Stand and Be Eaten

Chapter 5

It wasn't until Wells was only an arms' length away that Annabelle took note of him. By then, he was staring at her intently, his odd-coloured eyes almost glittering in the flickering light. Instinctively, Annabelle shrank back, though he had made no threatening gesture to her.

Unfortunately, because of the abuse her poor pannier had endured, they were no longer doing their duty in supporting her skirts, and she ended up tripping on them as she stepped backward. She ended up sitting very roughly and suddenly, letting out a rather undignified "Oof!" that caused her to wrinkle her pert little nose. Harriet stooped to fawn all over her, but Annabelle did not take her eyes once from the looming figure of the masked highwayman, who seemed far taller than she had remembered.

It seemed her apprehension was well-placed, for with a smooth, quick motion, he had pulled a small knife from somewhere within his leather greatcoat. The blade gleamed surprisingly brightly, its edge polished from repeated sharpenings. Transfixed by the knife, Annabelle was unable to take her eyes from it, even as Harriet had grasped her elbow and was attempting to pull her back upright.

Wells was within striking distance, and Annabelle's heart was pounding so loud that she could not hear anything else. Silly girl, she berated herself, how often has Father said to mind the quietest flank? That is where surprise attacks are launched from, after all. Wells' arms were loose, his feet firm, and Annabelle had every reason to believe that this was a person who had studied the perfect manner in which to fillet a person as one might make a study of the Classics.

Oddly, however, he did not strike, as Annabelle fully expected. She concentrated on holding perfectly, perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. She swallowed roughly as he knelt before her, meeting her eyes, and he followed the motion of her throat with interest. With a flippant, casual motion, he reached out and tapped the silver brooch that was holding the small posy of sagging, fading flowers on her bodice with the knife.

Without thinking, Annabelle pressed back further against the damp cave wall, her hand clasping the flowers and attempting to twist away. Wells blinked at this sudden protectiveness over a batch of not-particularly-pretty flowers, and tilted his head.

"Please sir, it's all I have left," Annabelle whispered.

The highwayman considered for a moment, cast a wayward glance over his shoulder, and looked over Annabelle's face again. Fast as a snake, he was grasping her wrist, pulling her arm straight and holding fast to it. Annabelle inhaled sharply, but was silent, as in another swift movement, that small knife was slicing through the ruffle on her sleeve, taking the expensive lace and a bow along with it. The blade was cold as it whispered against her skin, but did not harm her in the least.

Wells rose again, holding the ill-gotten favour in his left hand. Annabelle's eyes widened at the odd picture of this rough man of the forest holding a knife in one hand, and in the other hand he clutched a length of carefully gathered pink silk and delicate lace. Wells watched Annabelle, as if debating something internally. He wavered, shifting his weight from foot to foot, undecided. Annabelle stared up at him, unable to keep herself from pouting petulantly and raising her arm to inspect her ruined dress.

The corners of Wells' eyes lifted, as if he were smiling behind his mask. This seemed to decide something for him, however, and he lifted his hand and called out, "Woods!" in his light tenor voice.

Greyson, clearly having forgotten the two shrinking, quivering women he had taken hostage, blinked in liquor-flavoured confusion for a moment. His face split into a grotesque grin when he spied them, huddled together against the cavern wall.

Wells turned back quickly to Annabelle, who was clutching Harriet's work-roughened hands as if she were drowning. "Best tell me where to find your husband and quick, lady-miss," he said in his strange accent. Annabelle pressed her lips together, mutinously stubborn. Wells glanced back over his shoulder, and Annabelle followed his gaze; Greyson was prowling closer, slinking about like a rat trying to steal a bite of cheese. "Hurry," Wells urged, "or like as not, you'll be negotiating with that noxious bite of a jolter-head."