The Highwayman's Mistress

by Francine Howarth

  She pondered her two-month stay in Pembrokeshire and the date Richard’s letter had arrived, and all in all it was now three weeks to the day. So much could have happened in that time, and she had no idea what dreadful news might await her upon her return home.

  “Are you ready, dear?” enquired Lady Fortnum, entering the room in the manner of stately galleon at sea and brisk wind to its stern. “Your luggage is stowed, and it really is time to go, or you will not make Llandovery before nightfall.”

  “I am ready, and thank you for being so kind in allowing me a great deal of freedom these last weeks.”

  “Piffle. You two young things out-walked me, wilfully rode off ahead of my carriage, and ventured places I dared not even consider.” Lady Fortnum smiled, and in a flash hugged her tight tears brimming. “I shall miss you, Diamonta, miss you very much, and I am most happy you and Hugh became, well, let’s say good friends.”

  “I shall miss Pembrokeshire. It’s a truly beautiful place, and I shall miss Hugh, terribly.”

  “Be gone with you, you wicked girl,” said her ladyship, bustling her out of the room, out of the house and past the servants lined up to see her depart. “Hugh is waiting outside.”

  True enough, there he was, his father and mother, and it all felt a little bizarre to be setting out alone after having been chaperoned for the greater part of her stay. She cast one last glance at their beautiful house with its turreted frontage and gargoyles here and there peering down as though permanent watchmen, and then it was good byes all round.

  Hugh finally caught up her hand and escorted her to the coach, and the liveried groom opened the coach door. It was a private coach, yes, but most unusual crest on the door. The door now held wide she could no longer see the coat-of-arms, and was it her imagination or had she spied two fleur-de-lis at top left of diagonal sword and one to bottom right?

  Hugh stole her attention whilst she ascended to coach and to seat. “Lovely weather for travel, Diamonta, and you should arrive in Llandovery for early supper.”

  “I do hope so,” her reply, as the liveried groom secured the door.

  “Well, you are setting off a little earlier than expected,” said Hugh, a broad smile. “Good job that message arrived in time last night, or you might not have been ready when the coach arrived this morning.” He stepped back, the livered groom already scrambling aboard the coach. “Good bye and God bless.”

  Lady Fortnum said something, her mouth animated as she waved a kerchief but Diamonta heard not a word as the coach lurched forward and its wheels scrunched on gravel. Hugh’s words were still ringing in her ears. Good job the message arrived in time last night, or you might not have been ready this . . .

  Her heart lurched. The coach had been scheduled to arrive at eleven o’clock, and it was now about half-past-nine. Was it madness to think kidnap? Oh, how the mind can play tricks when hope leads one in desperate pursuit of happiness.

  ~~

  He glanced at his fob watch, which declared ten-minutes past ten of morning. His horse was restless from standing for nigh on near to the hour, and champed on the bit while its left shoe gouged the ground in frustrated rage of tight rein preventing forward movement.

  Slipping his watch to waistcoat pocket, he said, “Steady boy, not long now,” and applied a reassuring pat to his mount’s neck. “You hear them, and they too, sense your presence.”

  Horses could be heard whickering on ascent up the hill to the rise, and as soon as the heads of the first two appeared his mount whickered loudly in return, its muscled frame shuddering beneath him. In all but a second or two the coach came into view, the coachman and groom looking out for him, the groom’s hand held high in recognition.

  So far everything had passed according to plan, and no one outside a very small circle of friends knew of the daring feat the two men sat atop the drag had set off to carry out today. For they had indeed succeeded in wresting Diamonta from under the nose of her temporary guardian, the groom’s raised hand proof of their success. The coachman, loyal to the de Boviere family, and brought back with him from Guernsey and now once again in his service, had earned himself a well-deserved bonus alongside a borrowed stable lad from Viscount Somerton’s staff.

