The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter

by Mary Ellen Dennis

  Biting her lip to keep from singing her joy, still feigning a fearful demeanor, she let Rand settle her atop his stallion, directly in front of him.

  They had traveled only a short distance when he said, “Did you doubt for a moment that I’d come after you?”

  “There was no need. I had everything under control.”

  “We make a fine pair, I’ll grant you.” He kissed her nape before digging his heels into his stallion’s flank.

  The horse bolted from the meadow, onto the deserted highway.

  ***

  The rays from the rising sun illuminated the forest, which rested like a dark fleece upon the rolling hills. Turning off the road, Rand guided his stallion into the forest’s chill depths. Elizabeth followed on the gray mare Rand had purchased from some nameless individual at some nameless inn along the way. Their entire journey had been a bewildering succession of side roads and open fields, possessing a distinct air of unreality.

  They plunged farther into the woods. The trees grew more impenetrable, as if daybreak had given way to night. Bracken whooshed against their horses’ legs. Finally, Rand dismounted. He held out his arms and Elizabeth slid from her mare. Then she remained wrapped in his embrace, not thinking, just enjoying the caress of his hands, the beat of his heart, the warmth of his body. If they had not been reunited, surely she would have died for want of him.

  “What next?” she said. “What is your plan?”

  Rand kissed the tip of her nose. “I hate plans, Bess. They destroy life’s excitement.”

  “Who the bloody hell is John Turpin?”

  “A reprehensible rogue who resembles me. I’ve oft used the alias.”

  “How much time do we have before Walter is on our trail?”

  Rand shrugged. “Not long, I trust. Nor do I want to stay too well hidden. I meant it when I said I had a score to settle. I’ll let Stafford follow us until I decide to catch him.”

  Elizabeth sighed, resigned to the inevitable. Next time she would not be allowed to stay Rand’s hand. “Did you know Walter was once a bounty hunter?”

  “Yes. And a member of the Bow Street Runners.”

  She leaned back to better study Rand’s face. “How did you know?”

  “After Zak’s execution, I visited London. I have family there. Besides, even in a city of a million people, ’tis not difficult to ferret out information.”

  “I wish you’d forget about revenge. Ultimately, Zak’s utter disregard for the law led to his capture.”

  “Are you defending Walter Stafford?”

  “No. Of course not.”

  “You weren’t really going to London with him. You wouldn’t have betrayed me, would you, Bess?”

  “Never!” You betrayed him long ago. She buried her face against his chest. Don’t you remember? Don’t you know? She tried to drown out the mocking whisper with words. “Even if Walter had not hanged your cousin, you’d still feel obligated to leave a deliberate trail. The possibility of danger excites you, doesn’t it?”

  “Perhaps.” He grinned. “But the possibility of danger excites you, as well.”

  “The possibility of death does not,” she replied somewhat primly, noting that the grin on his lips lingered, unchanged. Delicious fear shivered through her. Was he right? Did she court danger? All her recent actions said she did.

  Her gaze skimmed his face. A face that had never left her thoughts since their very first meeting. A face that had dominated her thoughts since her very first book.

  That perception triggered a rush of excitement in her blood that had nothing to do with the possibility of danger.

  Or perhaps it did.

  Rand reached out and gently grasped her shoulders. “I love you, Bess. I always have, and I always will.”

  He drew her close and lowered his mouth to her breasts, and she half feared, half anticipated the return of her raven-haired knight.

  The knight didn’t appear, but she sensed him waiting in the shadows, just beyond her sight. The man she hated and loved and feared. The man who seemed to have spanned five hundred years, only to torment her once again.

  ***

  Elizabeth rested her head upon her bent knees. The small of her back pressed against the grooved bark of a giant oak.

  Through half-closed eyes, she watched Rand arrange for them a bed of bracken. They must sleep during the day, he had said, and ride through the night, until they had traveled a bit farther. If Elizabeth craned her head, she could see a gray patch of morning sky, but the forest remained wrapped in secret shadows. They were safe here. For the moment, they were safe.

