“’Tis dreadful dark outside,” Grace said. “Blacker than a night should be. I wish the coachman’d stop and light the lanterns. I hope the fog don’t get worse. I hate fog. I could tell ye tales of men ridin’ out upon the Dales, ne’er to be found again.”
“Please don’t.” Pressing her shoulders against the coach cushion, Elizabeth attempted a stretch.
Grace searched inside her traveling bag for yet another handkerchief, knocking over Elizabeth’s parasol in the process. “If a highwayman had a mind to mischief, this would be the night he’d pick. I wish the White Hart was closer. I wish it wasn’t so lonely ’round here.”
“How many times do I have to tell you? There are no highwaymen, and that’s the end of it.” Hoping to avoid any further complaints, Elizabeth peered through her window again.
The bobble-wheeled coach had begun the final leg of the route. Large portions of the highway, snaking its way through the increasingly bleak Yorkshire countryside, remained hidden by the restive fog. A quarter moon struggled against a bank of clouds, then vanished, leaving only a feeble glow, like the halo ’round the head of a saint.
Only we don’t believe in saints anymore, Elizabeth thought, settling back against her seat. At least not the papist kind.
Ralf Darkstarre and Lady Guinevere would have believed in saints. Simon de Montfort and Ranulf Navarre would have believed in saints.
Elizabeth shivered. Ranulf the Black. What manner of man had he been? And from where did she know him?
The coach eased to a stop, and the long stretch of silence soothed her ragged nerves. “The coachman has dismounted from his perch,” she said, pulling back the curtain. “He’s lighting the lamps, helped by the guard. So you can rest assured—”
“They’re takin’ an unseemly long time. And they’d best not be enjoyin’ a nip along with their business. Drunken drivers are a menace. They’ll be unable to handle the horses, and the beasts’ll be spooked by the weather, run away, and we’ll crash over the side of the hill somewhere, and we’ll all be killed. ’Tis what ye deserve for thinkin’ to travel, Mistress.”
“Do be quiet, Grace.” The voices of the coachman and guard had grown louder, as if they were quarreling. Lowering the window, Elizabeth poked her head out. “What’s going on here?”
The fog glided in front of the horses like a ghost upon a stairway. The coachman’s and guard’s arms were raised. Elizabeth saw an enormous man on horseback pointing a pistol at them.
She sank back onto her seat. “Damn it to hell!”
Grace covered her ears with her hands. “Mistress! Not even a stablehand uses such words.”
“What do you expect me to say? We’re being robbed.”
“Robbed? Mercy! I told ye highwaymen might butcher us.”
“Hush.” Cautiously, Elizabeth peeked through the window again. As if summoned by Grace’s words, the highwayman approached. He was unusually tall and quite bulky. Obviously, this giant of a brigand had not taken to crime because he was in danger of starving.
“Stand and deliver!” he boomed. His voice was distorted, most likely from a pebble in his mouth.
“Lord in heaven,” Grace wailed. “What’ll we do?”
“Shush up and let me think,” Elizabeth hissed. Too bad she had packed her ladies’ pistol in her trunk, tied topside. She would have to settle upon something other than murder to rid herself of the highwayman. But rid herself she would. She had no intention of relinquishing so much as a shilling.
“Stand and deliver, I said!”
“Get out, Grace,” Elizabeth whispered, thrusting her book beneath the straw. “Tell him I’m ill. Tell him I’ve fainted. Tell him I need his help.”
“’Tis a lie, Mistress. He’ll know I’m lyin’ and shoot me.”
“Just do it, damn you.”
While Grace scurried from the coach, Elizabeth removed her plumed hat. Then she pulled free her hair pins and shook her head. She hoped this highwayman, like so many others, had a weakness for women. A feeble distraction at best, but it might grant her enough time to formulate a proper plan.
She heard Grace’s words tumble, one over the other.
In response, the highwayman hollered, “Get your arse out here, ye poxy bugger, before I drag ye out.”