  It would have been brazen madness to hold up the coach Diamonta’s mother had ordered to fetch her back from Wales for it was known the men would be armed, and to steal her away on horseback would have been equally dangerous. No. This way she travelled in comfort, her belongings with her, and all in all they had a good head start before the alarm would be raised.

  The coach slowed and he rode forward ready to draw level with the door, but Diamonta must have guessed or hoped it was him for the door flew open. “Francois,” she exclaimed, delight etched on her face. “I half hoped and half dreamed this coach might be yours.”

  His heart soared, for her eyes filled with tears as he drew level and dismounted. The groom leaped down from the drag, and took his horse’ reins, and led it to the rear where it was to be tethered for the next mile or so. He climbed aboard, closed the door, and hardly before seated Diamonta fell upon him, and he drew her onto his lap arms swift about her.

  Her kisses reigned supreme, his breath knocked out of him. “I fear you’ve missed me,” he said, a big grin.

  “You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, nor how this moment for me is so perfect.”

  “Romantic, too, I trust,” he proffered as the drag once again set off, whilst he hurriedly removing his riding gauntlets.

  “That, too,” she said, arms about his neck, “and I have such wonderful stories to tell. Hugh took me here, there, and every where. He’s such fun . . .”

  “Hugh? Who is Hugh?”

  “Oh, Lady Fortnum’s nephew, and he’s such a romantic fellow.”

  Another man was a shock and most disturbing news. “You seem somewhat enamoured by this fellow,” he said, casting his gauntlets aside.

  She was studying his face, her scrutiny quite disarming, her tone teasing. “Oh he’s sweet, I grant you that, but nothing like the man I adore.”

  “This man you adore. Are you willing to run away with him?”

  “Am I not doing exactly that, now?” She laughed, kissed his nose. “Or am I to be made love to and then abandoned to my fate on the highway?”

  “Teasing wench, I’ll have you now, and have you forever.” He threw her backwards to seat, her skirts swift about her thighs, and he to his knees within the bucking, rolling drag. “Mine, all mine.”

  “You’re wicked, Francois,” she said, attempting to lower her skirts. “We cannot, cannot do this here.”

  Starved of her company, starved of her body, this was his moment, to taste her, to taste the nectar he’d longed for and to revel in the joy of reunion. He ignored her pleas to cease, and dived beneath her petticoats, and there savoured the moment of his tongue drifting along her thigh. She trembled beneath onslaught of his tongue teasing her senses, her tender flesh his to command and to conquer.

  Her moment of bliss came amidst sweet rapturous murmurs and soft sighs. His own excitement burgeoned and throbbed, bursting for release from breeches let alone desire to fulfil its purpose and extend her pleasure. Knees aching from contact with hard floor, what the hell, he had to have her, and have her would. He hauled her upright, and seated before him legs spread, he released his hardened muscle, and without preamble went into her in one mighty thrust.

  God, what bliss, what heaven to have her legs about his waist, her arms about his neck, her lips sweet and pliant and his to plunder. She was his, and no one would take her from him. He had to ensure against her mother snatching her back, leave nothing to chance, and to that aim he thrust ever mightier, ever deeper, kissing her very core.

  The moment he sensed her lost in her ecstasy, he knew his course of action. There would be no withdrawal this time to save her honour. Driven to lustful madness he gave sway to the physical pleasure of planting his seed within her, for his love for her was in no doubt. The deed done,
her mother could send a damnable army after him. The Devil’s spawn dared, and Diamonta would give birth to a de Boviere heir no matter what.

  Chapter Ten

  ~

  Francois had alighted from the coach and ridden off, his excuse that of going ahead to alert the household to her imminent arrival. What house, and where? They were still in Pembrokeshire, and she had little idea of where the coach was headed now that it had turned off the highway.

  With two hamlets behind them she was absolute sure she had spied a seascape through trees. Eyes peeled to her left she sought that same distinctive deeper shade of blue, and there it was again. Her heart soared, for as the coach rounded a bend and the trees fell away downhill, a small harbour came into view.

