back from saliva-dripping fangs and a deep, constant growl echoing through his body.
William glanced at Rollo, then turned his back on the dog. He sniffed, hawked, and spat blood to one side, then continued, still breathing heavily. “Take him to the head of the column, to Colonel Prescott. He’s under arrest for assaulting an officer; he’ll be dealt with at camp this evening.”
“What does thee mean, ‘dealt with’?” Rachel demanded, pushing her way past the two soldiers holding Ian. “And how dare thee, William Ransom? How—how . . . how dare thee?!” She was white-faced with fury, small fists clenched and shaking at her sides, and Ian grinned at her, licking fresh blood from his split lip. She was paying no attention to him, though, all her ire focused on William, who drew himself up to his full height and glared down the steep bridge of his nose at her.
“This is no longer your concern, madam,” he said, as coldly as a man who was red as a piece of flannel and shooting sparks out of his ears could manage.
Ian thought Rachel might actually kick William in the shins, and would have paid good money to see that, but her Quaker principles got the better of the situation and she drew herself up to her own not insignificant height—she was as tall as Auntie Claire—and thrust her chin pugnaciously up at William.
“Thee is a coward and a brute,” she declared at the top of her voice. Swinging round toward the men holding Ian, she added, “And so are you brutes and cowards, to be following an order so lacking in justice!”
One of the soldiers sniggered, then coughed as he caught William’s bloodshot eye upon him.
“Take him,” William repeated. “Now.” And, turning on his heel, stalked off. There was a broad stripe of pale road dust down the back of his coat and a good deal of it in his hair.
“Best bugger off, miss,” one of the soldiers advised Rachel, not unkindly. “You don’t want to be down amongst the troops, like, not on your own.”
“I will not bugger off,” Rachel said, narrowing her eyes at the man in a way that reminded Ian of a panther about to spring. “What does thee intend to do to this man?” She gestured at Ian, who was getting his own breath back by now.
“Rachel,” he began, but was interrupted by the other soldier.
“Assaulting an officer? Probably five hundred lashes. Wouldn’t hang him, I don’t s’pose,” the man added dispassionately. “Seeing as young Galahad’s not maimed, I mean.”
Rachel went even whiter at this, and Ian jerked hard at his arms, getting his feet solidly under him.
“It’ll be all right, a nighean,” he said, hoping he sounded reassuring. “Rollo! Sheas! But he’s right—the camp’s nay place for ye, and ye canna do me any good by coming. Go back to the city, aye? Tell Auntie Claire what’s happened—she can speak to L—ungk!” A third soldier, coming out of nowhere, had hit him in the pit of the stomach with a musket butt.
“What are you lot hangin’ about for? Get on! And you— ” The soldier turned on Rachel and the dog, glowering. “Shoo.” He jerked his head at Ian’s captors, who obligingly hauled Ian around.
Ian tried to turn his head to give Rachel a final word, but they jerked him back and firmly down the road.
He stumbled along, in preference to being dragged, thinking furiously. Auntie Claire was his best chance—likely his only one. If she could make Lord John take a hand, either speaking to Willie or directly to this Colonel Prescott . . . He glanced up at the sun. Noon, more or less. And the British on the march carried out routine flogging and other punishment after the evening meal; he’d seen it now and then, and he’d seen his uncle’s back now and then, too. A cold worm crawled through his sore belly.
Six hours. Maybe.
He risked another quick glance back. Rachel was running, Rollo loping alongside.
WILLIAM SWABBED HIS face with what was left of his handkerchief. His features felt foreign to him, lumped and swollen, and he explored the inside of his mouth gingerly with his tongue: no teeth missing, a couple maybe loose, and a stinging cut inside his cheek. Not bad. He thought he’d done worse to Murray and was glad of it.
He was still trembling—not with shock but with the urge to rip someone limb from limb. At the same time, he was beginning to feel shock, though