The Prodigal Hero

by Nancy Butler

  She went into the inn and, following MacHeath’s instructions, gave the landlord a false name and said that she had suffered an accident while out in her pony cart.

  “My groom has gone off to the farrier,” she lied blithely. “And I have decided to overnight here, instead of returning to my aunt’s home.”

  Fortunately, the landlord did not ask her where her aunt’s home might be. He showed her into a small private parlor and promised to send in evening tea.

  She shed her pelisse and bonnet, and settled wearily onto a padded chair before the fire, shifting uncomfortably on her stiff haunches. Riding pillion with only a folded blanket beneath her had taken its toll on her posterior. She had a feeling that when this adventure was over, she’d be as crabbed and contorted as a crone.

  Tea came in, a tray of sliced meats and buttered dark bread accompanied by a mug of hot cider. She attacked the food voraciously; all that fresh air had given her a keen appetite. She was drowsing over the cider, when she realized she ought to order something for MacHeath. He had to be as peckish as she was, especially since he’d made sure she had the larger portion of their luncheon.

  She cracked the door and looked down the dim hallway for the landlord. He was near the front entrance conversing with two men. She was about to call out to him, when one of the men, a brawny fellow with a shaved head, said, “The lady is tall and dark-haired, and is wearin’ a blue carriage dress. She’s run off with a sorry rogue.”

  The landlord made some muttered comment, and the brawny man exploded. “A’ course we got a right to ask about your patrons. We’re from Bow Street, me and Mr. Connor. Doing the King’s business.”

  Alexa instantly drew back into the room, muffling her gasp. She shut the door as softly as she could and then reeled back against it. The man had distinctly said “me and Connor.” They weren’t from Bow Street—they were Quincy’s ugly customers. Dash it all, MacHeath hadn’t been making it up.

  She had no way of knowing whether the innkeeper would give her away to the two men, but she was not going to stay here and find out.

  She ran across the room and swiftly tugged on her pelisse and her bonnet, before she darted to the window. Fortunately, it let out into a side alley rather than the street. The casement resisted opening at first, but she put her back into it and managed to gain enough clearance to slip out. She pushed it closed behind her and stumbled down the littered alley, away from the light.

  Ten feet from the window, she stopped, hugging the wall in the darkness, listening for the sounds of pursuit and waiting for her heart to stop pounding. She’d been furious last night when MacHeath had carried her off, and then made her sleep on the hard ground, but she’d never felt afraid. Angry, yes, and frustrated by her inability to escape him, but not really frightened.

  She knew that now, because for the first time in her life she felt the cold, clammy grip of true panic. She was unable to think clearly, unable to move, her limbs trembling and weak. It was all she could do to stand upright with her face pressed against the rough bricks.

  “MacHeath,” she whimpered. She had to get to MacHeath before those men found her. If he came back to the inn any time soon, he’d walk right into them. And then she’d be alone.

  Mustering all her courage, she took one step toward the street. And then another. It seemed an age before she was able to peek around the corner of the building. There was no sign of the two men. They’d either given up on her, which she doubted, or the landlord was letting them conduct their search of his inn.

  She erupted from her hiding place as though all the fiends of hell were on her tail and flew down the street in the direction that MacHeath had ridden. She nearly catapulted into him as she rounded a corner. He was on foot, leading the horse, and her forward motion drove him back against the beast’s chest.

  “Good God! What is it?”

  She dragged them both, man and horse, into a nearby alley.

  “They’re here!” she gasped. “Right here! Oh, I’m sorry I doubted you. Sorry I laughed.”

  His hands held her steady, fingers tight on her shoulders. “Slow down, Alexa. Take a breath.”

  “There’s no time for a breath ... we must be away from this place at once. They are searching for me ... don’t you understand?”

  “Who?”

  “The ugly customers … Connor and … what was his name, the great huge one with the shaved head—”

  “Finch, Bully Finch.”

  “Oh, by all that is wonderful,” she groaned softly. “There is a man named Bully chasing after me.”

  “So they’ve run us to earth,” he muttered. His voice was grim. “How did you manage to get away?”

  “I climbed out the window of the inn after I heard them talking in the hall. The landlord was not happy about letting them inside … but I fear they convinced him.”

  He wrapped the horse’s reins tight around his fist and coaxed the animal deeper into the shadows. “We’ll wait,” he said as he leaned back against the wattled wall.

  She grabbed him by the lapels of his greatcoat and shook him. “Are you insane?”

  With his left hand he gently disengaged her fingers. “Think, Alexa,” he whispered into the darkness. “What will they do? Once they’ve discovered you’ve bolted, they will ride in pursuit. Away from here. So, by all rights, this is the safest place to be.”

  “You are quite mad.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve no mind to sleep in a hedgerow tonight. Which is where we’ll end up if we leave Dagshott. In a hedgerow without a fire, I might add, because we dare not light one with those rogues nearby.” He cocked his head toward her. “Of course, we could always return to that little hedge tavern.”

  “That is out of the question. Not to mention, those wretches surely sought us there, as well.” No place was safe, she realized with dismay. Her teeth began to chatter, and she set her jaw so that he would not hear.

