The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter

by Mary Ellen Dennis

  Stafford cursed and reached for Rand. But several men descended on Stafford, peppering him with questions about what had happened and what should be done. Amid all that chaos, Rand managed to shake off Stafford’s frantic grip.

  Zak thundered past, heading toward the highway.

  ’Tis all over, Rand thought, running for his own mount. Zak had gone too far. Most likely Stafford had already linked Zak with the Gentleman Giant. Rand knew that the roads would be crawling with posses. He and Zak couldn’t possibly meet as planned.

  Damn Zak! Most of the traders had packed up and gone home, but Zak had one horse left, the chestnut mare with the blemished knees. Rand had followed Elizabeth, figuring nobody would buy the bloody mare, thus nobody would discover the cheat. But he hadn’t considered that a customer might return to finger Zak.

  Unfortunately, Rand knew exactly how his cousin would react to tonight’s events. Exhilarated by his brush with danger, Zak would be out prowling for more. That was the way it always was with Zak. The closer he came to getting caught, the more chances he took. Which was the reason why the law always snared him in the end.

  I have to find him before Stafford does, Rand thought, spurring his horse.

  Standing in the glow from a bonfire, Elizabeth refastened the brooch at her neckline. She filled her eyes, mind, and heart with the last sight she would ever have of Rand Remington. Then she fled headlong down the hill, toward the bull baiting.

  Thirteen

  “I’ll escort you home in my post chaise,” Stafford said. “Early tomorrow, my footman will deliver your mare. For your own safety, my dearest Elizabeth, I must absolutely insist.”

  Her first inclination was to refuse. Absolutely refuse. She wanted to ride Rhiannon. That way she might encounter one of Stafford’s unskilled patrols, and they would tell her that the highwaymen had slipped through their fingers once again.

  ’Tis better to know than to imagine, she thought, twisting Rand’s words.

  On the other hand, if Walter was with her he couldn’t orchestrate a manhunt. While she still held his expertise in contempt, she wasn’t sure how clever Rand’s companion was. Walter might even come up with an uncharacteristically brilliant revelation, and he would undoubtedly share it, if only to impress her. He had already made one passably shrewd deduction—that Middleham’s coper was the Gentleman Giant.

  As they bumped along the rutted highway, Elizabeth watched the moon spin its light upon the moors. She and Walter sat facing Papa and Dorothea. Stafford’s post chaise was elegantly gilded and scrolled but Elizabeth considered the interior far too cramped, and its front third was open to the cold night wind. Nevertheless, the wind soothed her flaming cheeks, yesterday’s rain kept down much of the road dust, the stars looked uncommonly close, and the night-song of a thrush trilled melodically.

  The time she and Rand had spent together now seemed blurred and distant, like figures seen through the mist. From the very beginning, everything about Rand had been bittersweet and remote, not to mention unconventional. She likened herself and Rand to actors whose most important parts were being played offstage. She wondered why he aroused in her such strong emotions, and why his conversations almost always sounded enigmatic.

  She thought back to their first encounter and her certainty that they had met before. But where? When? And why did she have a sneaking suspicion that he knew something about their relationship that she didn’t? Why did he often seem ambivalent, as if he were alternately drawn to her and repulsed by her?

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she pressed her head against the cushions. An inner voice whispered: Long ago, Bess. Don’t you remember? Don’t you know?

  If they had met before and loved before, didn’t that justify tonight’s passions? Not that she needed justifications. She and Rand belonged to each other. They always had, and they always would. “I love you, Bess. I always have, and I always will.” Comforting words, unless “always” was of brief duration.

  She knew Rand had ridden away in desperation, rather than triumph. There had been no mocking laughter. And yet the breathless panic she had experienced was very familiar. Could the haunting melody she’d heard earlier, so beautiful, so sad, so threatening, have something to do with her panic? Or her nightmares?

  Noodle-head! Her blasted nightmares had no sound, unless one counted her violent, albeit silent, screams.

  “…wonder what happened to the other highwayman,” Walter was saying. “Why did they split up? They have always worked as a twosome.”

  “The interpretation is as plain as the nose on one’s face,” said Elizabeth, opening her eyes. “The other highwayman is dead, or he has left the Dales.”

