Time's Fool by Patricia Veryan Read Free Book Online Page A

loveliness. Graceful as a—a young—er, gazelle. And—”
    â€œAnd went leaping out of your life, eh?” interposed Rossiter, laughing at him.
    Morris said aggrievedly that some insensitive clods had no understanding of matters of the heart, and debating this, the two men paid the host’s cheerful wife, and repaired to the stableyard. The rain had stopped, the horses were rested, and the postilions having eaten well and enjoyed some good Kentish ale, were ready to leave. They were just as eager as their customers to complete the journey before nightfall, and in no time Morris’ heavy saddlebags had been loaded into the boot, his horse tied on behind, and the light coach was off, rattling along the muddy roads at a respectable pace.
    It very soon became obvious that Rossiter would have little chance to dwell on his problems. Morris, in a garrulous mood, continued to rave about the dark-eyed goddess who, with one fatal smile, had apparently won his heart. She was sublime, exquisite, and as kind as she was beautiful, he dare swear. He discoursed upon her dainty nose, the sweet curves of her red lips, the pale purity of her skin, until Rossiter cried for mercy.
    â€œEnough, Jamie! I beg of you! I acknowledge her to be incomparable. I apprehend you are aux anges and have met your Fate. If ever you see the lady again, you must at once drop to your knees before her and beg her hand in marriage. Either that or shoot yourself, old boy!”
    He had no sooner spoken than both men tensed to a distant sound. Through the deepening gloom of this very gloomy dusk their eyes met.
    Morris said, “A shot. No?”
    Rossiter opened the window. “What’s to do?” he shouted.
    â€œLooks to be trouble ahead, sir,” called a postilion. “You want as we should take another road?”
    â€œDevil I do! Spring ’em!”
    The horses leaned into their collars and were off at the gallop. The coach fairly flew.
    Soon, another coach loomed up with several men about it. A dark shape lay motionless on the ground. A woman was struggling with a big, roughly dressed individual.
    â€œA hold-up, by Jupiter!” exclaimed Rossiter, and was out of the vehicle and running before the coach stopped. Morris charged along behind, trying to extricate a pistol from his pocket.
    The woman had fallen and was sprawled in the mud. With the arrival of reinforcements the big man fled, one of his cronies hobbling along after him.
    â€œStop! In the King’s name!” thundered Rossiter, sword in hand.
    A fourth man had ridden up and flung himself from the saddle. At Rossiter’s shout, he swung around, a long-barrelled pistol levelled.
    â€œNo you don’t, you murdering hound!” roared Morris, and fired.
    The rider dropped his weapon, staggered back, and went down.
    Dragging herself to her feet, the woman let out a piercing scream. “You monster !” she cried wildly.
    â€œEh?” said Morris, surprised.
    She ran to drop to her knees beside the fallen man. “Oh! My heavens! Are you much hurt?” She reached out imperatively. “One of you, give me something I can use for a bandage.”
    â€œWomen!” said Morris in admiration. “They’re saints, curse me if they ain’t. Here’s the lady willing to bind the wound of the very scoundrel who robbed her and—”
    â€œYou triple-damned … clodpole…,” groaned August Falcon, blood trickling between the fingers that gripped his left arm.
    Peering at his victim, Morris exclaimed, “If it ain’t the cold old duck! Be dashed if I’d have taken him for a rank rider.”
    â€œFool!” hissed Lady Naomi Lutonville, glaring at him furiously. “He was my escort!”
    â€œWhoops!” muttered the lieutenant and drew back.
    Rossiter passed his large handkerchief to the distraught lady, and looking down at the injured man said ruefully, “I suspect we erred,