Our heroine attempts to hold up Fate.

The King's road to London basked in the mellow light of late afternoon, disturbed only by birdsong and the occasional snort from Corinna's horse. Patient like a donkey, the chestnut mare would wait in the shrubbery at her rider's behest, only to burst forth when muscular legs squeezed her gleaming flanks into a run.

Those legs, long and with shapely ankles, shouldn't squeeze. They should be draped over a side saddle as custom decreed.

Nor should those legs be encased in black leather breeches; they should rather be hidden under the flowing skirt of the high-waisted muslin dress en vogue these past seasons.

Not that Corinna gave a rat's spit about customs, fashion, or seasons. At nine and twenty she was on the shelf, so it wasn't a husband she was after, and even if she were, she wouldn't find him here on the road, dressed as she was in the garb and the face mask of a highwayman, her father's fine double-barreled pistols in the saddle holsters. Four shots was all she got, but that was already more than most patrolmen would have at their disposal.

It was a long time since anybody in the Wolverstoke household had laid down money for weapons. Her father and brother were gone, both lost to Napoleon's last stand at Waterloo.

The chestnut mare snickered softly and stomped, the rings on her tack chinking as she chewed the bit.

"Steady, old girl, steady." Corinna patted her mount's warm neck with a black-gloved hand. Unlike her mistress, Nell would never want anything, feast only the finest hay and oats. Not only was the horse Corinna's only chance at survival—hers and Mother's, to be precise—but the horse was Corinna's partner.

She pulled out her brother's golden timepiece, its chain broken where the musket ball that killed him ripped through. Three o'clock.

The London mail was late.

Until it was through, she mustn't dare to attack. The mail carried too many passengers who might come after her, not to forget the guard at the back protecting the strongbox. Imagine her holding up some hapless lordling and the coach arriving in mid-scene.

Horror upon horror.

For one thing, she would have to shoot. Well, she was an excellent shot. Father had seen to that. Descended from a long line of soldiers, the late Baron of Wolverstoke had hunting and shooting in his blood. As did Robin.

It only got them killed.

Kill she wouldn't, not if her life depended on it.

From further down the road finally drifted the heavy rumble of coach wheels, the clanking of the horses' harness overlaid with the clip-clopping of many hooves. A post horn sounded, which meant the mail had reached the Billingham gatepost. Its keeper would now scramble to throw the gates open in a hurry. Last month, he had been too late, and the fine levied for his tardiness would hurt to the day.

After father's and Robin's death, Corinna and her mother had been hurting as well. George, the distant cousin, who took over Penninghall House and the title, had been in his rights when he sent them to the dower house. However, he had no right to withhold mother's portion, the money bequested to her when she said her yeah to the parson.

But how were they supposed to fight such injustice when they had not a farthing to spare for a lawyer? Most of Corinna's small dowry was gone by the time she did something about their plight.

Mother and Nell needed to eat, and so did she. And coals and candles for the winter cost dear.

The post horn didn't sound again, instead the mail came closer, its noisy approach sending the starlings skyward in a rustle of tiny wings.

Nell snorted her welcome as the leading horses came into view, all four of them sturdy animals. The roof of the mail was crammed with passengers, with two more on the box and at least six inside, but the coachman hadn't yielded the reigns to the young bucks occupying the roof.

Corinna breathed a sigh of relief.

Playing the mail coachman was the latest sport bored gentlemen of leisure embarked on. Unfortunately, it meant a lot of vehicles ended up in the ditch, which was the last thing she needed.

This one, fortunately, bowled past on the heavy ground without trouble, around the corner and out of sight.

The mare knew better than to whinny, but she sent a longing snort after the conveyance and her fellow equines.

"We'll be fine now. Let me see who is in the vicinity."

She hadn't been down the London road for a while. To foil the magistrate and his cursed patrolmen, it was important to keep both time and geographical distance between her heists. For half a year, things had all gone very well, but now she had word that the local magistrate was sniffing around, wanting to catch "Gentleman Jim" as the farmers and merchant men in the area called her.