  Walter patted her hand. “My ethereal, beautiful, but obviously misinformed Elizabeth. You are certainly not the best judge of their modus operandi. May I remind you that you were robbed at gunpoint, not fleeced by a coper?”

  “You were robbed as well, and in a most humiliating—”

  “Precisely. My point exactly. The Quiet Companion changed his method of procedure when he robbed me. I wonder what that means?”

  “I have no idea, and I sincerely doubt you do either.”

  “Elizabeth,” Dorothea warned, “remember your manners!” She turned her face toward her husband, as if seeking concurrence, but Lawrence was asleep.

  Walter inserted a pinch of snuff up his nose. “It’s quite all right, Mrs. Wyndham. I’m sure Elizabeth regrets her tart tongue. Now, back to the missing highwayman. For one thing, it is quite safe to say that he wasn’t dead a fortnight ago. The Giant has switched from highway robbery to doctoring horses…” Stafford paused to sneeze.

  “I simply cannot comprehend your reasoning, sir.” Elizabeth yawned, feigning disinterest.

  “The answer is obvious, my lovely but sometimes sophistic Elizabeth. The pair quarreled. Which means once we catch the Gentleman Giant, who I have always considered to be the less intelligent of the pair, he will lead us to his partner.”

  “Unless his partner is dead or has left the Dales,” she repeated stubbornly.

  Dorothea gave her an angry glare. Elizabeth turned away, effectively ending her part in the conversation.

  Walter’s sneeze had roused Lawrence. While the others continued talking, Elizabeth attempted to pierce the secrets of the night. Her ears strained for the sounds of gunfire, her eyes for any movement. She tried to imagine what was happening beyond the feeble glow of the carriage lanterns. Something must be, for the darkness suddenly seemed to possess an ominous waiting quality. Had Rand caught up with his cousin? Had they eluded the patrols? Were they racing for Scotland? Or were they engaged in a battle this very moment?

  She could hear nothing save for the squeaking of the post chaise and the voices of her companions. She could see nothing save for clumps of trees, stone walls, and abandoned buildings, crouching just beyond the light.

  But it wasn’t midnight yet, Elizabeth thought with a shudder. When the witching hour finally flourished, the trees, walls, and buildings would be populated by ghosts.

  “I’m so pleased you’re here to protect us,” Dorothea said to Walter. Her lips turned up in the closed smile that always reminded Elizabeth of a sly cat. “I feel so much safer in your company.”

  “Before the evening is out, my men will have snared at least one, possibly both of the thieving scoundrels, never fear.”

  Dorothea cast a wide-eyed look into the darkness, as if she momentarily expected it to disgorge a host of demons. “I know that with you… and Mr. Wyndham, of course… I am safer here than I could possibly be anywhere else. Still, I do feel a bit exposed.”

  Elizabeth stifled a snort, amused by her stepmother’s sudden vulnerability. The only thing Dorothea truly feared was poverty.

  Walter reached for another pinch of snuff, then hesitated, as if he wanted to share a secret. Folding his hands on his lap, he said, “When I apprehend t
he Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion, it will be nearly as big a coup as my most famous capture.”

  “And who was that?” burbled Dorothea.

  “I can say, in all modesty, that I was entirely responsible for the incarceration of Jacob Halsey, the Quaker Highwayman.”

  “Goodness! Did you hear that, Elizabeth? Isn’t Lord Stafford full of surprises?”

  Elizabeth dismissed Walter’s assertion as hyperbole. Jacob Halsey had plied his trade to the south, around Bedford, a far more populated area. Walter might arguably be an adequate justice of the peace in a community with more sheep than people, but he couldn’t ply his trade elsewhere.

  “Lord Stafford has told me some right funny tales about Halsey,” Lawrence said. “Tell them the one about old Jake and his fight with the beadle, m’lord.”

  Walter chuckled. “It seems Halsey and this beadle had a fierce altercation. After Jake knocked the unfortunate man to the ground, he said, ‘I see thou canst exercise thy long staff pretty well, but I’ll prevent thee from using thy short one tonight.’ Then Halsey nailed the poor fellow to a tree by his foreskin.” Walter laughed heartily, slapping his padded thigh.

