Pale Moon Rider

by Marsha Canham

  Renée was seldom inspired to venture too far from Harwood House. She was regarded with suspicion and open disdain, for although she had been a victim of Robespierre’s madness and the Terror had taken every last member of her father’s family to the guillotine, there was no sympathy to be found in the villagers’ company. Only persecution and contempt. The sooner she was away from here, the sooner she could break free …

  Aware of Roth’s eyes watching for any flicker in her expression, she moistened her lips and said quietly, “The captain has agreed to think about my request.”

  A coppery eyebrow quirked upward. “Only think about it?”

  “I imagine he wants some time to decide if it is a trap or not. He … has agreed to meet with me again.”

  Roth drew a deep, thoughtful breath and leaned back against the settle. “When? Where?”

  “In three days’ time. I am to be at Stonebow Bridge at precisely midnight. From there, I am to travel north on the Birmingham turnpike until he intercepts me—which he will only do if he is certain no one has followed me and there are no soldiers lying in wait.”

  “The Birmingham turnpike?” Roth’s eyes narrowed. “There are twenty miles of flat fields and moorland flanking either side of the road.”

  “Perhaps that is why he chose it.”

  Roth seemed not to have heard her. “Only one other rogue, Dick Turpin, was able to evade capture so long and that was because he knew every bush and bramble, every foxhole and cave within ten miles of his lair. The villagers knew him, the innkeepers harbored him when the soldiers gave chase, and, as it was discovered at his trial, he was born less than a mile from his favorite ambuscade.

  “Unlike Turpin, however, Starlight ranges freely between five parishes and on the surface appears to have no favored hunting ground. Yet by his very cleverness he betrays an indisputable familiarity with the region. He also seems to have an uncanny instinct for survival. He has avoided every trap we have attempted to set thus far, leaving one to conclude his sources of information are astonishingly accurate and far-reaching. I have been here four months now, and in that same time, I have followed every accursed rumor, chased down every scant whisper waiting for him to make a mistake, and he has not obliged me. There has not been one single clue as to his identity, not one single witness who has been able to do so much as swear to the color of his hair, or his eyes, or say if half his face is covered in scars! There has not been one murmur of betrayal from men of his own ilk who would ordinarily bear witness against their own grandmothers if they thought it would put a few pennies in their pockets.” He paused and curled his hand into a tight fist. “It has been like trying to catch air. And it has become a game to him. A cat and mouse game in which, thus far, he has managed to stay one leap ahead. Well, not for much longer, my dear. Not for much longer. I have vowed to catch him, and catch him I will, by God.”

  “The man who preceded you had been trying to do so for six years, had he not?”

  “Colonel Lewis?” Roth spat out the name with a measure of venom. “He should have been forced to resign his post a dozen years ago, and would have if they could have lifted his head out of the ale barrels long enough to win his signature. For five of those six years the reward on Starlight’s head did not go above thirty pounds. Who among the local peasantry would betray one of their heroes and legends for a meager thirty pounds?”

  “Another Judas, perhaps?”

  Roth’s eyes flashed his contempt. “Need I remind you that however romantic and daring the tales of his escapades might seem to you, he has murdered three men—in cold blood—that we know of, and would not have hesitated to blow the top off of your Mr. Finnerty’s fine gray head—or yours, for that matter—if he had seen the old man reach for a pistol tonight.”

  “I have told you, I will do what I can to help you catch him,” she said carefully. “Vraiment, it does not mean I have to take pleasure in what I do, m’sieur.”

  Having allowed an uncharacteristic spark of temper to show, he forced himself to settle back against the wooden riser and to fold his hands together in his lap. “No, you do not have to enjoy it, but I do expect your full and absolute cooperation. Starlight will most assuredly be convinced he is being led into a trap and I will expect you to do whatever is necessary to convince our noble prince of thieves otherwise, for I am determined nothing will rouse his suspicions this time.”

  “May I know what I am to tell him when he asks about the time and place for the robbery?”

  “When the time is right, you will know enough to whet his appetite.”

  “You do not trust me, m’sieur?” she asked mockingly.

  “Not as far as one foot outside that door,” he replied smoothly. “But I do have faith in the fact that you love your brother. I believe you love him enough, for instance, that if I were to tell you to stand up right now, walk up those stairs to my room, and prepare to receive me, naked, on your knees … you would do so. Moreover, you would do so with such enthusiasm, your lovely mouth would be kept far too busy to annoy me with your witticisms. Indeed”—he reached over and curled his fingers around her wrist, drawing her hand over the bulge at his groin—“see how your drollery has affected me already?”

  CHAPTER THREE

  As hot as it was in front of the fire, Renée felt herself go stone cold inside. Her hand turned to ice where he held it over his lap, and even though her fingers shrank back in revulsion, his grip was firm enough for him to rub the heel of her palm back and forth across his hardened flesh.

  “There are four rooms at the top of the stairs,” he said matter-of-factly. “Mine is on the left, at the rear. You should have no trouble finding it.”

