A Lady’s Secret by Jo Beverley Page A

soon would. Petra arranged herself right hand outward, ready to raise the pistol. With her left hand, she groped for any bit of Robin Bonchurch she could hurt.
    Ah, warmth. Still watching the women, she poked, but he was at the limit of her reach. She weighed options, turned, put down the pistol, and stretched out both hands. A hard bit—hip?
    Oh!
    Well, men were supposed to be sensitive there, so she gripped the shape beneath his breeches. His breath caught, but he stayed dead to the world.
    Don’t think dead.
    “Wake up!” Petra whispered, getting a knee on the top of the box and pounding what she hoped was his chest.
    She was grabbed and dragged in and under him. “Desperate, are you, my lovely?” he asked, laughing.
    “It’s me!” she hissed. “Sister—”
    He kissed her.
    Petra froze, but only for a moment. Then she fought. He was all over her, however, his mouth silencing her, his strength conquering her—while irrational bits of her were trying to forget their danger and succumb.
    She felt skin and raked her nails.
    He jerked back, hissing.
    “Idiot man!” she spat. “The women. They’re coming to kill you.”
    “What?”
    Petra heaved him away. The women had to have heard. They might even be able to see the coach rock. She grabbed the pistol and scrambled out of the coach to swing the gun two handed toward the three. She cocked it, the click startlingly loud.
    The women stopped, but only yards away. Jizzy seemed to carry some sort of club, and Solette had that sharp kitchen knife.
    “Well, well,” said Madame Goulart, face positively evil in lamplight. “Perhaps she’s not worth as much as I thought.”
    Petra frowned at her. “Me? I’m a nun.”
    “Who holds a gun like that? And sneaks out to join her brother in his coach?”
    Petra almost argued, but could she pretend to be unaware of the danger?
    “What are you doing out here?” she demanded.
    “We heard intruders,” the woman said. “Someone stealing the chickens, perhaps.”
    “We’re not stealing your chickens, so all’s well.”
    “All’s well, except for your wicked sin, Sister. Shameful, that is.”
    “With your brother, too!” exclaimed Solette.
    “That’ll send you right to hell, that will.”
    They were conversing as if no one held weapons, but Petra was willing to play that game if it would send them back to the house.
    “Not a virgin, though, Mère,” Solette said. “Pity.”
    “I can stitch her.”
    “And she does the nun thing well.”
    Petra suddenly understood. They were talking about making her a whore! A whore slave, sold off as a virgin nun. They were all whores. This was some low kind of brothel. Those sleeping cells. Perhaps there were sometimes more women here.
    She clutched the pistol more tightly. “Return to the house. We’ll leave in the morning and say nothing about this.”
    The evil mother laughed. “You could kill one of us, maybe, but then you’re ours.”
    “I’m an excellent shot,” Petra lied, “so one of you will certainly die.” She moved the gun to point at each in turn. “Which shall it be?”
    The two younger women shifted uneasily, but Mère Goulart said, “Kill one of us, and I’ll cut out your tongue. A mute whore can have special value in some quarters.”
    Petra shuddered, but steadied the heavy pistol on her. “Then I’ll kill you.”
    “Then Solly’ll do it. Won’t you, girl?”
    Solette giggled. “With pleasure.”
    “Spread out, girls,” Mère Goulart ordered. “Make it a harder shot.”
    The two girls obeyed, but they both looked nervous.
    “Uno, due, tre. Uno, due, tre…” Petra counted as she moved the pistol to track the growing arc, but her hands were shaking now, both with the weight of the gun and fear. She didn’t doubt their horrible threat, and it seemed that Robin had sunk back into a drugged sleep. Perhaps he’d never truly woken up. She’d end up a mute slave in a brothel, and the men would all die.
    And she was counting in