  “Come here,” he said as he reached out and tugged her beside him. “You’re cold.”

  “I’m not cold,” she said faintly. “I am f-frightened.”

  If he had any idea what it cost her to make such an admission, he did not voice it. Instead he drew one arm around her, so that his long cloak enveloped her.

  “Listen to me, Alexa,” he said in a soft, deep whisper. “I won’t let anyone harm you.”

  “I’m so ashamed,” she said against the soft wool of his coat. “I cowered there by the inn like a rabbit in the dark. I could barely breathe.”

  “Mmm, but you got your legs under you again, which is what counts in the end. A person doesn’t develop a cool head overnight, you know. But it sounds like you made a pretty fair start.”

  His arm tightened around her for an instant, and she savored the comforting pressure. No one had comforted her since her mother died, though she suspected that was her own fault. She put on such a display of independence and self-sufficiency, that it was no wonder her family and friends never saw any need to reach out to her.

  Oh, she had been cosseted and spoiled, her every want had been met, but no one, not even her father, had so much as hugged her since she’d put up her hair. As though adulthood meant the loss of all human contact.

  Eventually, the warm width of MacHeath’s chest and the secure weight of his arm across her shoulders lulled her into a near sleep. She relaxed against him, letting her body mold itself to his, clinging to his coat like a little child, her head tucked beneath his chin.

  She lost all awareness of her surroundings, except for the sensation of her bonnet being pushed back and a hand stroking over her hair. Time passed, but she was not aware of it. There was a haven here in this man’s arms, a haven against ruffians named Bully, and odious cousins with designs on her money, and pigheaded fathers who sent their daughters into exile.

  Eventually MacHeath’s soft voice shook her back to reality. “I think it will be safe to go back to the inn now.”

  He set her away from him, and she felt the cold immediately. “Bu
t what if Finch and Connor come back to the Crusader when they can’t find our trail? What then?”

  “I have thought of that. The solution is quite simple.”

  “What are you planning?”

  “Just follow my lead,” he said.

  She could have sworn he was grinning.

  * * *

  The landlord of the Crusader was beaming at them. “Ah, a runaway couple. There’s no need to fret, sir. Those fellows won’t hear a peep from me if they come back here. Didn’t like the cut of them one bit—trying to threaten me in my own establishment.” He made a disparaging noise. “Bow Street Runners, my aunt Fanny.”

  “They were hired by my wife’s cousin,” MacHeath explained in a low, conspiratorial voice. “The man she was being forced to wed. But it’s too late for him,” he added, pulling Alexa up against his side. “I’ve made her my own now, and no other shall have her.”

  She did her best to offer the landlord a simpering smile, which was difficult with her teeth grinding in annoyance. It was just like MacHeath to turn this into a May game. Still, the ruse seemed to have worked on the landlord. He promised to keep their secret and insisted that MacHeath join him in the taproom for a celebratory glass of his best claret while his lady got settled in their chamber.

  “You’re going to sleep in the stable, right?” she hissed to MacHeath after the landlord had gone to fetch the wine.

  “What? On my honeymoon night?”

  She prayed she could detect a hint of laughter behind his words.

  She went up to the room they had been assigned, and paced restlessly for nearly three quarters of an hour before MacHeath returned.

  “Sorry,” he said as he came in, holding an open bottle of claret in the crook of his arm and carrying two glasses. He set them down on the low dresser by the door. “I thought it would be best to humor him. I barely got away, though— once our host had launched into a tirade against the excise duties on brandy, he looked to go on all night. I ... had to remind him that my new wife was doubtless missing me sorely.” He poured some wine into one of the glasses and offered it to her with a crooked grin. “Well, are you?”

  Alexa ignored both the profferred glass and his attempt at humor. “I am ruined for all time,” she wailed. “Even if we did use false names—and I take leave to tell you, I don’t think Mr. and Mrs. Broadbeam was a very inspired choice—my cousin will know from his hired bullies that I was here with you. Have you not thought of that? He can use that circumstance to make me marry him. He won’t have to even lay a hand on me to force me into it.”

  “Pheh ...” MacHeath flicked his fingers in the air. “His men didn’t see me here with you. For all they know, you escaped from me outside Reading and have traveled here alone. And as for all these protestations about being ruined … you yourself told me you have no intention of marrying.”

  “Yes, but I also have every intention of keeping my good name intact. Not marrying is my choice, but I don’t wish to become a pariah in Society. Which is just where this is all heading.”

  “You’ll weather it,” he said evenly as he crossed the room and pushed open the window, letting in an icy draft. The roof of a small shed lay four feet below the sill.

  She put up her chin. “You make very free with my reputation, sir.”

  He turned back to her, and his face bore a look of amused commiseration. “If it’s any solace, I’ll marry you myself before I let that wretch have you.”

  “Oh, that’s reassuring,” she huffed, “I told Quincy that he was the last man on earth I would wed, but I see now I have to revise my ranking.”

  “I’m not such a bad bargain, Mrs. Broadbeam. A little tattered, perhaps. But I had the feeling back there in the alley that you were rather pleased to have me around.” He set his left hand on her chin.

