The Outrider - A Paranormal Regency Romance ONC 2022

Chapter 3

In which our heroine is offered a position.

Pistols in her hands, Corinna edged around the corner of the shed. Her heart was beating so wildly, she was glad her ancient round gown didn't show the slightest bit of bust—it would have quivered in the most inappropriate fashion.

Outside, in the sun-burned clearing, all was still. Midges danced through the slats of sunlight, laced with the faintest trace of honeysuckle and manure from the nearest farm. As peaceful as the place might be, something was wrong. Something was here that didn't belong.

No, she wasn't being fanciful. A shame her stalker stood so close, there was no point in sending out her consciousness. Her vision would be too blurry to be of any use.

"Show yourself, I said. I'm aware you're out there."

Whatever the attentions of her unwelcome visitor might be, it wasn't murder he had on his mind, otherwise she would already be lying on the grass, dead.

She left the shadow of the shed and stepped into the clearing, the hem of her gown with its jaded ruffle swishing over the grass.

In the village, the bell struck the hour, and a cockerel responded to the challenge. In the clearing, everything was obstinately quiet.

"I'm seeing white mice," she said to herself, lowering her pistols.

A scent drifted into her nose—tobacco and male sweat. She snapped up her hands and pointed the pistols at the shrubbery where fabric rubbed upon fabric, a soft rustle that might have been a twig, but wasn't.

"Perhaps not." A shadow peeled from the bushes, sending the twigs into a frenzy.

Corinna jumped back, both weapons pointing at the intruder, a middle-aged man with a round face, an even rounder belly, and sparse hair. He wore buckskin breeches, not unlike the ones she had been wearing before and an old-fashioned moleskin vest with brass buttons.

He didn't seem to be armed, but he looked the sort who would have a weapon hidden somewhere about his person.

His eyes, black raisins sunken in the flushed flesh of his face, twinkled. "I suggest you lower your poppers, Miss Wolverstoke. It's hard to conduct a meaningful conversation when one stares at the muzzles of two barking irons."

He didn't seriously expect her to comply, did he? The hardness of the man's mouth and his tense stance spoke their own language. He had one hand in the pocket of his breeches, no doubt holding on to something small but lethal.

"It appears there's a stalemate, so I'd rather keep my weapons where they are, if you don't mind. And you have the advantage over me, since you know my name, but didn't introduce yourself."

He inclined his head. "My apologies for the oversight. Joshua Brewster at your service, Miss."

From the name he could be a tradesman, but his entire posture spoke of the military, despite his substantial girth. She recognized a soldier when she saw one. Whether that was his true name remained to be seen.

"Bow Street Runner, are you?"

He chuckled. "A good guess, lass, but alas, I'm not. Let us say my employers are...less obvious."

Ah, a Northener, Yorkshire or Lancashire or thereabouts. "Know thy enemy," father often said. What good that insight would serve her, she couldn't fathom. All it did was crowd a brain, already fogged by her fast-beating pulses and the many thoughts that wanted out at the same time. One thought made sense, so she gave it words.