Free A Winter's Knight: A Regency Romance by Elizabeth Cole Page A

“No!” She managed to scream before he clapped his beefy hand over her mouth. She resisted, trying to wriggle free. She could hear nothing but her own gasps and his angry grunts.
    “I ain’t going to make this quick, girl,” he warned, all pretense gone.
    Then it all changed.
    “There seems to be some sort of misunderstanding.” The voice that suddenly echoed through the clearing was as cold as ice. The click of a pistol being cocked accompanied the words. Everyone froze. Phoebe slowly straightened up, even as the first man loosened his hold on her. The voice went on, “I very distinctly heard the lady say no. You seem to have heard something different.”
    Phoebe chanced a look over her shoulder. She never thought a man holding a gun pointed in her direction could be a welcome sight, yet this one certainly was. Astride his horse, he had a soldier’s bearing, and the hand that held the gun was steady as a rock. Phoebe did not think he would miss if he chose to shoot.
    “We don’t want no trouble,” the heavyset thug said, holding his hands out by his side. He had seen the same things as Phoebe, and came to the same conclusion about the broad-shouldered rider’s shooting ability. The other, the one who had grabbed her, hesitated. The man on horseback shifted the gun to him. “If you want to avoid trouble, you will step away from the lady. Now.”
    Phoebe watched, breathless, as the taller man took one, then two steps away from her. His eyes never left her though, and she shivered with revulsion when she saw the look of anger and lust on his face.
    “Madam,” the man called to her. Phoebe turned her head again. He looked at her directly for the first time, and in the fading light his piercing eyes shone an icy light blue. “May I offer you escort home?” The tone was drawing-room proper, in stark contrast to the gun, still held professionally and calmly. She now noticed that his face was marked by a long, wicked scar on one side, drawing the skin of his cheek into a permanent scowl. It gave him a harsh, forbidding look. Nonetheless, she knew without a doubt that she could trust him.
    “Thank you,” Phoebe whispered, her voice not quite her own. She stooped to grab her reticule from where it had fallen, and limped painfully toward the man on the horse. If he saw her lame gait, he gave no sign of it. He merely said, “It might be best if you mounted behind me, madam. Just put your foot on the stirrup.”
    As she did so, Phoebe realized that the stirrup was empty because the man’s right leg was gone, amputated just below the knee. He held out his free hand to steady her. Phoebe was able to swing up onto the horse, and she felt him grip her thigh very briefly, to see that she was secure. The contact sent a shock down her body. “Put your arms around me, please,” he said quietly. It was nevertheless an order.
    “I shall be escorting the lady home now,” he continued in a voice loud enough for the ruffians to hear him. “I will then stop by the parish constable to give your descriptions to the authorities. If they find you, you may expect a turn in gaol. If I find you, you may expect a good deal worse. Do I make myself clear?”
    Cowed by the cold professionalism of the soldier, the men nodded slowly.
    “Now run,” he ordered in a deadly tone, and the two lost no time fleeing into the snow-covered forest.
    He watched them disappear, returned the gun to the holster on his right side, then flicked the reins of the horse. The creature stirred beneath them, anxious to be moving again in the winter air. Phoebe, who had put her arms round her rescuer’s waist to hold herself steady, felt the heat in his body, and noticed that he seemed to be all muscle, the lean torso widening to broad, strong shoulders. She had never been this close to a gentleman before, and she found it distracting, to say the least. Nonetheless, she huddled as close as she dared to his warmth.
    “Are you alright?” he asked, turning