With a racing heart, Petra dropped to the prickly grass. Emory pushed her beneath a caravan and fell upon her. A small cry tore from her. He covered her completely, his knees digging into the ground on either side as he sheltered her with his body.

Another explosion pierced the air, and Petra bit back a scream. She tried to make sense of it, but all she felt was Emory pressing her to the ground, hard and heavy on her back, his ragged breath on her neck. She tried to push onto her elbows and his arms, rigid beside her, pinned her beneath him.

“Hush, Petra,” he whispered. “For your health, be still.”

Women, children and horses screamed. Goats bleated as horse hooves thundered past. Peering between his shoulder and the dirty ground, she saw scurrying feet, darting dogs and not much else.

“A gypsy hunt,” Emory said in her ear. “This, I suppose, is your fortune.”

“I don’t want this fortune,” Petra struggled for breath. Wriggling beneath him, she managed to turn over. Nose to nose with Emory, she debated on whether that had been wise. She tried to rise onto her elbows.

“Are you hurt?” Emory asked, without moving, his lips inches from hers.

Petra shook her head. She couldn’t breathe beneath his weight.

“Good.” He didn’t flinch but remained firm and unmovable.

That’s when she realized the pandemonium beyond the caravan had quieted.

Emory had lifted onto his elbows, his face still just inches from hers.

“What happened?” Petra gasped.

“Gunpowder, they must have thrown it into the fire.”

Petra managed to get her other elbow beneath her. “But who? Why?”

“The gentry. Land owners hire thugs to drive away the Roma. ‘Tis common enough sport.”

Petra, in an effort to distract her attention from Emory’s body poised above hers, watched the feet and hooves scramble in the dust.

Then the caravan above them rolled away.

“Aye, what have we here?” A portly, bearded man smelling of beer wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. Lumbering, ox-like, he drew closer. As he leered at Petra, Emory peeled away from her in a fluid movement and stood in front of her, arms folded.

“We are not Roma,” Emory began.

Petra sat up, instantly disliking the beefy man and his raunchy grin.

“But acting none better.” The man laughed an unpleasant bark. “A bit of sport amongst the filthy Roms?”

Emory spread his arms, as if trying to hide Petra. “This is a gentle woman.”

“A true lady wouldn’t be here with the likes of you.” The man looked Petra up and down and ran a hand through his beard. “She best be coming with me, boy.”

As swift as a cat pouncing upon a mouse, Emory swung his fist into the older man’s distended gut. The man whoofed out a puff of smelly breath and then lunged for Emory with a growl. Petra back-crawled away, pebbles and sticks hurting her hands.

“Now, my friend, be reasonable,” Emory said, sounding casual and relaxed even as he blocked a heavy blow with his forearm. “You must know a treasure such as she would bring a fair price from her distraught father.”

The man, stumbling, reeled toward Emory like a charging bull. “If she’s such a treasure,” he huffed, “then why is she rolling in the grass with the likes of you?”

“Good question,” Emory said, taking a moment to swipe his hair from his eyes before sending his fist into the man’s nose.

Petra scrambled to her feet.

Blood spurted down the man’s face, and he howled in pain and anger. Emory placed his heel firmly in the man’s groin and kicked him into the grass.

Petra, who had never seen a fight that hadn’t been choreographed for TV or stage, stared. The spurting blood, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, the grunts and puffs of pain transfixed her. When the ox-like man fell to the ground, Emory grabbed her hand and she shook back to life.

“Let’s take you home, my sweet,” Emory said, pulling her away.

She followed mutely, and then screamed when another thug appeared from behind a caravan, raised his sword and plunged it into Emory’s chest. Emory’s knees buckled and Petra watched in horror as the sword sunk deeper and a silver tip protruded from his back.

A dark smelly and stiff shadow flew over her, plunging her into darkness. Petra clutched at the cloth covering her head. Someone tied something around her throat. The more she pulled, the more she choked. Petra kicked and flailed her legs when strong arms lifted her off the ground. She smelled yeasty breath and her stomach turned sick.

She tried to remember all that she’d learned in her self-defense class. Bash and dash – both difficult without the use of sight or arms. Breakaway techniques -- she struggled to think and then remembered to make her body limp. She slid from her captor’s arms, but once her feet hit the ground, the man scooped her up and swung her around. Her head made contact with something solid. Inside the dark bag, Petra saw stars.

Moon and stars lit the valley. Emory didn’t like being dragged by his heels, his head bouncing along the stone-studded path, but in his long existence he’d learned possum skills. So, eyes half open, body limp and an open wound in his chest, he held his peace while Petra’s captors tossed his body down a river bank. He suppressed a grunt of pain when he smacked against a willow and silently thanked the tree for keeping him from the creek. Buried in the tall grass, he watched a man lift Petra onto a horse.

