Gideon smiled kindly. “Take care of yourself, Miss Briar. I hope I’ll see you here again.”
She bade him farewell and hurried back toward the stocks, staggering under the weight of the burlap sack. Archer looked decidedly grumpy, his blond hair drooping, forlorn bits of silk poking through the stocks around his reddened wrists. Briar hoped Esteban could be persuaded to fix his bruises and the crick in his neck.
The thought of the others made her pick up her pace despite being laden down as she was with the paint supplies. It was growing darker, and the sheriff could arrive at any minute. Jemma and the crew would be worried too. Briar and Archer should have been back long before sundown.
She was almost to the square when three men marched into it ahead of her, cutting off her path to Archer. They wore the mustard-brown uniforms of Lord Barden’s household retainers and carried heavy iron halberds. Briar veered off sharply, taking refuge behind a stack of barrels at the edge of the square.
The men headed straight for Archer.
“Look what we have here, lads.”
“Well, if it isn’t the prodigal thief himself.”
“I reckon it is.”
The whittling watchman stood up, but at a look from the leader of the gang, he made himself scarce, hurrying off toward the public privy. Briar poked her head out of her hiding place to observe the three men.
The leader swaggered over to Archer and leaned against the stocks. “Looks like he’s come down in the world.”
“Even farther than the last time we saw him,” said his companion, an unkempt-looking man whose mustard-brown surcoat hung open, the lapels splattered with mud.
The leader gave a nasty smile. “I used to say this one was a social climber—”
“Climbing in the wrong direction,” Archer interrupted. “Yes, we’ve all heard that one, Pratford.”
The leader’s grin widened, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. “You’re going to be in trouble when his lordship gets here.”
Archer paused for a beat. “Lord Barden’s here?”
“Ain’t you heard his daughter’s been taken?” The one with the muddied uniform leaned on his halberd. “He’s recruiting someone to save her.”
“Is that right?”
Briar winced at the faux surprise in Archer’s voice.
She spread the contents of her burlap bag on the ground, only half listening to the conversation. She broke the seal on a new jar and began painting an image on one of the barrels. The deepening darkness made it hard to see the colors. Her fingers tingled with magic, and sweat broke out on her forehead. She didn’t have much time.
“I bet that just twists your gizzard, don’t it?” asked the leader, Pratford, his voice turning poisonous.
“What does, boss?” asked the third man, who sounded much younger than the other two.
“This young fella had his eye on Lady Mae for his own self.”
Briar paused halfway through a second curse.
“I heard something about that,” the unkempt one said. “Might have had a shot, too, if he still had his papa’s riches.”
Pratford gave an unpleasant chortle. “I reckon his papa would share some of those riches if we delivered the prodigal son to him.”
“I highly doubt that,” Archer said.
“Ah, don’t be so hard on yourself.” The leader patted Archer’s head, smearing the rotten vegetables. “If your papa don’t want you, he might still pay for your head.”
The unkempt man hefted his halberd. “Worth a try, ain’t it?”
Briar finished the second painting with a quick flourish and stepped out from behind the stack of barrels. “I highly doubt that.”
The youngest man jerked upright in surprise, and the others turned as she walked toward them. She began a silent countdown. Ten … nine …
Pratford took a lazy step forward, no longer leaning on the stocks. “Who’re you?”
Briar faced him dead on, her hands buried in the folds of her skirt. “I’m the reason you are going to walk away and forget you ever saw this man.”
Pratford chuckled, and his companions relaxed their grips on their weapons. Sensing they weren’t about to stab her, Briar strode directly to Archer and planted herself beside him, one arm holding her rag-filled belly, the other hidden in her skirt.
“Took you long enough,” he muttered.
“I had to prepare a few things,” she shot back, still counting down. Six … five …
“Would you look at that?” Pratford walked a few steps farther from the stocks to slap his unkempt friend on the shoulder. “A lady coming to rescue Archer, the big bad thief.”
The other man laughed lasciviously. “She’s a cute thing, ain’t she?”
“And with child?” Pratford revealed his ugly, yellow-toothed grin. “Well, that’s a scandal if I ever seen one. Does she know who your papa is?”
“Shut up,” Archer hissed.
The men laughed. Briar wanted to know what else they had to say about Archer and his father, but she had already set the curses in motion.
Three … two …
The first explosion was small, just enough bang to make the men turn toward the pile of barrels.
“What was that?” gasped the young, scrawny one.
“It came from that barrel,” Pratford said.
The unkempt man clutched his halberd. “I ain’t never heard an empty barrel make a ruckus like that.”
While they were talking, Briar hurriedly scrawled a curse with the loaded paintbrush she’d concealed in her skirt onto the iron lock holding the stocks closed. She smelled linseed oil and a whiff of smoke, then the metal gave a faint hiss and began to melt.
Pratford whirled at the sound. “Hey, what are you—”
The second explosion erupted from the bottom of the stack of barrels, that one with enough bang to send Barden’s men stumbling backward. The barrels careened toward them, bouncing on the hard-packed dirt.
“She’s some kinda mage!”
“She’s a witch!”
“Grab her!”
“Are you mad? Don’t touch her.”
Briar ignored them, focusing on her painting. The curse finished eating through the lock, and the metal pieces fell to
