Miss Weston's Masquerade

Nicholas cast a swift glance round. They were alone except for the small group mooring the boat. He gave her a swift, hard hug. ‘No, you’re not a coward. You very nearly lost your life and I should never have suggested it.’

Cassandra shivered in his embrace, despite the hot sun on her back. He could feel the warmth of her skin beneath the fine lawn shirt, the delicate bones of her shoulder… He let her go abruptly and strode ahead, shouting to the postillions to harness the horses. Stupid to forget, even for a moment. Touching Cassie was an indulgence he dare not allow.

The road left the coast to cut inland through the thick forest of pine and chestnut hugging the slopes of Mont Vinaigre. The rutted dusty track climbed steeply in hairpin bends up the flank of the mountain to a height of almost a thousand feet.

As they jolted over the deep ruts, Cassandra dozed uneasily while Nicholas sat with one hand resting on the holster set in the coach door, fighting to keep alert, despite the heat that seemed to bake through the very fabric of the coach.

At last the coach descended into the little fishing village of Cannes.

‘Are we there?’ Cassie asked. ‘Wherever there is.’

‘Almost.’ Nicholas relaxed against the cushions with a deep sigh. Keeping alert for the last twenty miles, keeping his eyes off Cassie, had left him with a stiff neck, a dry mouth and aching arousal.

Cannes was no more impressive than Fréjus had been and the inn was considerably worse. It was a relief to leave the next morning after a breakfast of coarse bread and evil coffee and now, with the threatening mountain road and its danger of brigands behind them, he could relax.

The route from Cannes to Nice lay along the coast, a winding, often alarming road hanging on the very cliff edge. The sea sparkled blue below them, sometimes hidden by clumps of pines, and white farmhouses set in the hillside made the land seem peopled, even though they saw scarcely anyone except a goatherd and his dog.

After the insignificant village of Antibes, the road dropped almost to sea level offering a continuous view over the dazzling Mediterranean with fishing boats bobbing at anchor. Cassandra stuck her head out of the carriage window. ‘What a wonderful smell. Hot pine resin, the sea and the scent of herbs.’

‘And dust.’ Nicholas seized the hem of her waistcoat and hauled her back into the carriage. ‘Get back in, brat, or you’ll be out of the window at the next bump in the road.’

‘Why are you laughing at me?’ Cassandra demanded, when she saw the grin on his face.

‘You look like a retriever pup who has just had her first scent of game.’ But as he looked at her indignant face, flushed with heat and excitement, her hair awry, her eyes sparkling, he thought he had never had the urge to kiss one of his gun dogs.

The carriage suddenly slowed and one of the postillions shouted out. Nicholas put his head out of the window. ‘What is it? Why are we stopping?’

Then he saw the problem, a broken-down farm cart was slewed across the road, its meagre contents spilling out and the ancient driver tugging at the reins of an equally ancient mule.

‘Get down one of you, and help him or we’ll never get to Nice,’ Nicholas ordered. The man did as he was told, walking awkwardly in his heavy boots. He vanished round the cart. Seconds later there was a sudden cry, then silence.

‘What the devil?’ Nicholas jumped down, leaving the door swinging. ‘Stay there, Cassie, while I see what is happening.’

Cassandra leaned out, watching as Nicholas strode towards the cart. The drover took to his heels far too nimbly for the old man he appeared to be. Then there was a thump swiftly followed by a cry and the second postillion slumped to the ground from his horse, a knife-hilt protruding between his shoulder blades.

For a moment she was frozen, then she scrambled across the carriage to the open door. ‘Nicholas! Behind you!’ she shouted, as two men emerged from the cover of the cart, each with a cudgel and a curving knife in his hands.

Everything happened so fast it was blurred. Nicholas turned, stooped, picked up a rock and threw it hard, catching the nearest brigand in the centre of the forehead. The man fell as if poleaxed. The second brigand cursed and began to back away, holding the murderous knife in front of him.

Nicholas snatched up the fallen man’s knife and strode toward

s the retreating man as a shadow slipped from cover behind the horses, arm raised.

‘Behind you!’ Cassandra shrieked again, but too late. The man had brought the cudgel down in a crashing blow on Nicholas’s shoulder, sending him sprawling to the ground, then kicked his head.

Cassandra saw red. Without conscious thought her fingers curled round one of the pistols, slipping it from its holster. The smooth wood of the butt felt right in her hand and this time the hammer pulled back smoothly under her thumb. She brought the muzzle up, aimed at the broad, leather-jerkined back, and fired.

The recoil shot her backwards painfully onto her tail-bone. Eyes streaming, shoulder numb, she scrambled down from the coach, brandishing the other pistol.

‘Get away from him! Get away or I’ll kill you!’ she yelled in English, but the message must have been clear enough. The brigand grabbed his injured colleague and stumbled off into the pines. Of the man Nicholas had hit there was no sign.

Cassandra ran, stumbling in her haste, and fell on her knees beside Nicholas. He was stirring, his eyes black in a deadly white face. ‘Nicholas?’

‘Stop pointing that pistol at me,’ he managed, then broke off, retching painfully.

‘Sit up.’ Cassandra half dragged him into the shade of the cart and propped him against the wheel. ‘I’ll fetch some water.’

After several deep draughts, he reopened his eyes and looked at her, a ghost of a smile on his lips. ‘Bloodthirsty brat. Where are all the bodies?’