“No need to apologize, Sarah,” Ashton murmured compassionately. “It sounds as if you need someone to talk to.”
“Aye, that I do, Mr. Wingate.” She heaved a laborious sigh. “I watched my father ruined…possibly murdered, and then I found myself falsely…imprisoned.” Her gaze flicked up briefly, uncertainly. “It was not the sort of prison you’d normally imagine, Mr. Wingate. It was a hellish place…with chains…and whips…and roaches crawling over the food. A man was hired to tend me, to make sure I did not escape…and then he was killed…and I know not the reason…except that he had begun to show some pity for me. And now, I see things that seem familiar…and I fear what might happen to another…if I don’t speak out…and yet, I’m not sure about myself…or if I’m actually seeing what I think I’m seeing.” She stared up at him, and the pleading was there in her eyes, desperately yearning for him to comprehend what she was trying to tell him. “Don’t you understand, Mr. Wingate? I was in there too long. Much too long.”
Ashton felt the hackles rise on his neck and could find no reply to make. Sarah made him anxious, but he could not quite pin down the reason. He watched her become flustered and embarrassed by her verbosity, and to ease her distress, he reached to pour her another cup of coffee. Lightening it with a meager dribble of cream and a lump of sugar, he handed it to her. Her gaze raised hesitantly, and his empathy for her welled up within him as he saw her gathering tears. As she reached out to receive the offering, he set aside the coffee and took her hand in both of his.
“It’s all right, Sarah,” he soothed her. “I have listened to all you’ve said…and I think I am beginning to understand.”
Her gaze searched the bronze visage anxiously. “Do you, Mr. Wingate?”
“Aye, Sarah, I think I do.”
The woman left, and a deepening anxiety set in. Ashton glanced often toward the clock, wishing Lierin would return, and nervously paced the floor. He spent several moments changing clothes, donning riding breeches, shirt, and tall boots. After all, he had promised Lierin to take her out riding that afternoon. He had even planned to take her beyond his camp in the late evening and introduce her to the delights of cavorting naked in the surf, perhaps even to end the interlude by making love to her there on the shore. The idea had tickled his imagination more than once since he had arrived, but right now, he would just be satisfied if she returned quickly…so he need not fear for her safety.
Restlessly he smoothed his hair with a brush and peered in the small mirror that hung above his washstand. Though a draping of cloth formed a wall behind the piece, providing a modicum of privacy while he dressed, the mirror was attached to a post, which lent its support to the tent. Within easy reach were his silent valet, the bathtub, and his chest wherein his clothes were kept.
He bent to retrieve his hat from the top of the trunk, and started as something large and gleaming flitted past his shoulder, missing him by no more than a hair’s breadth. The silvered glass shattered, sending fine shards spraying outward, and his head snapped around to stare for barely a second at the shiny blade that now protruded from the cloth-covered post. Hearing the rapid, thudding approach of his would-be assailants behind him, he snatched his pistol from the top of the chest and whirled, whisking the weapon around, but before he could bring it into play, a pair of hefty bodies slammed into him, bearing him backward over the trunk. The privacy panel was ripped from its moorings and dropped beside him in a heap. He glimpsed the evil glint of another knife being drawn back to strike a death blow and caught his arm in the fabric, bringing it in front to use as a shield and let it take the thrust of the dagger. No more than a short second later a hard fist drove a painful blow to the side of his ribs, and he lashed out with the butt of the pistol, striking the man smartly alongside the temple. The brigand fell beside him, and though his collapse left him engaged with only one foe, Ashton was aware of two others entering his tent. Jamming the muzzle of the pistol into the tangle of cloth and knife, he levered back the hammer and discharged the piece, charring the front of his shirt with the muffled blast. The assassin jerked away and gaped down in surprise at the swiftly spreading red stain on his chest, and then he rolled back to the floor, dead.
Ashton dropped the now useless pistol and seized the blade from the cloth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his most recent visitors rushing at him with a thick-bladed knife. Coming two or three strides behind him was another assailant, and this one bore a short boarding pike. There appeared to be no question as to their intent. They were out of spill his blood before the sun reached its zenith.
As the first neared, Ashton swung his elbow upward, smashing the fellow across the bridge of the nose and causing him to stumble back in sudden pain as blood flowed from his nostrils. Seizing the advantage, Ashton reached out a foot to hook behind the man’s heel and jerked, sending that one sprawling backward into his companion. The fellow gave vent to a single loud scream and stiffened, spreading his arms wide and dropping his weapon. Slowly he toppled forward, the pike blade firmly imbedded in his back while the weight of his falling body jerked the haft from his startled companion’s grasp.
Now the odds appeared even, and Ashton faced the last man, who slipped a long, slim blade from the top of his boot and backed away. As he did so, his eyes flicked beyond Ashton and then gleamed with a new light. It was enough to warn the Natchez man and remind him that one of the first pair had only been knocked unconscious. He threw himself to one side just as the brigand launched himself at his back. Ashton swept the knife around, and the man squealed like a stuck pig as it caught him in the side. It delivered hardly more than a flesh wound, but the bleeding brigand did not pause as he stumbled toward the door and disappeared outside.
The last man attacked before Ashton could recover, but again the cloth panel deflected the blade. The fierce glaring eyes of the miscreant displayed his determination to force it through, but Ashton slammed the butt of his blade against the side of the frizzy head and, as the man recoiled, flung his arm aside. They crashed to the floor, and the tip of the stiletto was driven firmly into the carpeted floor. Ashton landed another hard blow against the sturdy jaw of his opponent, rolling him away, but the thick-fingered hand stretched out and grabbed at the hilt of the thin blade as the man tumbled. Scrambling to his feet, he found Ashton already on his and braced to meet his attack. The two men circled each other warily with their weapons at the ready. The barrel-chested cutthroat lunged forward with a slashing blow, but Ashton parried the attack handily, and the other backed away with a growing red stain on his upper sleeve. From that point on, there was to be no rest for him. Ashton advanced with the heavier knife, thrusting, feinting, ever testing the defense as the other fell back. The miscreant began to sweat and realized his end was but a mere mistake away. He tried to fend off the relentless attack with his thin knife, but once again Ashton feinted, luring the defending stiletto aside, then struck with all his strength. The large man grunted, dropped his knife, and wrapping his arms about his middle, staggered out into the sunlight and fell face downward upon the deck planking.
Ashton glanced around, for the first time aware that flames were beginning to creep up the side wall of his tent. The already thickening smoke choked off his breath, and the mounting crackle of the fire spurred him toward the door. Reaching it, he took a step through, then halted as he saw the threatening muzzle of a pistol directed toward him. Above it swam the leering face of the man he had flesh-wounded. Before he could draw back, the weapon exploded with an ear-deafening crack, and Ashton recoiled as the shot sliced a burning path along his ribs. The pain seared through him, and he clasped a hand to his side, feeling there the wet stickiness of his own blood. He choked as the smoke billowed toward him, and through stinging eyes he saw the chortling man brandishing a second pistol in his other hand.