  Dorothea, who maintained she could not stand profanity in word or deed, laughed even more heartily. “You do tell a story so well, my lord. Doesn’t he, Elizabeth?”

  “What time is it, please?”

  Reaching into his embroidered waistcoat, Walter removed a silver pocket watch and held it beneath the lantern’s glow. “Nearly midnight,” he replied. “Look, Elizabeth, my new watch has a most erotic scene, set in an arched aperture. It depicts a lady and a gentleman, with the gentleman’s… er, activity… in constant motion. I find it quite amusing.”

  “Goodness,” Dorothea said, peering at the watch. “If the gentleman is doing what I think he is doing, m’lord, your new timepiece is rather risqué. And amusing, to be sure,” she quickly added.

  “I shall have you home in another half hour,” Walter told Elizabeth, noticeably disgruntled at her lack of interest.

  Midnight! She had never been out so late on Midsummer’s Eve, and she wished it were true that supernatural things happened. The north was famous for its abundance of ghosts. Her Aunt Lilith swore that once, on the road to York, she had seen the ghost of a bishop. In front of the bishop had been a coffin, covered by a black velvet shawl fringed with white silk. The coffin had swayed through the air, unsupported by human hands.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” Elizabeth asked no one in particular.

  Dorothea frowned, Lawrence shrugged, and Walter laughed.

  “I’m not surprised you would ask such a question,” he said, absently caressing the lace at his throat. “While you are uncommonly bright for a woman, your sex is never logical.”

  Elizabeth heard Rand say “My logical Bess.” He had said it just before he removed her breeches, just before he—

  “Ghosts cannot exist, my dear,” Walter continued, his voice somewhat shaky. “They go against the laws of nature.”

  Startled, Elizabeth peered at him more closely. Despite his declaration, he looked decidedly unnerved. He was even clutching at his chest. If she was describing him in one of her books, she might say he looked apoplectic.

  She remembered the words he had spoken last week, outside the stables. “You comprehend very little about me.” He was correct. She really didn’t know much about him. Still, it was interesting to speculate that the mere mention of ghosts would set him all aquiver. It made him less pompous, more empathetic, more… human.

  With a sigh, Elizabeth returned to the scenery. Lights from an occasional farmhouse softened patches of darkness, as did the lamps from other coaches, far in the distance, shining like cat’s-eyes.

  The horses finally reached the foot of the dale, where they began their last arduous climb to the White Hart. Exhausted, Elizabeth started to nod off, until she heard the sound of pounding hooves, like a roll of thunder. Gunfire cracked.

  “No,” she breathed. “Please, God, it cannot be.”

  Misunderstanding, Walter said, “Don’t worry, my dear. I’ll protect you.” He whipped a rifle out from under the seat.

  Dazed, Elizabeth watched Walter and her father draw pistols from their belts. Then both men stood and leaned out of the chaise.

  “What is it?” Dorothea asked.

  “Get down on the floor,” Walter ordered. “Someone is coming up fast.”

  Dorothea settled on the carriage floorboards, as if she were arranging herself atop a delicate armchair.

  “I’m safe right here,” Elizabeth said. Fearful that the rider might be Rand, she wanted to stay where she had the best view.

  “Now is not the time to be adventuresome.” Walter pushed her down beside Dorothea. “Maintain a steady pace,” he called to his driver.

  Elizabeth popped her head up.

  Walter shoved her back down. “Do not disobey me! I’m about to snare a highwayman and I’ll not be distracted by some troublesome female.”

  “I hope the highwayman blasts you to hell and back again,” she whispered.

  Dorothea kicked her in the shins.

  Frightened by the gunfire, the horses picked up speed. The carriage swayed and jerked, slamming Elizabeth against the seat. The air reverberated with rifle fire and hoofbeats.

  Dorothea just sat there, clasping her hands tighter, her bouncing rump the only indication that something was amiss. “Hole-hole-hold still,” she warned, her voice rattling from the jolts rather than alarm. “Don’t you dare moo-moo-move.”

