The Artist's Healer - Regina Scott Page 0,75

them had fallen. The members of the press gang had used their truncheons to force them to their feet again. He had no desire to feel the blow himself. An ill-placed truncheon could break bones, crush skulls. He’d seen it firsthand working beside his father on soldiers injured that way.

“All I need is one person to recognize me,” Howland murmured at his side. “A magistrate cannot be impressed.”

“Neither can an Excise Officer,” Denby tossed back from his place ahead of them. “Not that it matters to this lot.”

“Quiet!” A truncheon fell, striking Denby on the shoulder. He buckled, and Howland surged forward to prop him up.

Linus wracked his brain for a way out. It had been a trap, just as he’d feared. He had been right about Owens, but the knowledge brought little comfort. Howland and Denby might escape service as agents of the king. A physician was far too great a prize to be released so easily. They might not realize which of their captives had such skills yet, but once Denby’s and Howland’s professions became known, the physician would be obvious.

“Yes, you lot should be honored,” the press gang leader said, strolling along as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “We normally don’t work at night. But we were told of a prime group just itching to serve on the high seas.” He laughed, and his men joined in, until the sound circled them like a cage.

Behind them came the thunder of hooves. A coach, out so late? The press gang herded them to one side of the road and waited until it passed.

“That’s a Howland coach,” the magistrate murmured. “Someone’s out looking for us.”

“Would they recognize us in this group?” Linus asked.

“Quiet, I said!” The truncheon fell again, but Howland shoved himself between Linus and Denby and took the blow himself.

“Oh, a fellow what likes playing the hero,” the gang leader sneered. “Looking to rise in the ranks, no doubt. What you need is a little humility. Walk at the rear, and eat my dust.” He pushed Howland back as the others shambled forward again.

Linus found himself walking with Denby on one side and a press gang sailor on the other. No chance to talk without risk of injury. Denby was nursing his arm as it was.

Ahead, the road wound past a copse of trees, like black fingers pointing at the sky in the predawn light. As they approached, a figure stepped into view, physique obscured by a cloak, face by a hood. But there was no mistaking the pistol aimed their way.

“Stand and deliver.”

The voice was husky, but…female?

The press gang leader held up his truncheon to stop the group.

“You’re outmatched, my friend,” he told the would-be robber. “You’ve got one ball; we’ve got six clubs.” He smacked his into his hand again for emphasis.

“And I,” the figure countered, “have friends.”

Five more, cloaked like their leader, moved from the trees. One aimed a musket at the press gang.

“Well, you’ve picked a poor group to rob,” the press gang leader declared, holding his ground. “You might find six pence among us, but I doubt it.”

“Free them,” the robber ordered. “Now.”

“You think they’ll join you?” The press gang leader shook his head. “They’ll run, every last one of them.”

The pistol edged higher. “I’m counting on it.”

“Run!” Linus shouted, and men scattered in every direction, shoving past their captors to stumble out across the Downs and disappear among the grass. Linus made for the trees, Denby right beside. Behind him, he heard a pistol bark.

He whirled, but no one had fallen. Indeed, the press gang was knotted together.

“Don’t just stand there,” the leader ordered. “After them!”

Linus ducked into the cover of the trees.

“Howland?” Denby asked, keeping low.

Linus shook his head.

A wizened little man materialized out of the darkness, and, for a daft moment, Linus wondered whether Mrs. Tully’s fairies had found them.

“Mr. Denby, Doctor Bennett,” he said with a bow. “This way.”

Bemused, Linus followed with Denby.

On the other side of the grove, the Howland coach waited, their would-be highway robber at its side.

“All accounted for,” the little man reported.

“Good,” she said. “Climb aboard, Mr. Pym.”

He knew that voice, even hoarse from dissembling. “Abigail!”

She pulled back her hood, ginger hair catching the first rays of dawn. “Yes. Quickly now. I doubt that press gang would be so hesitant if they knew three of their attackers were women.”

Glancing around, he found Mrs. Denby and Eva approaching the coach as well, dressed in long cloaks like Abigail. Their chins were up,