  “Stop that,” she said with annoyance as she tried to pull back. How wretchedly smug of him to remind her of that brief moment of weakness.

  “What, sweetheart?” he teased. “It’s our wedding night.”

  Her eyes flashed a warning as she shifted away from his touch. “This is no longer amusing. I was growing to like you until two minutes ago. But I see you are no better than Darwin or his bullies.”

  He laughed softly. “I expect I am a deal better than any of them. You know, I’ve a mind to correct your bad opinion of men. I admit Darwin’s kisses would be enough to put most women off the male species, but you are hardly most women—”

  “I told you, I have no interest in such things.”

  He gave her a closemouthed smile. “And I have a great deal of interest. And therein lies the problem.”

  “If you are trying to destroy my trust in you, you are succeeding admirably.”

  “On the contrary,” he said as he closed the gap between them, “I am trying to determine just how much you will trust me.” He slid one arm around her and lowered his head until his mouth hovered over hers. Alexa’s eyes narrowed ominously.

  And then, as she felt him lean into her, a strange, not unwelcomed warmth suffused her. She knew he was merely baiting her—it was something he seemed to enjoy—but she had a sudden, wistful longing for him to be in earnest. As he had been when he’d comforted her. She saw that, earnest or not, the expression in his dark eyes now held little comfort and a great deal of heat.

  “MacHeath,” she murmured. She’d meant it to come out as a warning snarl, but it sounded more like an endearment. She tried again. “You forget yourself, sir.”

  “No,” he said in a quiet, musing voice, “I think perhaps I am finding myself.” He again cupped her chin with his hand, tracing the ball of his thumb along the line of her jaw. Back and forth it moved, leaving behind a whisper trail of heat.

  “See?” he said gently, lowering his head another inch. “All men are not cut from the same cloth.”

  She could feel his warm breath on her cheek, stirring the tendrils of hair that had loosened from her chignon. A shiver ran along her spine, where his hand was clasped tight against her gown.

  “Trust me,” he said in the softest voice imaginable.

  She shivered again, almost violently this time. Without conscious thought, she closed her eyes and tipped her head back.

  “This is for you, Alexa,” he murmured.

  She waited breathlessly for him to complete the connection between them. She could not have moved away from him if her life depended on it.

  When he stepped back from her abruptly, her eyes flew open in shock. His own eyes were dancing with mirth as he set a small canvas bag into her hand. She glared up at him, thinking it would serve him right if she slapped that sly grin off his face.

  “It’s the money I got for your jewels, Mrs. B.,” he said with a wink as he slipped out the open window. “Lock up now,” he cautioned just before he scrambled down the roof of the shed.

  Alexa stood there at the open window, clutching the bag of coins, and wishing for something more substantial to heave at him. What a shame the bottle of wine was on the other side of the room.

  * * *

  She had a difficult time falling asleep, fearful that the ugly customers would return and that the landlord would forget his promise to protect them. When she did at last settle into a fitful doze, her dreams were of little comfort. Great hulking men with shaved heads carrying flaming torches chased her around the ruined abbey, while a man who looked very much like MacHeath cheered her on from the battlements. He had at last come to her rescue by pouring what appeared to be boiling porridge on her attackers.

  As dreams went, it was distinctly unsatisfying. Far better to drowse in bed the next morning and remember what it felt like to be held in MacHeath’s arms. Even Darwin had never dared overstep the bounds of propriety by laying his hands on her. But then, Darwin did not possess such broad shoulders or such finely muscled legs.

  It had been quite a revelation to her that a man’s body could feel so ... well, pleasant, when pressed against hers. It was enough to shake the foundation of her many prej
udices against men. That little smattering of desire she had felt—actually not so little, if truth be told— had awakened her to a thrilling new awareness, and she teetered on the threshold of understanding for the first time in her adult life.

  It was as MacHeath had told her—even the most vexatious man might offer something rare to a woman.

  She stopped herself from these rosy meanderings when she realized she was beginning to sound suspiciously like a besotted schoolgirl. MacHeath had been toying with her, teaching her a lesson. She had boasted that she found the attentions of men uninspiring, and he—doubtless made bold by the wine he had consumed—had been determined to prove her wrong. There was nothing more to it than that. She was sure that he could never be interested in her in that way.

  He might not have been a true gentleman, and he certainly hadn’t a feather to fly with, but she didn’t doubt that with his roguish face and lean, graceful body, women would flock to him, ladies and light skirts both. This thought so depressed her that she had little appetite for her breakfast. But she forced herself to eat it; MacHeath was probably doing with a lot less down there in the stable.

  She’d chosen to dine in her room, since she didn’t want to field any awkward questions about her bridegroom’s absence. Fortunately, MacHeath scratched on the door just as she was finishing the last of her cocoa.

  “My dear Mrs. Broadbeam,” he said with a wry grin when she let him in.

  She went striding away from him and sat on the bed with her hands folded across her chest. “Don’t you dare call me that,” she snapped. “And I believe an apology is in order.”

  He leaned back against the door and shrugged. “Very well.” He cleared his throat theatrically. “I am sorry I didn’t kiss you, Miss Prescott.”