The Glittering Court (The Glittering Court, #1)(131)

“You have something we want,” said Tom or whoever he really was. “Leave Lady Witmore with us, and go.”

Two of the men immediately began retreating, their faces full of fear. The gang’s leader faced the riders down. “She and her reward belong to us. Get out of here before we— Ahh!”

Tom charged forward, slamming the pommel of his sword into the leader’s head. Aviel moved just as quickly and went after another of the men. They might be outnumbered, but the horses gave them an advantage since all of the other men had dismounted. The fear the twosome inspired was equally effective. Some of the raiders were trying to get away, and the one I’d injured in the leg was having trouble moving at all.

I took it all in as I hesitated on what to do. With the gang in disarray, I could easily join in with my knife and be effective. But as I watched Tom and Aviel swing their swords fiercely, I decided I didn’t want to take my chances with this unknown element. It was time to run.

I climbed back on Beth. With all the commotion, she was much more willing to carry me. We set off at a medium trot—not as fast as I’d like, but enough to get me away. My plan was to put some distance between me and the fray, then get off and take my chances with the woods. It would mean abandoning Beth and the painting, but this was the time for hard choices.

I didn’t get nearly as far as I’d hoped. In fact, I’d barely gotten started when Tom and Aviel overtook me and blocked the road ahead. I brought Beth to a halt and stared at these new threats. I tried not to get caught up in the mystique of their fearsome reputations, but it was hard not to.

“You don’t need to worry about those men anymore,” said Tom, almost cheerfully.

“Dead?” I asked.

“Maybe,” said Aviel. “Or they ran.” She sounded like she had a Belsian accent. Tom’s was solidly colonial.

“Well, it doesn’t matter. I wasn’t going with them, and I’m not going with you.” The boldness came automatically, even though there’d be little I could do against them. I’d revert to my plan to find a future escape.

“We don’t want to take you away,” Tom replied. “Wherever you’re going, we’ll help you get there safely. We’re your escorts for the night.”

I couldn’t see their expressions in the darkness, but he sounded in earnest. “Why? What do you want?”

“Nothing that you need to worry about. Our interests are our own. All you need to know is that you’re safe with us.”

I didn’t trust them. How could I? None of this made any sense, but then, according to all the stories, it was hard to guess the motives of these two.

When I didn’t speak, Tom added, “Your horse is lame?”

“Not yet,” I admitted. “But she threw a shoe.”

“Then we’ll have to take you on ours.”

I saw him glance over at Aviel. Something passed between them—something a bit strained—and a moment later, she dismounted. “Mine won’t have trouble carrying two,” he said. “You can ride hers.”

Eyeing Tom’s large destrier, I suspected the beast could carry ten. The smaller mare had seemed lively and energized back by the lantern, and I felt encouraged by the idea of having my own horse. It increased my getaway odds. “Okay,” I said, walking over to her. “We’re going to Crawford.”

Aviel moved to the destrier, hesitating only a moment before effortlessly climbing on with Tom. I tethered Beth to a tree. “Sorry, girl.” I patted her neck, feeling guilty about abandoning this gift. “Hopefully we can get you back to Gideon. Or maybe some new owner will get you a shoe.”

I bound the painting to my new mount, and then we were off at a dizzying pace. The speed was exhilarating after Beth’s slow gait, and I allowed myself to hope that this might work after all. But I hadn’t even made it halfway to Crawford, and time was still my enemy.

When we finally reached the edge of Crawford, Tom and Aviel slowed. “You have the address?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then it’s probably best we wait here. Seeing us in the middle of the night might be . . . alarming to some people.”

I could believe that. Crawford was bigger than the last village, and it took some doing to find the right place. When I did, I could understand how this buyer could afford my painting. His house was by far the largest in town, a beautiful manor on the opposite side of the center green. Lanterns hung outside, but the windows were dark. Taking a deep breath, I retrieved the painting and knocked on the door.

It took two more knocks before someone answered, a sleepy servant who eyed me askance. “I need to see Mister Davenport.”

“Madam,” said the servant, his tone suggesting that title was generous, “it’s the middle of the night.”

“It couldn’t be helped.” I held up the wrapped painting. “I have something he’s very interested in buying. A painting. I think he’d be upset if he learned you turned me away, and I sold it to someone else.”

The servant’s change of expression told me he was familiar with the painting negotiations. He brought me into the foyer and warned me not to touch anything while he was gone. Minutes later, a gray-haired gentleman entered in a house robe. His eyes widened at the sight of me. “You’re . . . you’re delivering the Thodoros?”