The Highwayman's Daughter

by Henriette Gyland

Chapter Seventeen

  He was startled awake by Cora’s cries. The room was dark apart from a sliver of moonlight spilling in through the open window.

  Disorientated, it took him a moment to realise where he was, and why. Had he really slept all this time? No, he had a vague recollection of eating a bowl of mutton stew and drinking a jug of ale.

  Cora was sitting up in bed her eyes glistening with unshed tears. ‘He’s gone! He’s gone!’ she repeated as if she wasn’t fully awake.

  Jack reached out and put a reassuring hand on her arm as more images from the evening before returned to him. The innkeeper’s wife had made Cora comfortable for the night, undressing her down to her shift, briskly and efficiently as if she undressed ladies on a daily basis, and Jack had found himself averting his eyes to preserve Cora’s dignity.

  ‘Who’s gone?’

  Startled, she turned to face him, and then blinked as if she didn’t quite believe her eyes. ‘George. George is gone. What are you doing here? I need to go home!’

  ‘You can’t go home,’ he said. ‘Not yet anyway. You received a blow to the head and fainted from it. I took you to an inn to have you checked over. The wise woman said you need to rest before you can go anywhere. You don’t remember what happened?’

  She was quiet for a moment. ‘Yes. I remember now. Those men … they were after George’s treasure.’

  ‘Treasure, eh?’ Jack smiled. ‘And why would they come after you? Do you know where this treasure is?’

  ‘No. I don’t think there is any. They were mistaken, but … Oh, Jack!’ Cora sent him a forlorn look. ‘His last thoughts were for me. He was about to die, and all he could think of was for me to stay safe. And then I get in trouble the minute he’s gone!’ Cora turned away to cover up her grief.

  Moving to sit on the edge of the bed, Jack ran his hand up and down her naked shoulder. Her skin was warm and peachy-smooth, and his fingers tingled with the awareness. ‘Hey, hey, hey,’ he whispered, ‘it’s fine if you wish to cry.’

  ‘I’m not crying!’ she snapped.

  Cora heaved a sigh, and although he couldn’t see her tears, Jack felt her shoulders shudder. He edged closer and put his arm around her until she stopped shaking. Brushing back a wayward curl from her face, he asked her the question that had been on his mind since he’d seen her kiss the condemned man. ‘Were you very close to this highwayman?’ He would not allow himself to be jealous if her answer was yes; he didn’t own her, and if she chose to tell him of her own accord, it meant she trusted him enough to do so. It would be enough.

  Cora turned suddenly, bringing her beautiful face only inches from his. ‘Uncle George was a dear friend, an old friend. I’ve known him since I was a child. He gave me Samson.’ She smiled.

  ‘Samson?’

  ‘My horse.’

  ‘Ah. A magnificent beast.’

  ‘Great company too,’ said Cora. ‘Like George himself.’ She smiled as if recalling a fond memory and leaned her head against Jack’s chest. She ran her hand across to where his shirt was open, almost absently, and Jack shifted, hoping she wouldn’t notice the effect her caress had on him. This was hardly the time.

  ‘When my family returned from the northern counties,’ she said, ‘George took us under his wing, especially me. He was always giving me things. And Ned too. Once, after my mother died, and Ned was ill with grief, George brought us a pheasant and showed me how to prepare it.’

  ‘Poached from my father’s land, perhaps?’

  Cora grinned. ‘Naturally. Us thieves don’t pay for anything if we can avoid it.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  Her breath came hot against his chest, and Jack felt a beast stir in his belly. Gently he placed a finger under her chin, and she looked up, meeting his eyes and moistening her lips. Jack inched a little closer, until his lips almost touched hers.

  But he pulled back. What was he thinking? Cora had been seriously hurt, and he was feeling amorous …? What sort of a gentleman was he? Not a gentleman at all, he thought, answering his own question.

  Cora caressed his cheek with the back of her hand. ‘Jack?’

  ‘Yes?’ he replied, his voice thick with emotion.

  ‘I …’ Her fingers came to rest on his jaw bone, and she kept them there as if she was measuring his face. ‘You’ve come to mean a lot to me. You’re nothing like I thought you would be. How a person of the nobility would be. Perhaps you are … unique.’ She smiled softly, her grey-blue eyes warm and alluring.

