had closed his eyes and begun snoring, while Mr. George attempted to keep him upright. Only Mr. Donner showed any interest in the activities.

“The Hound of the Headland came this way once,” Mrs. Tully said to no one in particular.

Linus focused his attention on the troop.

“The commands for firing are simple,” Greer was saying. “You already know shoulder arms. The next is present arms.”

Two of the company moved forward and offered him their guns.

“No, no,” Greer told them, waving them back into line. “Present arms means to hold the weapons out in front of you vertically.”

“Like we was going to shoot you?” someone asked, and Linus couldn’t tell if the fellow was eager to try or concerned about the prospect.

“Like this,” Greer said, drawing his side pistol and holding it out.

Eight muskets, two dueling pistols, and an assortment of knives, swords, and a pitchfork stuck out at him in return.

Greer lowered his pistol. “Where are your guns?”

“Most of us don’t own one,” Mr.