The penalty for highway robbery was hanging.

Mother would die from shame.

"Yes, and I'd be swinging from the gallows. Tell me what's worse." Corinna adjusted the tricorn on the damp bandanna she wore over her hair. Fortunately, the fashion allowed her to cut her fair locks, but her hair was still longer than any man's.

A sissy fool they'll take me for if they catch me.

They mustn't catch her.

Nell had no opinion on either Corinna's coiffure or her illicit shenanigans and pawed the ground with her front leg.

Was Mother aware what she was doing? She had to know something. She was a seer, after all. A shame, a woman of gentle breeding couldn't become a soothsayer. It would have made matters so much easier.

There was no point in these musings. A job needed doing, and she was the only one around and able-bodied to do it.

Corinna ripped off a glove and bent forward in the saddle. Gently, she plucked a birch leaf off a tree and rubbed it between thumb and index finger. Then she inhaled the air, ripe with moistness from the recent rain. Moistness she appreciated since it amplified her senses, though too much rain would wet the powder and queer her pistols.

Her eyes closed, she sent her consciousness into the greenery shading the road, traveling all the way back to the turnpike where Ben, the gatekeeper, was pushing the heavy contraption back across the road.

Then he stopped. Listened.

Corinna listened with him.

There was another vehicle on the road, coming at them.

With a nod to himself, Ben closed the gate and leaned against the post, waiting for the traveler to arrive.

Not another mail coach, then. Not that any was due, according to the time table.

Corinna withdrew her consciousness.

"Prepare yourself. We have customers," Corinna said to Nell, who snorted her agreement, or so it sounded. The mare reacted well to the tug at the bridle and headed for a small incline. From the road, it was hidden by gorse bushes, their gorgeous yellow flowers now browned and shriveled. Spurred to a full gallop, Nell could simply brush through them and arrive beside the road in no time. If Corinna spurred her on. It remained to be seen what kind of vehicle was now rumbling their way.

Too fast for a farmer's cart, though just as loud, it had to be some sort of traveling carriage. If she was unlucky, they would have an outrider, or even two. But strain her ears as much as she might, she couldn't make out the number of horses.

It would have to wait. Soon they would be in sight, and then she would decide.

An icy calm flowed over her body. Letting the reins hang over Nell's neck, she fastened her old loo-mask over her eyes and readied her pistols.

Any moment now. She narrowed her eyes.

The coach, a well-sprung vehicle with a team of four steaming bay horses, rounded the corner and rolled on.

No outriders. Only the coachman on his box with a pockmarked individual squatting next to him, his gun, an old blunderbuss, crooked in his arm. The man's eyes were half-closed, his mouth slack.

Corinna allowed herself a small smile. That would be a rather rude awakening.

Cocked pistol in one hand, reins in the other, she kicked Nell into a gallop.

https://youtu.be/4YGPIXD1XmI

With a wild whinny and a snort worthy of a lion, the mare burst from the gorse and came to a halt a few meters in front of the coach. Corinna's pistol pointed at the heart of blunderbuss man.

His eyes wide open, he stared at what to his sleep-fogged mind must appear like a nightmare. The coachman, white in the face, was already pulling the team to a stop.

"Stand and deliver," Corinna shouted, her voice deep like a gong. It took little effort for her to sound like a man.

"If you shoot, you're dead meat," she added for good measure. But the pockmarked guard or whatever he was tossed his weapon into the road and raised his hand. As did the coachman. Since he was still holding the reins, his sweating team tossed their heads and fretted around in their harnesses.

"You there, watch your beasts," she hollered.

The door to the passenger cabin flew open and Corinna's heart missed a beat. That was unusual. Few travelers had the gall and the nerve to ignore a cocked pistol.

At first, only gray curls showed over the door panel, then the head of a small elderly woman appeared, peeping myopically.

