“I’ll wait, then.”
“No! Just—I mean—thee must go away. Come back—please come back—but go now.”
“Aye?” He eyed the house curiously. He thought he heard vague sounds within, but the breeze rustling in the surrounding trees made it hard to tell what was going on. Not that I couldna guess, wi’ the lassies out here shiverin’ in the shed …
But if Silvia Hardman was entertaining a caller, it might be best to wait until the man had left. Still, it troubled him to go away and leave the wee girls in such a state. Perhaps he could feed them, at least—
While he havered, though, Chastity took things into her own hands, screaming like a catamount and apparently kicking Prudence in the shins, for Prudence shrieked, too.
“Ow! Chastity! Thee bit me!”
Patience jerked, then ran for the shed, calling, “Be quiet, be quiet!” in an urgent voice, glancing frantically over her shoulder.
The door of the house was jerked open, slamming back against the wall within, and a large man wearing nothing but unfastened breeches came out, a leather belt in his hand and fury on his face.
“Goddamn you chits! You come out here! I’m gonna give you all what-for and I mean it!”
“Mr. Fredericks! Please, please—come back! The girls didn’t mean to—”
Without a second’s hesitation, Mr. Fredericks turned and slapped the woman behind him across the face with his belt.
Behind Ian, Patience let out a scream of pure rage and lunged for the porch. Ian caught her with an arm around her waist and put her behind him.
“Go to your sisters,” he said, and shoved her toward the shed. “Now!”
“Who the devil are you?” Fredericks had come off the porch and was advancing on Ian, sandy hair ruffled like a lion’s mane and a look on his broad red face that made his intentions clear.
Ian drew his pistol and pointed it at the man.
“Leave,” he said. “Now.”
Fredericks snapped the belt so fast that Ian scarcely saw it; only felt the blow that knocked the gun from his hand. He didn’t bother trying to pick it up, but grabbed the end of the belt as it rose for another blow and jerked Fredericks toward him, butting him in the face as he stumbled. Ian missed the nose, though, and Fredericks’s jawbone slammed into his forehead, making his eyes water.
He tripped Fredericks, but the man had his arms round Ian’s body and they both went down, landing with a thud among the dead leaves. Ian grabbed a handful and smashed them into the man’s face, grinding them into his eyes, and got his own leg up in time to avoid being kneed in the balls.
There was a lot of screaming going on. Ian got hold of Fredericks’s ear and did his best to twist it off while kicking and squirming. He heaved and rolled and got on top then, and got his hands round Fredericks’s throat, but it was a fat throat, slippery with sweat, and he couldn’t get a good grasp, not with the man hammering his ribs with a fist like a rock. Enough of this foolishness, said the Mohawk part of him, and he took his hand off Fredericks’s throat, grabbed a sturdy stick from the litter on the ground, and drove it straight into the man’s eye.
Fredericks threw his arms wide, went stiff, gasped once or twice, and died.
Ian moved off the man’s body, slowly, his own body pulsing with his heartbeat. His finger hurt—he’d jammed it—and his hand was slimy. He wiped it on his breeches, recalling too late that they were his good pair.
The screaming had stopped abruptly. He sat still, breathing. The snowflakes were coming down faster now, and melted as they touched his skin, tiny cold kisses on his face.
His eyes were closed, but he dimly perceived footsteps, and opened them to see the woman crouching beside him.
There was a wide red welt across her face; her upper lip was split and a trickle of blood had stained her chin. Her eyes were bloodshot and horrified, but she wasn’t screaming, thank Christ.
“Who—” she said, and stopped, putting her wrist to her wounded mouth. She looked down at the dead man on the ground, shook her head as though unable to believe it, and looked at Ian.
“Thee should not have done this,” she said, low-voiced and urgent.
“Did ye have a better suggestion?” Ian asked, getting some of his breath back.
“He would have left,” she said, and glanced over her shoulder as though expecting his nemesis to appear. “When he—when he had finished.”
“He’s finished,” Ian assured her, and moving slowly, got up onto his knees. “Ye’ll be Mrs. Hardman, then.”