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been traveling toward town. Rather than being pulled by big country nags or oxen, it was yoked to a pair of rather delicate-looking riding mounts. Curious.
    Behind the coach was a bridge spanning a shallow, rocky creek. Apparently the conveyance had cleared the bridge and become stuck in the muddy berm at the roadside.
    “Hello!” Oliver called out, craning his neck to see into the small square window. He waved his hand to show he had no weapon drawn, for travelers tended to be wary of highwaymen.
    “Are you mired, then?” he shouted. No response. He drew up beside the coach, frowning at the horses. Indeed they were not draft horses. Smallish heads indicated a strain of Barbary blood.
    “Hello?” Oliver twisted in the saddle to send Kit a quizzical look.
    The coach door swung open. A blade sliced out and just barely caressed the nape of his neck.
    “It’s a trap!” Oliver dismounted, drawing his rapier even before his feet hit the ground. Kit did likewise.
    To Oliver’s dismay, Lark leaped out of her saddle, lifted her skirts and rushed toward the coach. Three men, wearing the tattered garb of discharged soldiers, swarmed out. From the grim expressions on their faces, they seemed bent on murder.
    Oliver flourished his sword and feinted back from one of the soldiers, a bearded fellow. “I say!” Oliver parried a blow and sidestepped a thrust. “We’re not highwaymen.”
    His answer was a wind-slicing front cut that slit his doublet. A bit of wool stuffing bulged from the tear.
    A feeling of unholy glee came over him. He loved this feeling—the anticipation of a battle joined, the lure of physical challenge.
    “You’re good,” he said to the bearded one. “I was hoping you would be.”
    Danger always had this effect on him. It was a battle lust he had learned to crave. Some would call it courage, but Oliver knew himself well enough to admit that it was pure recklessness. Dying in a sword fight was so much more picaresque than gasping his last in a sickroom.
    “En garde, you stable-born dunghill groom,” he said gleefully. “You’ll not have the virtue of this lady fair but with a dead man’s blessing.”
    The soldier seemed unimpressed. His blade came at Oliver with raging speed. Oliver felt the fire of exhilaration whip through him. “Kit!” he yelled. “Are you all right?”
    He heard a grunt, followed by the sliding sound of locking blades. “A fine predicament you’ve gotten us into,” Kit said.
    Oliver fought with all the polish he could muster under the circumstances. He would have liked to tarry, to toy with his opponent and test his skills to the limit, but he was worried about Lark. The foolish woman seemed intent on investigating the coach.
    The soldier came on with a low blow. Like a morris dancer, Oliver leaped over the blade. Taking swift advantage of the other’s imbalance, Oliver went in for the kill.
    With his rapier, he knocked the weapon from the soldier’s hand. The sword thumped into the muddy road. Then Oliver whipped out his stabbing dagger and prepared to—
    “My lord, are you not a Christian?” piped a feminine voice beside him. “‘Thou shalt not kill.’”
    His hesitation cost him a victory. The soldier leaped away and in seconds had one arm hooked around Lark from behind.
    “I’ll break her neck,” the burly man vowed. “Take one step closer, and I’ll snap it like a chicken bone.” Stooping, he snatched up his fallen sword.
    “Don’t harm the girl!” one of the other soldiers cried.
    “Divinity of Satan,” Oliver bellowed in a fury. “I should have sent you to hell when I had the chance.”
    Glaring at Oliver, Lark’s captor drew back his sword arm.
    “Thou shalt not kill, either,” Lark stated. As Oliver watched, astonished, she brought up her foot and slammed it down hard on the soldier’s instep. At the same time her pointed little elbow jabbed backward. Hard. If the blow had met his ribs, it would have left him breathless. But he was much