Perhaps this highwayman hasn’t read his own press, Elizabeth thought. She saw the muzzle of a pistol, thrust through the coach window.
“I’m sorry to be a bother, sir,” she said, “but I’m so frightened. If you could only help me—”
“Out now, before I blast ye from here t’ York!”
This highwayman was definitely not one of the chivalrous types. “Hold on a minute, you bloody bastard,” she muttered.
Retrieving her parasol, she placed Penelope’s bronze within easy reach of her right hand. Then, flinging open the door, she studied her enemy. He was positioned only a few feet away, his horse facing her. A skittish animal, the horse snorted and stomped, especially when the coach door slammed against the coach’s frame. Leaning forward, Elizabeth raised her parasol and snapped it open, directly into the horse’s eyes. It whinnied, shied, and swung its haunches. The highwayman swayed in his saddle. Elizabeth grabbed the muse statue and cracked the highwayman over the head.
He toppled to the ground.
She jumped from the coach and ran toward his prone body. Exhilarated by the ease with which she had foiled the robbery attempt, she poked the man vigorously with her parasol. He appeared to be unconscious. Such a huge fellow, yet she had bested him with minimal effort.
The brute groaned and stirred.
“I wonder if I should hit him again,” Elizabeth said to nobody in particular.
“I wouldn’t if I were you.”
She spun around. A second highwayman sat astride a black stallion. This one was hatless, and his hair, black as the cloak he wore, curled untidily around his head. A mask hid the lower half of his face, and his pistol was pointed at her breast.
“Damn,” she breathed. Then, louder, she said, “I don’t suppose you’d believe me if I told you that I didn’t mean to hit your friend.”
“I don’t suppose I would, dear-r-r lady.”
His voice possessed a Scottish burr, and there appeared to be something vaguely familiar about him. Was it the way his hair curled upon his neck? Or was it something about his demeanor? He was tall, not as tall as the other man, but tall enough. His eyes… dark blue, she thought, or perhaps black.
“You’re a dangerous woman,” he said, “which means you ha’ something to hide.”
“No, I’m poor.” Tossing her parasol back inside the coach, she cradled the statue across her bodice. “I was angry at your companion because he frightened my maid and disturbed my journey. I swear I have nothing.”
“Your coach looks first-rate, m’lady.”
“The coach was an extravagance I could ill afford.”
He gestured with his pistol toward his prostrate companion. “You strike me as a most resourceful woman. I’ll wager you would not be above a bit of trickery to ha’ your way. I canna’ see your face, so I canna’ read your expression. Please step before the lights so that I may ha’ a better look at you.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Elizabeth obeyed. While he scrutinized her face, she felt increasingly uncomfortable. Despite her words to Grace, highwaymen were not always patricians down on their luck. Furthermore, they had been known to force their unwanted attentions on their victims.
“Your gown is expensive,” he finally said, lowering his pistol, “but your jewelry is of the most indifferent quality.”
The highwayman seemed to be weakening, thought Elizabeth. However, the brute with the head wound was now stirring, and she feared his volatile reaction. If she wanted to escape with her money, she must act decisively. Perhaps the dark-haired highwayman might be susceptible to a little feminine charm
.
“I swear I’m just an impoverished spinster,” she said, shifting her cloak to expose more of her bosom. “The most expensive thing I own is this bronze, a gift.” She displayed it, slightly raised. “I have nothing else.”
Pocketing his pistol, he laughed. “Since ’tis impossible for me to believe that someone as lovely as you could utter a falsehood, I must accept your word. I see no point in further distressing you, so we shall just agree that a mistake has been made and you can be on your way.”
The wounded highwayman jerked his bloody head up, then struggled to his knees. “Are ye mad? That strumpetin’ whore tried t’ kill me. She’s hidin’ somethin’, a bit full o’ jewelry, or lord knows what. And if I’ve ever seen anyone actin’ peery, ’tis that one.” He nodded toward Grace, who was bouncing from leg to leg and twisting her handkerchief in her hands. “You! Tell me! What’s your mistress hidin’?”