  Ignoring her stepmother, Elizabeth peered over the rim of the chaise. Figures raced past, of no more substance than shadows in the night.

  Lord Stafford’s patrol!

  Who were they chasing? Rand or his cousin? It couldn’t be Rand. He had said he wanted to leave the moors. Why would he detour? Maybe he sought an escape, any escape, from the men who had converged upon him from all directions. Elizabeth prayed it wasn’t Rand, told herself it couldn’t possibly be Rand, and truly feared it was Rand.

  Let him live! Please, God, let him live!

  “I hope they leave him alive long enough to tell us where my… your money is,” Dorothea said. She had wadded her shawl, skirts, and petticoats beneath her backside, so that her clothes, rather than she, would absorb the bumps. “I begrudge that man even a handful of shillings. And if he cannot come up with my… your entire twenty pounds, he’ll have to answer personally to me.”

  The highwayman edged alongside the coach. Elizabeth tried to ascertain his shape and size but he was just a blur, hurling through the darkness.

  The coach lurched and Lawrence sprawled on top of his wife.

  Walter braced himself and aimed his pistol.

  Thinking to deflect the barrel, Elizabeth staggered upright. The carriage lurched once again, hurling her to the floor, but somehow she managed to rise to her knees. Walter fired. Simultaneously, the highwayman pointed his pistol in Walter’s face. The barrel flashed, illuminating the darkness. Walter collapsed on the seat.

  “Don’t let his face be blown off!” Dorothea screamed.

  Blinded by the explosion, Elizabeth groped for Walter. “Are you all right? Did you shoot him?”

  “The bastard’s gun misfired.” Rearing up in his seat, Walter aimed his rifle. “I’m fine, but he won’t be.”

  Blinking furiously, Elizabeth saw the highwayman veer away.

  Walter fired.

  Horse and rider abruptly parted.

  “He’s down!” Walter exulted. The carriage lurched to a halt. He and Lawrence leapt from the chaise.

  The air appeared to breed riders everywhere, all racing toward the fallen highwayman.

  Elizabeth slumped against the seat, gulping in the acrid odor of sulfur. Her heart slammed against her bodice. She heard the excited babble of voices, the labored breathing of the ca
rriage horses, the jangle of their harnesses. What if Rand had been the highwayman? What if she had watched Walter kill him?

  Dorothea eased up from the floorboards. “Is it over? Has anyone been hurt? I pray the blackguard’s still alive so that he can lead us to our… your money.”

  ’Tis Rand, Elizabeth thought. They killed his partner and he came after Walter for revenge.

  But how could Rand know that Walter was escorting them home?

  Her chest felt so constricted she could scarcely breathe. The downed highwayman must be Rand. Earlier, she had experienced a premonition, just like her Aunt Lilith was always talking about.

  Elizabeth saw Walter stride toward her. “Do you know the man’s identity?” she asked. “You… you didn’t kill him, did you?”

  “I merely grazed him, my dear. He’ll be coming ’round any moment. Then we’ll be able to question him.” Walter grasped her hand. “Come with me. Perhaps you’ll be able to identify the thieving bastard. After all, you were as close to him as we are to each other right now.”

  Closer, she thought. Much, much closer.

  “I’m afraid to look,” she cried. “I mean, I’m much too overcome. My heart couldn’t stand any more excitement.”

  “I’ll have a look at him,” said Dorothea, gathering up her rumpled skirts and bounding from the opposite side of the carriage. “That man has a few things to answer for.”

  “My dear fragile Elizabeth.” Walter lifted her down. “Never fear. You’ll be safe with me.”

  Yes, she thought. Perhaps she should know. It couldn’t be Rand. And if it was, she could save him. “No, he’s not the one,” she would say. “You must be mistaken.”

  But any reprieve would be short-lived. Walter ruled the Dales. This wasn’t London. A trial, if there was a trial, would be brief, orchestrated by Lord Stafford. He would surely hang Rand, with or without her identification.

  She stumbled upon the ruts in the road. Ahead, torches pinpointed the location. Darkened figures, like silhouettes upon a wall, circled the fallen man. From a far distance, the peal of church bells chimed the hour. Midnight.