  Renée’s mouth went dry and her skin clammy. The filthy vermin was calling her bluff, smiling his mirthless smile and watching her reaction in a way that suggested he would not hesitate to follow through his threat and punish Antoine for her stubbornness.

  He tilted his head a few degrees, feigning astonishment at her hesitation. “I confess your curious sense of loyalty does fatigue me at times, my dear. You express feelings of remorse over a murderous highwayman and seem almost unwilling to help your own brother. I warrant there are dozens of beautiful women in Warwickshire alone who would beg for the opportunity to keep their loved ones out of gaol.”

  “Then by all means, invite one of them to take my place. I am sure Captain Starlight will not question the substitution.”

  “And your brother?” Roth’s eyes glittered. “When he feels the coarseness of the noose tightening around his neck, will he not be somewhat bewildered as well?”

  Renée felt the blood pounding in her temples. Somewhere—it sounded as if it came from the end of a very long tunnel—she heard a door slam and a volley of raucous laughter and stamping boots. A moment later, the privacy of the common room was shattered as four young gentlemen, drunk as owls, staggered through the doorway, their shoulders bumping off the walls and each other as they struggled to hold one another up.

  Startled, Renée jumped to her feet. The toe of her shoe caught the edge of the small table beside the settle and overturned it, sending her goblet into the stone hearth with a loud metallic clan-n-ng. Behind her, high beaver hats were being flung aside and clouds of dust slapped from the sleeves of elegantly tailored jackets, and in the midst of boisterous shouting for fresh bottles of wine, one of the gentlemen heard the crash and spun unsteadily around to stare at the cloaked and hooded figure silhouetted in front of the fire.

  At almost the same instant, Mrs. Ogilvie came hurrying out of the back room, demanding an explanation for all the noise.

  “ ’Twas an unblessedly long ride from Meriden an’ my companions an’ I are parched with thirst!” said one of the newcomers.

  “P-positively p-parched!” Another agreed through a rapid spitfire of hiccups. He grinned and tried to lean on the first man for support, missed, and crashed into a third, who happily spun him around and pointed to the silent figure standing behind the settle. Drawing
himself upright, the hiccupping man fumbled to straighten his cravat. “D-damm my eyes if they l-lie, gents, but I believe we have a l-lady in our midst.”

  “Did I not tell you she would be here?” exclaimed a blond, round-faced member of the group. “Lizbeth, my peach! My swan! My light o’ love! Come let me introduce you to my very good fren’s!”

  Bertrand Roth, concealed until then by the solid wooden back of the settle, shot to his feet beside Renée and made his presence known with a scowl. “I am afraid you gentlemen are mistaken in your expectations. The lovely Lizbeth is not in attendance this evening.”

  The blond stopped cold in his tracks. He stood swaying on the balls of his feet a moment, peering from one shadowy face to the other, then retreated the two steps he had taken. “Beg pardon, m’lady. Beg pardon, sir. An honest mistake.”

  Two of his three companions welcomed him back into their midst with a snort and a round of tippled laughter, while the third simply stood and hiccupped and stared raptly at Renée as she started to adjust her hood forward again over her face.

  On further thought, she pushed the satin dome back off her head, baring her face and the surrounding cloud of golden curls to the light. A second man joined the first in staring, and to insure she drew the attention of the remaining pair, Renée unfastened the lace frog at her throat and ran her hands across the nape of her neck to lift the long, gleaming mass of curls free from the collar of the cloak. Like liquid sunlight it spilled around her shoulders, the waves and spirals catching the firelight behind her and glowing like a halo around her head.

  The dazzling display drew Roth’s sharp glance and his hand grasped her upper arm. “What the devil do you think you are doing?”

  She looked first at his hand, then at his face.

  “Do you not find it warm standing by the fire, m’sieur? Since you have invited me to stay for supper, I thought I would make myself more comfortable.”

  Roth’s gaze flicked down. The act of disentangling her hair, combined with the weight of the heavy cloak had caused the latter to slip back off her shoulders and fall to the floor. The plain white muslin gown she wore beneath was sashed high beneath the breasts and cut low across the bodice, and because there were no formfitting corsets or multiple layers of petticoats between her body and the sheer layers of her chemise and gown, the four pairs of owlish eyes were now focused intently on the general area between her neck and knees.

  This was one of those times, she hoped desperately, when beauty had its purpose. It had been at Roth’s insistence that their meetings take place as far away from the public eye as possible. His obsession with catching Captain Starlight and his conviction that the highwayman had eyes and ears everywhere—even in the regimental headquarters—made it imperative to avoid becoming the objects of anyone’s curiosity. Coventry was a large city of some seventeen thousand inhabitants, most of whom kept up the pretense of a London society, with those of the upper class thriving on gossip and speculation and eager to spread rumors of romantic liaisons. Since the outset of the war between France and England, regiments of local militia had been conscripted and trained against a possible threat of invasion, and nothing tickled the gossips more than seeing virtuous young ladies being swept off their feet by the uniformed gallants. By tomorrow, at least one of these four leering lords would be sober enough to remember a tall, slim Française with striking blond hair and startling blue eyes engaged in a secret tryst at the Fox and Hound Inn. And if he did not move quickly to prevent it, someone would be able to identify Colonel Bertrand Roth by the equally memorable flaming redness of his hair and the accompanying hot flush of crimson that flooded his face.