  ‘Perhaps I am,’ he replied, and immediately thought how glib that sounded.

  ‘I thought I was going to die,’ she whispered, ‘and then you were there. You saved my life. It would make me very happy if—’

  ‘Cora, don’t …’

  ‘If you were to make love to me.’

  Jack swallowed hard. ‘But your injuries … You’re not well.’

  ‘I’m well enough.’

  ‘We mustn’t,’ he insisted.

  Something flashed in her eyes, disappointment mixed with anger, and something else, a longing matching his own. It took his breath away. ‘I thought you wanted me. Would it be so wrong of us to enjoy this moment? Neither of us know what the future will bring.’

  ‘Cora, I desire you more than anything in the world, but I will not dishonour you.’ Jack pulled back, but she gripped his arm firmly.

  ‘If you were to make love to me, it would be the greatest honour of all.’

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ he said. ‘Love-making out of wedlock is a sin.’

  ‘And I suppose Saint Jack has never sinned before?’ A mischievous smile tugged the corners of her mouth.

  ‘Well, maybe I have,’ he admitted.

  He recalled his earlier vow that he’d commit himself to her if she’d have him, and was searching for words suitable for a proposal when Cora laughed, took his face between her hands and kissed him. Desire shot through him like an arrow. His ears thrummed as her scent and her warmth teased his senses, and her very nearness filled his mind till nothing else mattered.

  Greedily possessing her mouth, he traced her collarbone with his fingertips, then down to her breast, undoing the fastenings of her shift and then lifting it over her head. Cora’s slender fingers did the same with his shirt. Her eyes locked with his, full of trust.

  ‘You make me feel alive,’ she whispered against his lips.

  ‘And you have my heart,’ he whispered back as he pushed the covers aside. ‘I want to see all of you.’

  Pausing, he gave himself a moment to appreciate her beauty. In the light from the moon her skin shimmered with life, and her black hair spread across the pillow like a sable halo. As he caressed her with his eyes, he ran a finger down the length of her body, from the dip in her throat to her navel; then he cupped her breast and brought his tongue to the nipple. To his intense delight, Cora gasped from shock and pleasure. He knew then that he would be her first lover. The realisation hit him that she was giving him the greatest gift she had, herself, and he wanted to hug her close and thank her, but the words stayed unformed in his throat.

  By God, he was such a dolt. He really didn’t deserve her.

  ‘You like that?’ he whispered against her hardened nipple.

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘You might like this even more.’

  Slowly he moved his hand down her belly and found her silken black curls. Cora’s eyes widened, but she made no move to stop him, and gently he caressed her soft folds before sliding his finger inside her. Cora moaned with pleasure and spread her legs further, and he dipped his head to kiss her belly button, then traced a finger to the throbbing pulse in her neck. His erection pushed hard against her thigh, the pressure within him building to almost unbearable heights. It was too much.

  ‘Cora,’ he whispered against her mouth, ‘my beautiful Cora. You drive me insane.’

  Sliding her arms around his neck, Cora pulled Jack on top of her. Raising himself up on his elbows, Jack sent her a questioning look, but Cora stopped h
is unvoiced doubts with a finger against his lips. She guided the tip of him inside her, but then her courage seemed to fail her and she placed her hands against his chest, eyeing him warily.

  ‘Will it hurt?’ she asked.

  ‘A little perhaps, but I’ll be as gentle as I can. Unless you want me to stop …?’

  She shook her head. ‘I want you, Jack,’ she whispered. ‘All of you.’

  Slowly he pushed further inside her, felt her tense and go tighter. Hating the thought of hurting her, he tried hard to hold back, but the sensation of filling her, of being encased by her warmth, and the way she moved around him, tipped him over the edge, and he let go of his control just as she arched up to meet him. Bringing her hands around his buttocks, she took him all the way inside her.

  Eyes locked, they fell into a rhythm. Jack stroked her body, her hair, cheeks, and she met him thrust for thrust as the intensity built, responding to his every touch with a sigh, a kiss, a whisper. He gave himself to her with passion and love, and read in her eyes as their bodies came together that there could be no other for her, just as it was for him.