  Rand straightened and faced her. “Listen to me, Bess. If things somehow go amiss and we’re ever captured, you’re to say you had no choice but to obey me. Under no circumstances will you try to rescue me or champion me. You’ll denounce me to everyone. Is that clear?”

  “No one need ever find us, Rand. If you give up your revenge scheme, we can remain invisible for as long as we wish.”

  His mouth twisted. “The wind is invisible, Bess. Ghosts are invisible. Since we are neither, we must consider the possibility of capture.”

  Stroking a patch of lichen, she could almost believe they were ghosts, or memories lost in a forest. “We won’t be caught unless we want to be,” she insisted.

  Rand returned to the task at hand. While working, he hummed to himself. Elizabeth listened to his song, interspersed by the sip-sip-sip of a wood warbler. Her fatigued mind began to drift, riding with the music’s rise and fall. Then her eyes snapped open and she jerked upright. “What is the name of that song, Rand?”

  “I have no idea.” He placed his cloak atop the bed of bracken. “’Tis just something that came into my head.”

  “You’ve never heard it before?”

  He shrugged. “I haven’t much thought about it.”

  Elizabeth felt as if a dozen centipedes crept down her back. She had heard that very same melancholy melody at Lord Stafford’s fête. Trying to shut out the memory, she said, “You never did tell me, Rand. Where, exactly, are we headed?”

  “We can travel to Cornwall, ’tis where I’m from. Or to Dover, and beyond to the Continent.” He eyed her speculatively. “Or we might go to Evesham.”

  “What’s in Evesham?”

  “Answers, perhaps. At least some of them.”

  “Answers to what?”

  “To how we’re connected. To our past.”

  “You already know far more than I do.” She clutched her knees against her breasts. “Why won’t you tell me? Perhaps we can figure it out together.”

  “What did you see the night they captured Zak?”

  “What makes you think I saw anything out of the ordinary?”

  “I was nearby. I heard your screams.”

  She stiffened. “It was a trick of my mind. I don’t want to think about it.”

  “I need to know, Bess.”

  “And I need to know what’s at Evesham, and how you could sing a song supposedly foreign to both of us. Why did you call me Janey? Did I really lie with you that night at Fountains Abbey? Or was it somebody else?”

  “What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

  “Fountains Abbey. You called me Janey, and you looked… sounded…” Her heart fluttered like a captured bird. Rand didn’t remember. Nay. Rand didn’t know. Had she imagined the roughness of his countenance? His beard? Had that been a trick of her mind, too? “You looked and sounded like someone from my… from the past,” she stammered.

  Rand gazed at Bess’s face, pale and flower-like beneath the masses of her dark, tangled hair. Someone from her past?

  He desperately wanted to explain, but how could he explain something he himself didn’t fully comprehend? Furthermore, he suspected that any explanation might cause her to suffer the black moods he experienced. That would be
disastrous. He needed her strength, her stubbornness, her determination.

  His lips curved as he recalled her frequent rides across the moors, after his return from London. How many times had he been tempted to intercept her? He had told himself over and over that such an action would place her in grave danger. Then she had sought him out at Fountains Abbey, drawn to him, as he was drawn to her, by some invisible bond linking them together. Once again he had tried to dissuade her, claiming he had been asleep, not thinking of her—a bald-faced lie. He had thought about nothing else but her.

  If his quest to discover the secrets of the past proved futile, he would leave England and start a new life. However, she would stay by his side; two shadows melding into one. He couldn’t let her go, even though he recognized the reality of his capture and death. They might have days, weeks, perhaps months to enjoy each other, but he now knew that a life without Bess was no life at all. In any case, she wouldn’t accept his dismissal. She never had, not since the beginning.

  “Why did you call me Janey?” Bess repeated.

  “I don’t know.” Rand nodded toward the bracken. “Come, my bonny sweetheart,” he urged. “I’ll not cry out another woman’s name, and that’s a promise.”