"What is this?" she wailed in a high-pitched voice. "Why are we stopping? His lordship is ill, we must press on."

"Highwayman. Pistols," the pockmarked man said economically. "Better get back in there and fetch your blunt."

Ah, these weren't personal retainers, but hired men. Good, they wouldn't fight.

"What? Shoot him," the woman screeched. "Do it, do it if you want your money."

Corinna fired her pistol. Nell only flicked an ear, but the team went wild, jumping and rising in their traces. With a swearword not fit for the ears of his mistress, blunderbuss man jumped from the box and struggled with the horses.

Eyes big as saucers, the woman withdrew into her vehicle and slammed the door shut.

Corinna nudged her mount closer to the coach.

"Madam, your possessions if you please."

No answer. Inside the coach, an argument raged.

"Give him what he wants," a weak male voice said, sounding as the man had a sticky dumpling between his teeth.

"No."

"Mother..."

"I will not be vanquished by a filthy thief."

Corinna knocked her pistol on the glass window of the door. "Ho, you in there."

"Go away, you vermin," the woman screeched.

"Mother..."

There was movement in her peripheral vision and she swung the pistol around—at the pockmarked man who stood next to the box. His eyes widened, and he raised his hands. "Don't shoot. I'm unarmed."

"I won't," Corinna said. "If you leave me in peace."

He pulled a face. "That harpy is not worth dying for."

"Open the coach door for me," she said.

"Gladly. You're Gentleman Jim, ay?"

"Stop all that gobbing and open the door."

The pockmarked man hitched up his saggy trousers and did as bid.

"Go away," the woman screeched. "We have nothing to give you."

"You better had," said the pockmarked man. "Bob and me still want paying."

"Mother, I implore you," the same weak voice said. From the inside of the coach rolled a heavy miasma composed of lavender water, broth, male perspiration, and feet. With it came something odd, something feral.

Nell must have smelled it as well. She flared her nostrils and pranced.

"He's Gentleman Jim. He doesn't kill you as long as you behave," the pockmarked man explained to the passengers in a genial tone.

"Jeb?" hollered the coachman from his box. "Are we done with this business and can press on?"

"No," said Corinna between clenched teeth. "You haven't delivered yet."

This truly was the heist from hell.

The next moment, a black velvet box flew from the door and landed at Nell's hooves. Surprised, the horse danced backward. The box burst open and disgorged a colorful, glittering flood.

"My...my treasures. Eugene, have you lost your mind?"

"No," said the male voice, a lot less weakly. "You can spare those for a little while." A menacing purr had crept into his voice, but his mouth still seemed filled with dough.

Jewels? What was she supposed to do with jewels? She wanted solid coins, not flimsy glitter that required a fence. She didn't know any reliable fences. But this charade had been going on for too long. She'd better take what she could get.

"Pick that up," she said.

The pockmarked man shoved the baubles back into their box and handed them up. Corinna halfway expected him to try something silly, but he gave her a wide smile.

"Here you are. We're free to go?"

"Yes. Oh, just one question. Who are they?" She glanced at the carriage, shaking wildly as if the woman was hopping up and down in her ire.

"His lordship, the Marquis of Delmoral with his stepmother, the Dowager Lady Sophronia."

He hadn't finished speaking when a face pressed against the window pane, the face of a man. Damp, dark curls were plastered to his forehead, and his freckled cheeks were flushed with fever.

Corinna's heart skipped a beat. She recoiled in the saddle.

One side of the man's face was swollen, as if something alive lurked under his skin, waiting to burst forth.

Eyes as green as new leaves in spring sought her gaze, but the man never said a word.

He didn't need to.

Corinna knew she shouldn't be here, shouldn't have seen him like this. This heist could cost her life. All she could do was try to outrun her fate. (And these last three sentences contain the PROMPT)

2271 words, first milestone met

Image is by jplenio from pixabay. This chapter is dedicated to my friend @jinnis who writes the most wonderful worlds past and present, and puts cats in them.