“Nothing,” Elizabeth cried.
“Nothing,” Grace parroted, her voice weak. Like a human pendulum, her face moved back and forth between the coach and the highwayman.
“Go get it,” the wounded brute barked. “I’ll not shoot ye in the back. Move, lass!”
“No!” As Elizabeth stepped forward, Grace screeched and scrambled inside the coach.
“Stay where ye’re at, ye double-poxed, long-arsed bitch!” The injured highwayman groped for his pistol. “Don’t come anywhere within strikin’ distance.”
“But—”
“Don’t argue,” he growled, waving his weapon none too steadily in her direction.
“Cousin, take care,” said the dark-haired highwayman. “Your pistol might go off by mistake.” Dismounting, he stepped in front of Elizabeth.
Grace descended from the coach. Eyes feral, she stumbled—and dropped Elizabeth’s book. Apparently deciding the wounded giant’s pistol was less frightening than her mistress’s wrathful expression, she scurried over to the coachman and guard, whose hands were still raised.
Despairingly, Elizabeth watched the giant retrieve the sheaf of bills from her book.
“Lord a’mighty,” he said. “Grunting cheat! Not bad for a bloody poor spinster.”
“If you steal that, you’ll be robbing me of my independence and all my hopes for the future.” Elizabeth’s eyes brimmed over with tears, which were only partially forced.
“Why not allow her to keep it?” the dark-haired highwayman said.
His partner shook his head, as if to clear it. “Has that crack on me head affected me ears, or have ye gone daft? Me sawbones’s bills alone will run me hundreds o’ pounds.”
“Your reputation would be assured by such a chivalrous act,” Elizabeth pleaded, turning toward her ally. “You would both become immediate legends, like the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion.”
The wounded highwayman snorted while the second affixed a rope to the guard and coachman’s wrists, binding them together. Grace thrust out her hands, but the dark-haired highwayman shook his head.
Elizabeth rushed on. “I’m a sister of the quill, an authoress. Perhaps I could even compose a tale about you, forever immortalizing you in print, like Tom Jones. Wouldn’t that mean more than mere money?”
“I wouldn’t mind being immortalized,” the dark-haired highwayman said. “It seems a fair trade, cousin.”
“What in God’s name has come over ye, ye bloody flat? Ye think to return a bloody fortune so that this toad’s harlot can fill some bloody reader with fancy lies about ye? I say we keep every damned shillin’!”
“I have brilliant powers of observation,” said Elizabeth, losing her temper. “I shall report everything I’ve seen to the local justice of the peace. He’ll track you down and you’ll hang from the nearest gallows.”
The injured highwayman leveled his pistol at her heart. “Then maybe I should save meself a lot o’ trouble by poppin’ ye right now.”
Still cowering near the guards, Grace wailed. “They’ll slit our throats and open our stomachs and fill them with stones, then throw our bodies into the stream. Oh, we’ll die, Mistress, and ’tis all yer fault.”
“Enough,” said the second highwayman. “If you must take the money, take it, but there’s no sense in threatening anyone.” As he returned to his horse, Elizabeth saw that he walked with a slight limp.
“Damn my soul,” she whispered, dropping the statue.
Why hadn’t she figured it out immediately? His broad shoulders, stalwart chest, lean hips and muscular thighs. His hair, the shape of his eyes. John Randolph was a highwayman!
She turned her attention to the wounded highwayman, now wobbling toward his mount. She knew exactly who this pair was: the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion. Most likely they had planned to rob the Beresfords, then something had gone amiss. Whereupon John, remembering what she had said about the Dales’ bumbling justice of the peace, had retreated north.
The Gentleman Giant leaned across his horse until his balance steadied. Easing himself up into the saddle, he groaned. “If I’m not dead now,” he mumbled, “I should live forever.”
John had also remounted. Elizabeth figured he knew who she was and thought to spare her. Which seemed commendable enough, except they still planned to leave with her two hundred pounds.