  Where were they? What was this place? She shuffled along the seat to the far side of the coach in order to peer out through the window at the grass verge. Surely there would be a road sign, perhaps, a milestone with name. But there was nothing, and soon the coach veered to the left and up a slight incline and then down again. She could no longer see the harbour, for there were trees both sides of the very narrow byway.

  Patience was the greater virtue, but with sweet memories of their indulgence and recent coupling patience proved impossibly frustrating. Nonetheless, her reward was soon realised as the coach veered to the right through a stone gated entrance, for there, merely a short distance along a winding driveway a house appeared.

  She thought it beautiful and very old, and where it was situated was breathtaking for it overlooked the sea. She could imagine how it would be to stand at a window the far side of the house and look out over the waters of the bay. While the coach negotiated a tight turn to come alongside the main entrance of what appeared to be a small castle, people spilled forth to greet her and she recognised Angelica and Richard alongside Francois.

  There was no Charles, no Leohne and no mother, and for the first time since leaving Lady Fortnum and Hugh, sense of loss overcame her. She had, effectively, run away from all them to be with her lover.

  Francois stepped forward and opened the coach door. In a thrice he lifted her off her feet and into his arms, and kissed her before letting her stand on her own two feet. “See who has come to help you settle to your new home.”

  She flew to Angelica, hugged her, the enormity of Francois’ declaration hitting her as she hugged Richard. “New home, this is our new home?”

  Richard grinned, wrapped his arm about her shoulder, and said, “The luck-ridden devil came across this by the good fortune of a great friend of the family. My family, that is.”

  Francois laughed. “The family friend who drove a hard bargain.”

  “Good at the price, dear fellow, good at the price.”

  She hated having to spoil the joyous reunion, but needed to know. “What are we to do, when mother finds out what has happened?”

  “That could be sooner than any of us would wish for,” said Angelica. “There was a last minute change of plan. Your mother and sister decided to travel over to fetch you, and that is why Richard is here. He rode ahead to warn Francois, and Francois had to act swiftly if you were to be together.”

  “It’s true, Diamonta,” said Richard. “I fear your mother will never forgive Francois for luring you to his arms. That is how she views the situation. And I foolishly left papers lying around and Leohne must have read them.”

  “She told your mother,” said Francois, catching up her hand. “Never fear, we will face her together if she comes for you.” He drew her hand to his lips. “I will not let you go, not ever.”

  Fear and dread of her mother’s wrath crept over her like a dark shadow, but anger gripped her, too. “Why would Leohne tell mother? Why be so spiteful?”

  “As much as I love your sister,” said Richard, his expression that of deep sorrow. “She can be most infuriating, and oft proclaims honesty to be a virtue, and then fibs to her heart’s content when it suits her.”

  “A mischief maker, if you ask me,” intoned Angelica, whilst fanning her face in furious manner. “I cannot understand your affection for the girl.”

  Richard glanced at Angelica, a smile to his face. “Nor I yours for Charles.”

  “That is different. We are mere friends, not secretive lovers.”

  “You and Charles?” exclaimed Diamonta, quite taken by the idea of her brother and Angelica as a couple. “And mother . . . does she approve of this mere friendship?”

  Richard laughed. “She seems to have mellowed somewhat and positively encourages the pair of them.”

  “Enough, enough” said Francois, taking her hand and leading off. “The house awaits.”

  She had to know. “Where is this place?”

  He laughed, wrapped his arm around her shoulder. “Amport House. You’ll love it. There’s a beach beyond the garden. We can ride through woodland, ride along the beach, and ride all the byways.”

  She glanced up at the stone façade of the house before making her way past the solid oak door and into the hallway. Its panelled interior suggested the house was built sometime in the sixteenth century as its fortressed exterior implied. It was a dream house, not unlike Oakley Manor, though heavenly in its elevation, but perhaps hell around the corner very soon.