  When she climaxed, he covered her mouth with his and lost himself in her.

  When he woke she was gone.

  Cursing softly, he remained in bed for a moment while he got his bearings. He had no recollection of when they had fallen asleep. After their first love-making, they had lain for a while caressing and whispering, and then made love again. Afterwards, cradling her head against his shoulder and basking in her trust of him, he’d revelled in her scent and the warmth of her body curled up to his. He had never known a sweeter moment.

  The rest was a blur.

  A quick search of the room proved that she had stolen his breeches and jacket and left him the torn yellow dress. Stomping around the room, he swore long and hard; then he sat down on the edge of the bed and laughed until tears were running down his cheeks.

  Cora had given him the slip, again, but if she thought she’d seen the last of Jack Blythe, she could think again. He’d track her down even if it meant travelling to the ends of the earth.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rupert ventured back to the woods to inspect the Mardells’ cottage, but his search yielded nothing. A clump of dried mud on the floor indicated that no one had been back there since before the last time it had rained. And that was days ago.

  Disappointed, he scoured the area around the cottage for signs of hoof prints, which might at least have indicated the direction in which they had gone, but all the prints petered out in the long grass between the trees. He was about to give up when he spotted a weathered board sticking up from the ground near a large tree, and when he moved closer he saw that it was a grave.

  Curious, he cleared away a few fallen twigs and leaves to read the inscription.

  ‘Hell’s bells!’ he muttered and sat back on his haunches while he contemplated the significance of his find.

  The grave was evidently that of Mardell’s wife, but it was her maiden name which set his mind churning.

  Duval.

  Not only did she share the name of a notorious highwayman, he had heard that name recently. Rupert recalled his conversation with the old man at The Bell Inn; hadn’t the fellow muttered that very name before clamming up? He thought of the old Heston scandal – a wife leaving in the middle of the night, with her newborn child and a maid in tow, and perishing alone on a deserted road. When she had been found there was no sign of the maid or the lady’s jewellery, nor of the coachmen.

  The old man had denied any knowledge of his passengers on the night his coach was held up, but what if he knew exactly who he had been carrying, or had worked it out later? What if “that Duval chit” he had cursed was none other than Lady Heston’s maid?

  But how had she met Mardell? And why was she lying here, in a grave, as plain as day, when she had clean disappeared from the area nearly twenty years ago?

  A shiver ran down his spine when he began to see what might have happened. Mardell had held up the coach, and the strumpet of a maid had run off with him, as well as Lady Heston’s belongings. The couple had likely left for another part of the country, only to return later when the fuss had died down. With a daughter.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ he said to himself. ‘It would seem thievery runs in the family.’

  And the old man from the inn was the nearest thing he had to a witness.

  Rupert smiled. The link was tenuous, but there might be another way to track down the highwaywoman, or her father, or even both, and without Blencowe’s help.

  He got back on his horse and headed towards town, his hands gripping the reins tightly from excitement.

  The Bell Inn wasn’t open yet, but the door was ajar, and a serving girl was sweeping yesterday’s filth off the thick oak floor.

  His excitement having put him in a good mood, Rupert tilted his hat to her. ‘Morning. Kindly fetch the landlord, if you please. I’d like a private word with him.’

  Startled, the girl dropped the broom; then she curtsied awkwardly before scrambling towards a room at the back.

  ‘Mr Tyrrell, Mr Tyrrell, a gen’leman to see you. Personally!’

  Rupert acknowledged this with a condescending nod.

  The landlord appeared from the back room wiping his hands on a cloth. Recognising Rupert from his recent visit, he narrowed his eyes. ‘To what do I owe this honour, sir? I’m afraid we’re not open for business yet.’

  ‘I’m not here for ale,’ Rupert replied, ‘only a quiet word on a delicate matter.’

  Tyrrell sent him a suspicious look, and then glanced at the serving girl. ‘Leave us, Betsy,’ he commanded, firmly but not unkindly.

  ‘Yes, Mr Tyrrell.’ The girl leaned the broom against the wall and then stared back at both of them, goggle-eyed, before disappearing through the open door.