The ox-like man hauled himself up beside Petra, who was hooded and bound. It nauseated Emory to watch the man gather her against his barrel chest.

“Whatcha got, Marshall?” asked the youth who had stabbed Emory.

Marshall.

Marshall’s beefy arms circled Petra’s waist and rested against her breast. Emory thought he’d explode with pent-up anger.

“Bounty,” Marshall grunted.

“Bounty or bootie?” The youth laughed.

Fire flamed behind Emory’s eyes. He fought the urge to attack with nothing more than his hands. He tried gathering his thoughts.

He’d have to separate Marshall from the others without raising an alarm. Unless he could get the man off the horse first, the horse would need to fall without injuring Petra. If not for her, he could have startled the horse, causing him to rear and bolt and hopefully cast off Marshall. If she’d been awake, she could be of use, but from her slumped and compliant form he knew that she’d fainted. Normally he detested female vapors, but watching Petra’s retreat, his heart twisted as the horses moved away. Marshall lumbered behind the others. Emory couldn’t wait much longer; on foot he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the overburdened horse.

Crouching, Emory hurried along the creek’s grassy edge, jumping downed trees, dodging branches and tripping in and out of rabbit holes.

Ahead, Petra bounced against Marshall. Every jolt increased Emory’s ratcheting fury. As they approached a bend in the road, Emory sprinted ahead to position himself behind a boulder. He picked up a couple of large rocks, tested them for loft and then aimed for Marshall’s temple. When the other men and their horses disappeared around the bend, Emory let his rock fly.

“Good Gad,” the man muttered as the rock whistled past his head. “Demmed bats.” He turned in Emory’s direction and Emory launched another rock. Marshall’s oath died mid-mutter, as the stone smacked his forehead with a sickening thud. With Petra in his arms, Marshall wavered atop of the horse, leaning right and then left, like a leaf held to a branch by a thin stem.

The stallion, tall and beautiful, stood pawing the ground, waiting for the reins to tell him where to go. As Emory dashed forward, Marshall toppled to the right, taking Petra with him. Emory caught her while the big man hit the ground with an earth-shaking thud. Emory carried Petra away from Marshall’s crumpled body. To Emory’s surprise, the horse stepped over Marshall, and ambled after him.

Emory wondered how long it would be until Marshall’s partners noticed his disappearance. Considering their apparent drunkenness, it might be hours. As the sound of horses and men gave way to crickets, creek and owls, Emory clucked to the stallion, picked up the reins and led him away from Marshall’s moaning body. Safely hidden in a thicket of trees, Emory laid Petra across the horse’s back and then hoisted himself up after her. Positioning in the saddle, he drew Petra against him and turned toward the village.

He debated on whether to remove Petra’s hood and binds. His task would be easier if she remained inert. Her head bounced against his chest and he felt his breath matching her own in a gentle rhythm. Slowly, irrevocably, he felt himself melding into her.

This has to stop, he thought. I am Emory Ravenswood, a man whose long life knows no end and no companion. He couldn’t keep her with him, tucking her into his home and bed, selfishly asking for her to share his half existence. What he wanted battled with what he knew was right. She needs to return her to her family. Not that he knew any better idea of how to find Royal Oaks than she did.

The horse plodded towards town, hoofs beating a soft cadence that seemed to say, what now, what now, and what now? If he couldn’t have Petra, he could, at least, have the horse. He named him Centaur. Centaur could stay at Anne’s, but surely both women would be angry if he deposited Petra back into Anne’s bed.

The Earl then. Petra had said she knew his son, Little Lord Fartinstaff. He thought of Garret’s blond pompadour lifting off his high forehead, his blue know-nothing-refuse-to-see-anything eyes.

Emory shifted, annoyed and uncomfortable. The son was young, he reminded himself. It was the do-nothing-but-collect-taxes father who deserved disdain. Emory could hardly blame the son for the father’s misdeeds, or deeds of omission. Yet he did. The thought of leaving Petra in their care made him hate father and son. A new kind of revulsion, strong and bitter, rose from his stomach.

Petra sagged and bounced against him. Emory looked up at the moon as if expecting it to provide answers. It twinkled back at him. Petra’s time was short: his time with her shorter still. It was a shame she had to die.

Petra would be gone by the time the Earl returned to Hampton Court. Young Falstaff was an impulsive idiot, but he was harmless and generally kind. He would ensure her final hours were spent in comfort. Perhaps Falstaff could locate her family and provide a fitting burial.

By the time the horse plodded over the last hill, giving Emory a clear view of the village, the chapel, and beyond that the imposing towers of Pennington Place, he knew what he had to do.