  ~~

  She had not thought she would one day wake in his arms his mistress, for that’s what she was: the highwayman’s mistress. Nor had she imagined his daring feat of yesterday, but how else were they to be together. Her mother would never sanction a marriage between them, and if this was to be the only course ahead she had to follow her heart. Francois had promised they would be wed in due course, but such things took time to arrange and he’d barely had time to secure a house, this house, and as far distant from her mother as possible. Though not so distant at present, with her mother merely ten miles further west.

  She nestled against his shoulder, his arm loose about her, and mused the intimacy they’d shared throughout the night. The passion of it all embraced in a warm glow, and the unending desire indulged at will gave no fear of being discovered, no haste to re-clothe and scurry away from scene of a secret liaison. Bliss indeed.

  How oft she had left Francois to tidy a chaise, a bed and sometimes make sure nothing was left in a meadow close to Oakley to say they had made love there, for she once forgot a wrap, another time a hair ribbon lost, and worst of all, a pendant necklace given to her by her mother.

  She smiled at a memory of Francois on hands and knees feeling through long grasses in search of the pendant. And how relieved they were when it came to light. She’d fled then as soon as it was clasped about her neck. They had, without doubt, taken huge risks to be together for snatched moments of wild passion.

  She sensed him awake, for his arm came about her and clasped tight. His fingers then drifted through her tousled hair, pushing it back from her face. “You know that this is forever. No going back,” he said, a tentative smile. “We will remain outcasts. Your mother will ensure we receive no invites to formal or informal gatherings.”

  “I shall miss Bath for the season, perhaps. But in the time of my banishment I never missed it once, but we were so busy, Hugh and I. There was so much to see, to do, and I fell in love, hopelessly in love with Pembrokeshire.

  “I believe you, and I can see this Hugh fellow has a very small part of your heart, the rest mine.”

  “He is sweet, and I wish him well in finding a new love, for he, unlike you, cannot realise his passion for his lady love. Hughe and I rode together a lot, just as I used to with Richard, and unlike Leohne, I’ve always preferred horseback riding in the country than carriage rides around Bath City streets and, I did hate promenading in the Pump Room. It was so tedious, and one had to be polite and converse with terribly boring people.”

  He laughed, hugged her tightly, his lips to hers in fleeting kiss. “Then we are most suited, my darling girl, for I hated dallying at royal court for days on end and greatly enjoyed riding to hounds when able.” He danced his fingers down her bare arm,
and slipped his hand beneath the coverlet. “What say you to a morning trot, my wicked mistress?”

  Her leg suddenly hauled over his outstretched legs, his idea of a morning trot was not quite the same as she had in mind. “Francois, you are simply outrageous in what you expect from a woman.”

  “True, for I know women derive immense pleasure from having the leaping head of a side-saddle between their thighs. I’ve heard it said it’s much like having a fat cock in one’s crotch.”

  “It is not, it’s nothing of the . . .”

  A pistol fired outside on the lawn stole their attention.

  “What in the devil.” Francois pushed her away, and clambered from the bed.

  She watched as he strode to the window brazen in naked glory, and she could not help but feel afraid as to who might be out there. After all, her mother was an excellent shot.

  Francois opened a window, and she heard shouting, much of it incoherent for the man below seemed enraged. Thank God, it was not her mother. Perhaps it was some neighbour venting spleen over some long held grudge against the previous owner of Amport House. But she knew it was no stranger when she heard, “Come out and show yourself, you libertine. Come out and fight like a man.” It was Hugh’s voice.

  “Go home boy, go home to your mother,” said Francois.

  “Francois, he’s no boy,” she said, leaping from bed to floor. “Pray do not insult him, he’s a good man at heart.” She pulled the coverlet from the bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. “He’s little younger than you are.” Reluctant to show herself to Hugh she stood back from the window. “Please, be kind to him.”

  He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. “You think I want to fight with a man such as he? A country . . . How do you say . . . pumpkin?”