  ‘My latest recruit,’ Tyrrell explained.

  ‘A comely lass,’ Rupert said, although he thought nothing of the sort.

  ‘Indeed. This way.’ Tyrrell led them to a table at the back, away from the door and prying eyes. ‘I’m curious, sir,’ he said when they were both seated, ‘as to what you could possibly have to say to me which may be of a delicate nature. When people approach me thus, I find it is usually a delicate matter to themselves.’ A knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he spoke.

  ‘It pertains to something your grandfather recounted to me during my last visit.’ Rupert remained polite, but longed to wipe the smirk off the landlord’s face.

  ‘My grandfather is an old fool and in his cups more often than not.’

  ‘Your grandfather spoke of the time he was a coachman for hire, and the coach was held up by a highwayman. He mentioned that the passengers were later found dead. Would you care to elaborate?’

  The landlord crossed his arms. ‘I know nothing of that. As I said, my grandfather is prone to rambling.’

  ‘You were there that evening, and I’m not leaving your establishment until you tell me about it!’ Rupert suddenly snapped and raised his voice, but his threat was an empty one, and they both knew it.

  The landlord stared, then he shouted over his shoulder. ‘Betsy, the peace-keeper!’

  The serving girl must have been hovering outside the open door because before Rupert had time to react she ran back in and handed the landlord a wooden club, then dashed out again. The landlord rose and banged the club down onto the table.

  ‘Get out,’ he growled, ‘or it’ll be your head I’m hitting next, gentleman or no gentleman!’

  Rupert jumped up from his seat and raised his cane to strike the other man, but then thought better of it. The cane was made for leisurely strolls in the park, not for duelling, and it would be no match against the landlord’s heavy club. Outmanoeuvred, but with his dignity intact, he picked up his hat and made to leave.

  ‘Rest assured, I will be back. You will tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘Rest assured, I will be ready for you, sir,’ the landlord spat.
>
  As Rupert reached the door, a hunched figure appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Jem, my boy, what’s the rumpus all about? A body can’t go out without yer getting yerself into all sorts o’ trouble.’

  Quick as lightning Rupert kicked the door shut, grabbed the old man by the arm and twisted it high behind his back.

  Old Man Tyrrell cried out in shock and pain, and Rupert had the satisfaction of seeing the cocky landlord pale.

  ‘Let him go. He’s an old man, and he knows nothing.’

  ‘I beg to differ,’ Rupert said. ‘He knows a fair bit, and I have just the right idea of how to extract the information. I reckon these old bones will snap like twigs. What say you, shall we put it to the test?’ To prove his point he twisted the arm higher, and the old man yelled again.

  The landlord dropped his club on the floor. ‘All right, all right! Don’t hurt him.’

  ‘Then tell me what I need to know,’ Rupert said and loosened his grip on the old man, but only a fraction.

  ‘What do you know of a woman named Duval?’

  ‘Duval?’ asked the landlord. ‘Never heard of her.’

  ‘She was married to a man named Mardell. I take it you’ve heard of him?’

  ‘Well, yes, everyone knows Mardell. What does he have to do with anything?’

  ‘Never you mind. Just tell me where I might find him. His cottage seems to have been abandoned.’

  The landlord scratched his head. ‘Never knew him too well. A strange cove, keeps himself to himself, although his daughter is well known about town. And a welcome sight too.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Rupert said, ‘but someone must know him.’

  ‘Well, there’s the widow, Mrs Wilton. She seems to know him better than most. She might know where to find him.’

  The landlord gave him directions to the widow’s cottage; it was at the outskirts of the forest, not so far from where he and Jack had been held up.

  ‘Excellent. See, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?’ He smirked and let go of the old man, shoving him towards the landlord for good measure. ‘Good day to you both.’

  Arriving at the widow’s cottage, Rupert saw smoke rising from the chimney. And better still he recognised the horse grazing nearby. Quietly he slipped away before the occupants were alerted to his presence. He hoped Blencowe would believe him this time – especially when he mentioned the Duval connection, but if not he’d do his damnedest to persuade the man this wasn’t a wild goose chase.