‘Well, if you wants to go to hell, guv’nor, I’m sure we can manage that. Just hand the dibs over first.’ The closer man seemed to be the leader—he was certainly doing all the talking. She tried to commit his appearance to memory for later reporting to the magistrates, but between a kerchief covering him from the nose down, and a battered tricorne jammed on his head, there was little to identify him.
She couldn’t see properly to get a clear shot at the other, not without coming right out into the open, and she didn’t want to do that until Max made his move. Her bruised wrist was already aching abominably with the weight of the pistol; she just wished he’d do something.
When he did, it took her by surprise as much as it did the highwaymen. His head snapped round as though he had just seen someone approaching and both men responded. In the second it took them to realise nothing was there, he had the pistol trained on the nearer rider.
Bree saw the man’s hands tighten on the reins and his horse began to sidle. ‘Just need to point out, guv’nor—there’s two of us. You loose off that pop, you’re going to get shot.’
‘And you will be dead. I am an excellent shot,’ Max rejoined calmly. ‘Might I suggest we call it quits and you leave before you get hurt?’
‘Nah. You cover him, Toby. He won’t do nothing. The odds aren’t right.’
‘They are now.’ Bree slid out from behind the carriage and ducked under Max’s arm before any of the men could react. ‘I’ve got your friend Toby right in my sights.’ For just as long as I can hold this thing steady, which isn’t going to be for much longer.…
‘That’s a woman!’ the nearer rider said indignantly. He fired at Max just as Max pulled the trigger. Bree took aim at the centre of Toby’s chest and squeezed. The air seemed to be full of the sound of gunfire; something whistled past Bree’s ear and struck the coach. Toby was clutching his right hand, swearing, his horse rearing. The other man was slumped over the pommel of his saddle, one hand groping for the reins.
Bree turned to Max, expecting him to go forwards to grab the horse while the man was incapable, and found he was on his knees, one hand pressed to his shoulder, blood showing between his fingers.
‘Max!’ The sound of hooves made her turn to see both men, lurching in their saddles, cantering away. ‘Max!’
He shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I think it’s just a graze, across the top of my shoulder.’
‘Come here, help his lordship up!’ The postilions hurried over, and between them got Max to his feet.
‘It’s all right. I can manage.’ He shook them off and climbed into the carriage, muttering words under his breath that Bree was fortunately unable to hear clearly. ‘Drive back to London before anyone else decides to have a go at us.’
‘We should stop in Hounslow, find a doctor. Max, you’re bleeding.’
‘Not much. Don’t fuss.’ His teeth were gritted and he was pale across the cheekbones, but the bleeding did not seem to be getting any worse. ‘That was one hell of a shot—you took the pistol right out of his hand.’
So that was what had happened. Bree realised she’d shut her eyes the moment she’d pulled the trigger. The temptation to take the credit for such a feat was acute. ‘I was aiming at his chest,’ she admitted. ‘I’ve never shot anyone before.’ And would not again, if she could help it. Her ears were still ringing, her wrist felt as though it had been hit by a hammer and she didn’t like to contemplate how she would be feeling if she had killed the man.
Max gave a shout of laughter that turned into a gasp as the chaise lurched forwards again. Was there anything this woman wouldn’t attempt? And then to have the honesty to admit she had missed by a foot. He was going to get her back home before anything else happened, and he certainly did not intend her spending any time in Hounslow in broad daylight, dressed like that, while they found a surgeon.
He dragged off his neckcloth, wadded it up and pushed it under his coat.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ Bree was watching him, hands fisted on her hips.
‘Stopping it bleeding.’ Ouch.
‘We need to look at it, bandage it properly. It could be bleeding worse than you think and with that dark coat I can’t tell.’
‘I’ll take off the coat,’ Max conceded. Anything to stop her fussing, he told himself, trying to ignore the very real anxiety in her blue eyes.
Shrugging out of it, in a moving carriage, was not easy. He could feel the sweat beading his forehead, and he almost bit his tongue with the effort not to swear out loud.
Bree came and sat next to him. ‘Now take off your shirt.’
‘No.’ He could feel the colour rising in his face and tried to fight it.
‘Why ever not? How can I bandage this if you don’t?’
‘It doesn’t need bandaging.’
‘I will be the judge of that. You can’t sit in a jolting chaise for another hour with it oozing like that.’ He heard her swallow hard. Obviously dealing with oozing gunshot wounds was not something Miss Mallory dealt with daily. He was almost surprised.
‘I will hold my neckcloth over it.’
‘You will not. Take off that shirt.’
‘No.’ Max groped for a convincing explanation. ‘It would not be proper.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! I’ve seen men’s bare chests before. I have a brother, don’t forget. And the men are always sluicing off under the yard pump. I’m sure a lord has nothing they don’t have.’
He could feel it now, the blush was positively burning. ‘I am not going to take off my shirt.’
‘Don’t be such a baby.’ She had her hands on the collar. It was quite obvious the wretched woman had a younger brother.
‘I am not being—’
Bree simply gripped the shirt either side of the tear made by the bullet and yanked. Max clutched the tatters of the garment to his chest and glared at her. ‘Satisfied?’ he demanded, glancing down and flattening his palms firmly to his pectorals.
‘Better, but you are making this very difficult.’ She peered at the wound. ‘It is just a groove, but it is really deep. It must hurt.’ She lifted the neckcloth and dabbed gently at the edges. ‘I’ll make a pad with some of the shirt fabric and then tie it up with the neckcloth. Will you please let go of it!’
Max clung on grimly while Bree wrenched at the shoulder seams until the whole back of the shirt came away. She made a neat pad and pressed it to the wound, then stared at him. ‘It isn’t the pain, is it? You’re embarrassed—in fact, you are blushing. For goodness’ sake, you’re a man of the world, a rake probably—what is there to be embarrassed about?’
‘I am not a rake,’ he ground out between clenched teeth.
‘Well, you certainly aren’t a monk! Women must have seen your chest before now. Lots of them. Oh, have it your own way—just sit still.’
He should have realised, if he had been thinking clearly, that the only way to secure a pad on his shoulder was to place the middle of the long neckcloth on top, cross it under his armpit and then bring one end across his chest and the other around his back, to tie under the opposite armpit.
But it did not occur to him until her right hand was diving under the front of his shirt, pushing his own hand out of the way.
‘What on earth?’
Oh, Lord. If she laughed, he’d strangle her.