  With a softly snarled curse, he snatched up the fallen cloak and draped it back around Renée’s shoulders. Grabbing her by the elbow, he ushered her across the room and out the door. He glared back into the far corner of the room which caused the four gentlemen to avert their eyes, though they were not sufficiently chastised out of nudging and winking among themselves. One even took the liberty of clearing his throat as Mrs. Ogilvie returned with an armload of bottles, complimenting her on the long-standing tradition of discretion at her fine establishment.

  “That was extremely foolish, my dear,” Roth hissed as he led her into the shadows of the outer hallway.

  “I am sure I do not know what you mean, m’sieur.”

  “Do you not?” He swung her roughly around and pushed her back into the corner, crowding in close with his body. “I am not entirely familiar with French manners, but in any language, a blatant challenge demands an equally blatant response.”

  Renée tried to twist herself free, but his hands were on her shoulders, pinning her flat against the wall. “Let me go. Let me go at once, do you hear?”

  “My hearing is quite excellent, I assure you. It is your ability to grasp and understand a situation that appears to be in some doubt, so if you will bear with me, Mademoiselle d’Anton, I will repeat this only one more time.” He pressed his mouth next to her ear so she could feel the moist heat of each whispered word tingle ominously down the length of her neck. “Should anything—anything—go wrong between now and the fourteenth, I will not hesitate to clap you in irons and see you dragged before the courts to stand trial alongside your brother as an accomplice to attempted murder. Moreover, I will personally choose your gaol cell, my sweet, to be the one with the fattest rats, the sourest stink, and the filthiest guards to seek your company at night.”

  “Take your hands off me,” she gasped. “Take them off or I shall scream!”

  “Will you indeed?” he asked, cocking his head to one side. “Then by all means—scream away.”

  Renée opened her mouth to draw a breath, but before she could do anything with it, Roth’s left hand shifted upward and something hard stabbed her in the tender junction of her neck and jaw, just below the ear. Once the initial shearing of white-hot pain had cut off every other thought she possessed, his thumb gouged deeper into the cluster of nerves and she found she could not move, could not blink, could not even breathe through the solid wall of blinding agony.

  His head tilted to the other side, and the amber eyes glittered with amusement as he watched the successive waves of pain alter the expression on her face. “You do invite these things upon yourself, you know. You persist in throwing these little defiances in my face, as if I have not yet risen to the response you seek. Is that it? Do you prefer a more violent display of passion? Your own countryman, the Marquis de Sade, has written extensively on the subject of women who crave to be broken before they can feel truly fulfilled. Is it the same with you? Is it a penchant you French have acquired through the years of rampant decadence?”

  Renée’s eyes blurred with tears. The pain was excruciating and she could do nothing as he bent his head forward and thrust his tongue into the curl of her ear. Great pooling splotches of darkness began to cloud her vision; her lungs were on fire, her heart was pounding like a fist inside her chest though the blood seemed to have nowhere to go.

  She felt Roth’s mouth slide wetly down the curve of her throat, and she felt the sudden intrusion of his hand beneath her cloak. He grunted appreciatively when he encountered the fullness of her breast and with a rough jerk, he pulled the fabric down and brought her naked flesh into his palm.

  Through the pounding of her fear, Renée could hear the four young lords laughing and clinking glasses inside the common room. They were less than twenty paces away, yet they might as well be twenty miles. So overcome was she by the pain Roth was inflicting on her neck and jaw that he was able to brutalize her with complete impunity.

  “I think,” he murmured, “it would be rather ungallant of me not to escort you home, certainly not with a dangerous highwayman on the loose.”

  Renée managed a strangled, choking sound in her throat. Out of nowhere, it seemed, a tall black shape loomed up behind them. She could not be sure it was not her eyes playing tricks, for they were so distorted by tears and pain she could see very little at all, but
in the next instant, she heard a dull thud and the pressure on her throat was suddenly broken. Roth’s head snapped to one side and remained that way for a long moment, his eyes glazed with confusion and not a little surprise. Then he was crumpling down onto his knees in front of her, his hands clutching at her skirts in a frantic, but ultimately futile, effort to retain his balance.

  Finn raised his hand to swing again and Renée saw the glint of a heavy iron candlestick clutched in his fist. Before he could strike the second blow, however, Roth was on his face, his arms and legs spread in an ungainly sprawl across the floor.

  Finn snorted once to express his satisfaction and replaced the candlestick.

  “Are you all right, mad’moiselle?” he asked gently in French.

  With the pressure on her throat eased, Renée was able to breathe again and she did so in great gulping mouthfuls as she clutched at Finn’s arm and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I am all right. He—he was trying to make me …”

  “I can well imagine what he was trying to make you do,” Finn said with disdain, “and I would suggest—if we do not wish the rest of the patrons of this wretched little hostel to know it as well—that we remove ourselves as quickly as possible.”