Mystic Warrior Read Free Page B

he called in contempt. “They’re naught but fodder for Madame Guillotine.”
    â€œSo you choose to terrorize them for fun and profit. How industrious of you.” Murdoch had spent these last months pretending he was one of these soldiers while he helped prisoners flee, but he lacked the patience for further charades. Making his choice, he departed his saddle in a leap so swift as to be invisible. His polished Hessian boots landed a full length in front of his horse, in the dry brush at the side of the road, beside the trio of lackwits. Sweeping back his greatcoat, he revealed the braid on the red and white officer’s uniform he wore.
    The thieves stumbled hastily backward, their gazes widening at the costly sword and rapier being brandished in their faces. Although the Revolutionary army was so poorly supported that they wore whatever uniform they could find, men saw what they wanted to see, and these men saw authority. To be fair, they lacked any knowledge of Murdoch’s homeland, so they could not grasp his gift for illusion or his powers—despite his swift, nearly invisible leap.
    Murdoch sensed four other scoundrels hiding behind the hedgerow, their murderous intent clear even to his less-than-perfect ability to read their puny minds. He casually tossed his weapons from hand to hand, letting his fury build while assessing his foes.
    One of the renegades he faced had a few inches of height over him, but like many tall men, the soldier lacked muscle. The sergeant wasn’t tall, and packed more strength. The third was a mere stripling. The boy’s hot-tempered anger and fear were more dangerous than his aging musket. Disarming these three might terrify the hidden ones into running, if they were lucky. Boldly, Murdoch stepped forward, pushing the brigands backward with the points of his blades.
    The heavyset soldier with a sergeant’s stripes recovered sufficiently to scoff at Murdoch’s presumption. “Do you think a lazy officer can take on three armed soldiers, all trained and experienced in fighting?”
    â€œExperienced in theft, more like,” Murdoch replied. “Be gone with you before I carve out your livers and feed them to the ducks.”
    Insulted, the heavyset sergeant ordered, “Shoot him, Jean.”
    The stripling aimed his musket and fired. The cart’s passengers screamed.
    When the smoke cleared, Murdoch remained unharmed, leaning against the donkey’s neck, some distance from his last position. He tipped his tricorne from his face with the edge of his rapier, knowing he revealed the controlled fires of his fury as he regarded the stunned soldiers. “Do you have any more ammunition to waste?”
    The trio darted frightened gazes from the spot where Murdoch had been standing to where he stood now—twice the distance of a donkey’s length. Again, they hadn’t seen him move. “How did you do that?” the boy asked.
    â€œJust kill the blackguards and be done with it,” one of Murdoch’s passengers shouted.
    The child continued to sob into her father’s coat. The shoemaker and his daughter were guilty of nothing except trying to make an honest living in a cesspool of mob mentality. Wasting diseases ran rampant in the filthy prisons, and the innocent died without trial or verdict. Murdoch refused to let these two die, as they surely would at the hands of these murdering thieves.
    He rotated the point of his rapier in a tight, furious circle. If he focused on the weapon, he might be able to control his anger and prevent himself from inadvertently killing everyone in the vicinity, including the cowards still lurking in the hedgerow. Keeping his temper was imperative.
    Before the stripling could jump out of range, Murdoch cut off the buttons at the boy’s waistband and split the string of his drawers. Both garments fell into the dust at his feet.
    While the youth cursed and bent to gather his clothes and his