Preshea encouraged her horse to join the elders at the front. She did not want the duke too far away. He glared. She was supposed to be supervising his daughter. Preshea met his eyes and gave a tiny shake of her head. He subsided, but remained displeased.

They rode through the grounds and farmland until they reached a little wood.

“Might we go around to more open fields?” Preshea requested. “Surely, the woods will be full of fallen branches. I’m afraid I’m no horsewoman to jump and maintain my seat.”

The duke dismissed this. “Pish-tosh. Anything in the path will be small enough to walk over. I wish to see the state of the lumber after such a storm.”

Preshea sighed. She’d tried.

She moved up until she was as close as possible to the duke, muscling Lady Blingchester’s spirited mount out of the way with her bigger bay. The bay hung his head in shame.

Lady Blingchester snorted. “Some people are nothing but social climbers. Come, Jane, Lady Violet, let’s ride the outskirts. I could use some speed. Your Grace, we shall meet you on the off side.”

“Watch those fields,” warned the duke absently. He was examining an old oak that had lost a branch. “Gets marshy after a rain. I wouldn’t push past a canter.”

Lady Blingchester wheeled her mount and took off. She really was a bruising rider. Lady Violet followed. She didn’t have quite the seat of Lady Blingchester, but she stuck it well enough to impress Preshea.

“Jack, I wouldn’t,” warned Gavin.

But Mr Jackson also maneuvered about, yanking hard on the reins and kicking with both legs as if riding a recalcitrant donkey. The chestnut galloped off. By some miracle, Mr Jackson stayed in the saddle.

Gavin looked as though he wanted to go after, but then he glanced at Preshea and noting her close proximity to the duke, stayed.

Now a diminished party of five, they wended their way into the trees.

Preshea knew exactly the most dangerous point. She would have chosen it herself, were she a gunman. To one side of the path a mound of boulders rose up, with bushes at the top, forming the perfect cover and vantage point for a man to lie with rifle braced. No doubt the other side was sloped, easy to run down. The path widened just there, making the riders entirely visible from the outcropping.

Preshea saw a glint of light off the barrel and launched herself at the duke just before the shot rang out.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The Efficaciousness of Muff Pistols

Preshea had kept to the duke’s right so that her sidesaddle pointed her whole body in his direction. Consequently, all she need do was push forward off her mount, grab onto as much of Snodgrove as she could, and drag him to the forest floor.

Which is what she did.

He bellowed at her in annoyance.

The shot reverberated through the air.

Preshea was pleased. She and Snodgrove were safe between their two horses while bullets whizzed overhead.

Until the duke’s horse bolted.

Her own mount, sweet-tempered and placid, rolled his eyes to the whites and shifted from hoof to hoof, but otherwise stayed still.

Preshea cast herself over the duke, shielding him with her body. Well, or some of him; he was a deal taller than she.

She heard Miss Pagril give a cry and shifted to see the girl’s horse bucking before taking off pell-mell. Miss Pagril stuck like dried porridge even as the beast leaped fallen trees in a wild gallop.

Lord Lionel gave a cry and took off after her, no doubt intent on effecting a rescue.

Gavin was off his mount, hand tight up the reins at the shaggy head. His horse must have seen action, for the gunshot had barely rattled him.

“Preshea!” Gavin cried.

“We’re fine. That rocky hill, there. A rifleman. Go!”

Sensible man, he took her word as truth and, dropping the reins, ran up the promontory. Or perhaps it was simply that a soldier found it easiest to obey orders? That impressive physique of his wasn’t for show, either. Once he got moving, he was fast!

“Are you injured, sir?” Preshea asked the duke, evaluating him for blood and finding none visible.

He attempted to sit up.

“No. Stay down for now.” She pressed a firm hand to his back.

“What are you about, woman?” He wasn’t hurt to be so grumpy. “What on earth is that?”

Preshea had out her pistol. Hadn’t even realized she’d drawn it. She kept it hidden away in a special pocket in one of her petticoats. It was a tad indelicate to get at and occasionally bruised her leg if she wasn’t paying attention when twirling, but she preferred not to go without.

No pretty pistol with gilt metalwork and mother-of-pearl handle for Preshea. She favored a six-shot revolver, no frills, no decoration. It was viciously practical, hard steel with a plain rosewood grip. Preshea was no expert markswoman and no gun fancier to care for looks. She wanted something light enough to carry and small enough to hide, which shot a bullet in the direction she aimed, and was easy to clean afterwards. She didn’t use it much; hers was not a directly confrontational lifestyle.

She held it now, comforted by its presence and pleased to see respect in the duke’s eyes.

“You do realize, Your Grace, that not everyone likes you?”

“Are you one of those people?”

“Don’t be absurd. Even if I were, hired gunmen are not my cup of tea.”

“Well said.”

There was a shout from Gavin and another shot, followed by some crashing, and then a howl of rage.

Preshea glared at the duke. “Get off the path, and for God’s sake, stay down.” She stood, shielding herself with her horse, then pulled the reins over the docile creature’s head and dropped them down to the duke.