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Dew Street and the unforgettable Cockermouth Lane. Colin strolled down High Street, enjoying the sunshine warm on his shoulders. This was what he missed by being at sea… that sense of lasting peace one found in an English village, where life moved slowly and at a—
    “Dang blast it!” a voice screeched from a narrow street that ran to the left of the baker’s shop. “If you ain’t the nastiest beast I ever saw, then I’m not fit to be a— You blasted whoreson, don’t you kick me again, or I’ll slice off your berries with a rusty knife!”
    At the first harsh syllable, Colin’s entire body slammed into alert and he flung himself into the shelter of a wall. His heart was pounding and he was flooded with a feeling of rage and fear.
    Bloody hell.
    The street remained quiet, but a stream of vitriol continued to pour from the darkish alley. Slowly Colin forced himself to relax, toe by toe and then finger by finger. He wasn’t at sea. There was no danger here, merely a foul mouthed, abusive Englishman.
    Finally he took a deep breath. He felt nauseated, and his forehead was covered with beads of sweat. Still, the man raged on.
    When his heartbeat was more or less back to normal, Colin straightened and moved away toward the street. He felt like a damned fool, but thankfully, no one had seen him hurtling himself against the wall like a five-year-old frightened by a clap of thunder.
    He made himself walk toward the shouting. He could hear the sound of blows now, along with curses. He pulled himself together: he didn’t care what sort of man or beast was being visited with this abuse, he wouldn’t stand for it.
    It was a horse, a huge, gaunt chestnut.
    As Colin entered the alley, the horse tried to wheel and kick the man holding his reins, undaunted by the blows landing on his back. With utter disgust, Colin realized that the man was wielding a thick wooden club, striking the horse on the shoulders when he could, dragging the reins back to the ground by hanging on them, so he could hit the animal again.
    In a moment, Colin had skirted the horse and jerked the reins away while he simultaneously leveled a kick at the man’s crotch.
    Direct hit.
    The man dropped in mid-curse, his eyes rolling into his head as he clutched his genitals and curled into a ball.
    Then Colin looked up the horse, which had taken advantage of the situation to rear again, his hooves flailing the air as he tried to escape.
    But Colin’s arm was pure muscle after years at sea. He gave the reins a hard jerk and the horse landed back on the cobblestones with a jarring thump. Then he gave the animal one stern look. “No.”
    The horse’s face was wet with sweat and froth; his eyes were filled with terror and rage. The idiot at his feet had managed some solid blows to the shoulder, because Colin saw a streak of blood along with wood chips and dark sweat.
    Colin wound the reins around his hand, keeping the horse’s head close to him. “No more,” he said quietly. The beast made a huffing noise and tried to back away, shaking his head violently.
    Just then the fool on the ground managed to stagger to his feet, hand still cupped over his privates. “Who the devil are you?” he screamed, his voice rising higher into the air.
    Colin noticed that some villagers had finally noticed the noise; a baker in a white apron was walking from the far end of the alley, followed by a few others. He ignored the man’s question. “What in the devil were you doing to this animal.” He made it a statement, not a question; they both knew the answer.
    “Beating what is mine,” the man cried, staggering forward and trying to snatch the reins. “That limb of Satan is mine, and if I want to strike it dead in front of the church, I’ll do it. You give me back my horse!”
    The baker stopped, hands on his hips. “Joshua Bunbutt, you are no more than a drunken rogue, beating that horse in such an unprincipled manner. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
    “Well, I