“Sir,” she said, taking a step toward John.
“Yes, m’lady?”
Placing her hand on his thigh, above his glossy brown boots, she gazed up into his eyes. “I have long imagined someone like you in my novels.”
He stared down at her for a long moment. Then, moving his mask away from his mouth, he cradled her chin between his palms, lowered his head, and kissed her hard upon the lips.
The Giant’s raucous cheers and Grace’s renewed wails overlapped his words.
“I’ll return your money, Bess,” he said softly, “and that’s a promise.”
“When?” she asked, ignoring the sensations that coursed through her body. She felt as if she had just swallowed a bolt of hot lightning.
“In my own time.”
Six
Why should I believe him? Why should I trust him?
John trusted her, thought Elizabeth. She knew his name and had seen him all too clearly during Beresford’s drum. He could have shot her to protect his identity.
But she had a feeling John wouldn’t kill a woman, no matter what the circumstances, so that justification didn’t hold water.
How about this? If she gave Lord Stafford a physical description and the inept lawman somehow managed to capture the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion, she’d never recover her two hundred pounds.
She must believe John’s promise. She really had no other choice. Besides, betrayal was repellent.
All these thoughts ran through Elizabeth’s mind as the coach turned into the yard of the White Hart. Distractedly, she gathered her things together.
“Remember, Grace. Do not say one word about the unfortunate incident.”
“You mean the robbery, Mistress?”
“I mean the unfortunate incident.”
“But we must tell Lord Stafford. No respectable woman will be safe so long as those two monsters are free.”
“I’d hardly call them monsters. They did us no physical harm. I’ll take care of the matter myself, in my own way. Do you understand?”
As the coachman blew his horn, Elizabeth peered through the window. She saw that the area was crowded with incoming and outgoing carriages, stable hands, guards, and passengers. I hope no one is awaiting me, she thought. On the other hand, she had sent word with an earlier coach, so no doubt she would receive a hearty welcome.
The coach rumbled to a halt beside the grooming shed, adjacent to the stables. A cheer went up and a small crowd immediately surrounded Elizabeth’s window. She saw her father, dark as a Gypsy, a big grin on his face. She saw Dorothea, looking as deceptively f
ragile as the crystal drops that hung from a chandelier. And Walter Stafford, half a head taller than those around him.
Most women would call Stafford handsome. He did not possess the dark ruggedness of a Ralf Darkstarre or a John Randolph, yet he could easily pose for one of Elizabeth’s book heroes. A cauliflower wig cascaded down his narrow shoulders, enhanced by his padded coat. The rest of his body lacked the muscularity of a Ralf or John, but his visage was noteworthy. Mahogany brows shaded pale blue eyes whose intense expression often unsettled her. His nose was long and straight, his lips too thin, bowed on top. But this small discrepancy was disguised by a mustache and a well-trimmed goatee. When all the facets of Lord Stafford’s face came together, he looked like an imperial pirate.
“Remember what I told you,” Elizabeth warned Grace, as the coachman pulled down the steps. “Not one word.”
She opened the coach door to cheering and clapping, but before she could descend, Grace pushed her aside and tripped down the stairs. “We was robbed by two horrible highwaymen!” she yelled.
The welcome party uttered a collective gasp.
Strong arms lifted Elizabeth from the coach, and she gazed into her father’s shocked face. “Did they hurt you?” he asked. “Insult you in any way? Lay a hand on you?”
“No, of course not. It wasn’t—”
“I’ve never been so afraid in my life,” Grace cried. “They said they’d kill us, and do all manner of unspeakable things.”
Another collective gasp.
Grace began sobbing. She glanced around, as if seeking solace, then collapsed against Lord Stafford’s chest.
Ignoring Grace, Stafford looked at Elizabeth, his eyes narrowed to slits. “What exactly happened? Where were you when you were robbed? How much money did they take? What jewelry?”
She attempted a smile. “It was nothing, really. Just a misunderstand—”
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