  Eighteen

  The next afternoon, Elizabeth and Rand skirted Nottingham. The spires of its cathedrals thrust above the autumn-tinted trees, while factory and chimney smoke blended into a glowering sky. An earlier rain had muddied the highway, deepening ruts and making travel difficult. Elizabeth ached for a long rest, yet she knew the soaked ground would be even more uncomfortable than her saddle.

  On a lonely stretch of road they came upon an overturned coach. Trunks and boxes were strewn about. The coach, scarlet in color, possessed a coat of arms with the representation of a castle on its gilded doors. A liveried coachman and a guard both bent between the wheels, peering at the undercarriage.

  A beautiful blonde woman lifted her silk skirts and picked her way through the mire. “Can you help us? I am the Duchess of Newcastle. As you can see, my husband and I have run into a bit of poor luck.” After glancing toward Elizabeth, who had stolen clothing from various hedges and was dressed as a man, the lady gave a little moue of disgust, then focused on Rand.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Our carriage has a broken axle.” The blonde lady was Elizabeth’s own age, and had been blessed with slanted green eyes, a lush figure, small white teeth, and a dimple which she now displayed for Rand’s benefit. “You look like a capable gentleman, sir. You’ll help us, won’t you?”

  Rand turned in his saddle and winked at Elizabeth. “Watch this!”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  Elizabeth drummed her fingertips against her brown velvet breeches as she watched Rand guide his horse closer. The blonde lady sidled toward him, dimpling and oozing sensuality. From the front of the carriage, her husband appeared. The duke was short and stooped and ancient. Pouches of skin surrounded his protuberant eyes, while a receding chin melted into the flabby folds that hid his neck.

  “We’re run into a problem, sir.” From the jeweled buckles on his shoes to his laced shirt and green velvet coat, the duke was spattered with muck, and yet Elizabeth thought his manner still carried an unmistakable air of authority.

  “It would appear that way.” Rand’s hand rested on his doeskin breeches, not far from his pistol.

  “Damn,” Elizabeth breathed. She was now certain that Rand was going to rob the duke and duchess. That would erase the lady’s dimples.

  “Our axle has snapped clean in two,” the duke said. “I had thought to send my guard, but if you rode back to Nottingham it would be much quicker. I’m bound for London and had planned to make Coventry by nightfall. I haven’t a lot of time.”

  “I haven’t much time, either,” Rand said.

  “But my business is important.”

  “Really, Charles!” The blonde lady smiled at Rand. “If you would address this gentleman a bit more tactfully, I’m sure he would help. He looks… agreeable.”

  Ignoring his wife, Charles pulled out his timepiece. “We’re already hours behind schedule.”

  “That’s a fine watch,” Rand said.

  Here it comes, Elizabeth thought, pulling down her wide-brimmed hat to conceal her face. She rested her right hand on the butt of Lord Stafford’s pistol, which she now carried in the belt of her shabby breeches.

  Rand grinned. “I’m a connoisseur of watches,” he said, “and I’ve a mind to add yours to my collection.”

  The duke blinked.

  Rand pulled out his pistol. “Hand it over.”

  “Dear me,” said the blonde lady. “We’re being robbed. I should have known. You’re far too handsome to be respectable.”

  Rand raised his voice and addressed the servants. “On the ground! Spread your arms and legs!”

  While the men scurried to obey, Charles said, “You cannot do this. There are four people here who can identify you. It would be the height of foolishness for you to proceed—”

  “Give me your coat and your purse. And just to make this equitable, m’lady, why don’t you hand over that diamond ring?”

  She removed it from her finger. “The last time we were robbed, the highwayman apologized. He swore he was from a good family and had been brought to crime by his weakness for gambling. Will you not even offer an insincere apology?”

  Rand shook his head. “I never apologize.”

  Handing him her ring, she thrust her breasts forward. “Would you like my necklace as well, Sir Highwayman?”

  “No. It shines far brighter ’round your beautiful neck.”

