One

Spring 1818

It was a perfect night for thievery.

From beneath the crowning shelter of an aged oak tree, the figure on horseback surveyed the roadway. The hour was late, and with a sliver of moon slumbering behind a wisp of a cloud, the night was as dark and depthless as the yawning pits of hell. The faint rush of the wind sighed through the tree limbs to sing a plaintive, lonesome melody.

All the better to conceal his presence. All the better to aid his endeavor. All the better to await his opportunity.

Dressed wholly in black, from his hat to the soles of his boots, a dark mask obscured all but the glint of his eyes. He sat his mount—Percival—like a man accustomed to long hours on horseback, his posture straight as an arrow, betraying no hint of weariness…and with the silent stealth of a man who knew well and true that his presence must be concealed at all costs, until such time as he deemed the right time to strike.

Lest his very life be forfeit.

And the man known as the Magpie had no desire to meet his Maker.

Percival's ears pricked forward. Black-gloved fingers tightened on the reins. Squeezing his knees, he stilled the massive horse's movement. A fingertip pressed gently over his neck. "Wait," he cautioned.

The powerful animal quieted beneath his touch, but he could feel his muscles bunched and knotted, ready to spring into action.

With narrowed eyes, the man squinted into the encroaching darkness, directly to the east. This was not his first night masquerading as the Magpie. Nor would it be his last. Not until his purpose was accomplished to his satisfaction.

Beneath the black silk mask, a faint smile appeared. A familiar rush of excitement raced along his veins, an excitement he could not deny that he relished. His heartbeat quickened, for the pounding of hoofbeats had reached his ears as well as Percival's. The light from a dim yellow lantern had appeared as well, bobbing in the distance.

Quarry approached.

He waited until it was within sight, for he was not a man to make mistakes. As if on cue—damn, but he had the devil's own luck!—the moon slid out from behind the cloud. The Magpie lifted his reins, broke free of the waist-high grasses beside the road, and stationed himself directly in the path of the lumbering coach.

When the coachman saw him, he stood on the box and hauled on the reins. With a jingle of the harness and a shout from the coachman, the vehicle rolled to a halt.

Coolly, the Magpie raised a pair of pistols dead center at the man.

"Stand and deliver!" came his cool demand.

Hours earlier, Julianna seized her skirt and ran across the courtyard at the inn, zigzagging to avoid the puddles left by yesterday's rain. "Wait!" she cried.

The driver clearly was not particularly disposed to patience. He glared at her. "Ye'd better hurry, mum," he grunted. "We're late already."

Copyright © 2005 by Sandra Kleinschmit.