Matthew Hawkwood Thriller Series Books 1-3: Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist, Rapscallion. James McGee
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      JAMES McGEE

       Ratcatcher, Resurrectionist and Rapscallion

      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Title Page

       Resurrectionist

       Rapscallion

       Rebellion

       About the Author

       Copyright

       About the Publisher

      

      JAMES McGEE

       Ratcatcher

      CONTENTS

       Cover

       Title Page

       18

       19

       20

       21

       Historical Note

       Copyright

       PROLOGUE

      The prey was running late.

      The horseman checked his pistol and returned the weapon to the leather holster concealed beneath his riding cloak. Bending low over the mare’s neck, he stroked the smooth, glistening flesh. At the touch, the animal whickered softly and stomped a forefoot into the soggy, waterlogged ground.

      A large drop of rain fell from the branch above the rider’s head and splattered on to his sleeve. He cursed savagely. The rain had stopped thirty minutes before, but remnants of the storm still lingered. In the distance, a jagged flash of lightning sprang across the night sky and thunder rumbled ominously. Beneath him, the horse trembled.

      The rain had turned the ground into a quagmire but the air smelled clean and fresh. Pale shafts of moonlight filtered through the spreading branches of the oak tree, illuminating the faces of the highwayman and his accomplice waiting in the shadows beneath.

      The horses heard it first. Nervously, they began to paw the ground.

      Then the highwayman picked up the sound. “Here she comes,” he whispered.

      He pulled his scarf up over his nose and tugged down the brim of his hat until only his eyes were visible. His companion did the same.

      The coachman was pushing the horses hard. Progress had been slow due to the foul weather and he was anxious to make up for lost time. The storm had made the track almost impassable in places, necessitating a number of unavoidable detours. They should have left the heath by ten o’clock. It was now close to midnight. The coachman and his mate, huddled beside him in a sodden black riding cape, were wet, tired, and irritable, and looking forward to a hot rum and a warm bed.

      The coach had reached the bottom of the hill. Mud clung heavily to the wheel rims and axles and the horses, suffering from the extra weight, had slowed considerably. The driver swore and raised his СКАЧАТЬ