  Elizabeth fumed.

  The blonde lady dimpled.

  “While I realize you’ve seduced every man from here to Cornwall, Katherine,” Charles told his wife, “I ask that this once you pretend to be well-bred.”

  Katherine’s green eyes slanted even more, if possible. She held her tongue, but Elizabeth could see that it took a vast amount of self-control.

  After ordering the duke to prostrate himself beside his servants, Rand beckoned to the duchess. When she reached his side, he encircled her with his arms and kissed her hard upon the lips.

  Raising his head above the mud, Charles flushed angrily.

  Elizabeth gasped.

  Rand reached into his pocket, removed Walter’s snuffbox, then wrapped Katherine’s hands around it. “So you’ll not forget me.”

  “How could I forget you?”

  Rand kicked his stallion and raced away.

  Elizabeth followed. Once safely out of sight, she turned on him in fury. “Why did you kiss that creature? And right in front of me! Damn you to hell, Rand Remington! You embarrassed me and enraged the lady’s husband.”

  “That’s precisely why I kissed her. The duke will remember me. And the snuffbox has Stafford’s name inside. I’ll wager Newcastle will waste no time tracking Stafford down. The duke might even put a handsome reward on my head.”

  “You didn’t have to kiss her!”

  “Nothing infuriates the nobility more than to think the lower classes might be forgetting their place. They fear we shall rise up against them, like Simon de Montfort did.”

  Elizabeth felt as if a knife had pricked her. “What do you know about Simon de Montfort?”

  “I met him in Castles of Doom and was merely using him as an example, like Oliver Cromwell or some other rabble-rouser.” Rand stared into her eyes. “Never doubt that I love you, Bess, or that I would ever want any woman but you. What I did, I did for a reason.”

  “But I felt so awful when you kissed her.”

  “I apologize.” Lifting Elizabeth from her saddle, Rand settled her across his lap.

  “You never apologize,” she reminded him.

  “I never have until now.” He gently thumbed away her tears. “I would have
embraced the devil himself to infuriate the duke, but I wish now I had employed some other method. I love you, little one, and I’m truly sorry I caused you distress.”

  “She often felt distressed, I think.”

  “Who?”

  Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, before shaking her head. The other woman in her life wasn’t the Duchess of Newcastle. The other woman in her life appeared to be a lady dead five hundred years. A lady she could not even say for sure had ever existed.

  ***

  The town of Alcester, in Warwickshire, was located at the juncture of the Alne and Arrow Rivers. From her vantage point inside the King George’s Inn’s tiny room, Elizabeth fancied she could hear a whisper of current somewhere in the darkness. She gazed out the narrow window. Timber-framed buildings reflected the light from the rising moon. Unable to sleep, she listened to Alcester fold itself inward, like the petals of a flower. She could almost swear she heard her fellow travelers settle atop their lumpy, lice-ridden beds.

  King George’s could learn from the White Hart, she thought. Father’s bedrooms have quilts and looking glasses and chamber pots. These rooms have filth.

  Not that she was homesick. She really didn’t have a home. She and Rand had been on the run for seven days. During that time, they had zigzagged, backtracked, and traveled in such a circuitous fashion she generally had no idea where they were, although Rand sprinkled clues at every stop. In Coventry, he had pawned all the items they’d stolen, which meant that while Elizabeth might be totally confused, Walter would eventually unravel their route.

  Staring into the night, listening to the murmur of the water, Elizabeth tried to overcome the fear gnawing at her stomach. It wasn’t fear of Walter or the law, but something more… primitive. She sensed similar emotions in Rand, or at least a withdrawal. Since their arrival at Alcester, he’d scarcely spoken.

  She heard a groan and swiftly made an about-face. Rand stirred, then jerked upright, as if snapped by a rope. “Nightmares?” she asked softly.

  Leaving the bed, he walked toward her. “I’ve never liked this part of England.” He placed his hands upon her shoulders. “I always sleep troubled here.”