The Bride and the BuccaneerDarlene Marshell
CHAPTER 1England, 1812
"Stand and deliver!"
It wasn't the most original of salutations, but it had the desired effect. The driver of the ancient traveling coach pulled back hard on the reins, bringing the tired horses to a stop. There was shouting and cries of alarm from the occupants of the coach. Well they might shout, for a man on a black mare blocked the road to Reading, his greatcoat blending with the trees and the shrouding mist, giving him an ethereal aura in the moonlight. But the pistols he held were all too real, and the coach driver trembled at the highwayman's barked command.
"You in the coach! Come out, with your hands in plain sight!"
There was a moment's pause while the night itself seemed to hold its breath, then the carriage door swung open.
"Step lively now, out of the coach before someone's hurt!"
A slender, tan-gloved hand gripped the door frame and then a small foot was lowered daintily to the ground, showing a shapely ankle before the woman's skirts frothed around her feet. She stood next to the coach, eyes downcast, hooded cloak hiding her features. A moment later an older, stouter woman exited the carriage. It was she who pinned the highwayman with an angry gaze and shrilled, "You won't get away with this, you blackguard! Do you know whose carriage this is?"
"Aye," the highwayman said, his deep voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his lower face. "It's the carriage of Lord Whitfield. Come out of there, Whitfield!"
No one else emerged from the carriage, and the highwayman's brows drew down in a frown. He brought his pistol to bear on the driver, who himself looked nearly as ancient as the equipage he sat atop.
"Where is Whitfield?"
The coachman spat over the side of the seat.
"Like as not he's back home, safe in front of his fire. Sent his carriage to fetch this young lady, that's all I know."
The silent girl still spoke not a word. But she raised her head, covered by her plain, serviceable cloak, and the moonlight offered the highwayman a glimpse of two large eyes before she lowered her gaze to the ground again.
The older woman took a step forward. "I am Mrs. Rupert Dingle, cousin to Lord Whitfield, and this is Miss Sophia Deford, Lord Whitfield's ward!"
The highwayman didn't respond to this, but stared at the girl a moment longer, then looked at the coachman.
"Driver, pass me down the bags, easy now."
"What bags?"
"Do not play games with me. I know what you are carrying."
"They're in the coach," the driver grumbled.
"Then fetch them quickly, and do not try any heroics or we'll see whether the baron wants a coachman with a pistol ball in him."
The driver hustled to comply, climbing down and grabbing the heavy satchel out of the coach. He held it out to the waiting thief, who took it one-handed from the older man, and rapped out, "Turn around!," before putting up his pistol and securing the bag.
"Do not just stand there man, do something!" Mrs. Dingle shrilled.
"Ain't my gold," the driver said phlegmatically, staring at the coach.
Mrs. Dingle started to remonstrate with the coachman, but the thief retrieved his pistol and said, "Be quiet, both of you. You there! Girl! Come over here!"
"Here now..." the coachman started, turning around, but when the pistol was pointed in his direction, he closed his mouth. It wasn't his ward, either.
After a moment's hesitation the young woman walked over to the highwayman's mare. "Closer," he said, gesturing with the pistol until she was standing next to his leg, and with a swift motion he leaned down and brought his arm around her, easily lifting her small frame into the saddle in front of him. The driver and chaperone started to protest as one, but the highwayman yelled, "Silence!," and his menacing tones, not to mention concern for the safety of their charge, stopped them.
"Miss Deford is going to travel with me. If you do not pursue us, she will not be harmed. But if you make any attempt to do aught but continue your journey, this young woman's blood will be on your hands!"
With that he tightened his grip on Sophia Deford and spurred his
horse back onto the road, leaving the gaping victims behind.
* * *
Jack was so exultant over the ease of his robbery of Whitfield that he barely gave a thought to the silent young woman clutched close to him. Finally, he was revenged against Whitfield and retrieved the money the baron cheated out of him! It was money he could ill-afford to lose, with his ship so badly in need of repairs, and he was willing to do whatever it took to retrieve his gold. Even kidnap innocent young ladies.
After traveling through the woods far enough to feel a measure of safety, he noted the girl still had not spoken. Not a protest, not a shriek, not a question about their destination or her fate.
Poor little chick, he thought, she's probably scared witless. She smelled of violets, and the delicate scent combined with the feel of her small frame in his arms brought Jack's slumbering conscience awake. He had never robbed someone before, though it was his own money he was retrieving, so it wasn't really robbery. At least that's what he kept telling himself when he'd planned this.
Taking the girl was a rash decision, but he'd only thought of how she would offer extra protection in case the coachman carried arms. She couldn't know he had no intention of harming her. He would set her down close enough to the road for her to find her way to civilization. Then, if Miss Deford wanted to live with a dirty dish like Whitfield, it was her choice.
Reaching the cave where he'd stashed his gear, Jack reined in the mare and dismounted before helping Miss Deford down.
"Come," he said, gesturing toward the cave. She silently followed him, and he stopped just inside the entrance. He reached up on a natural shelf for the tinder box and lit the lantern he'd left there a day earlier.
Jack knew his disguised appearance must be alarming, so he tried to pitch his voice in an unthreatening manner.
"I'm sorry I had to involve you in this, Miss Deford, but it was necessary. I will build a fire so you may warm yourself, and I will be gone shortly. I can leave the lantern for you. You will be able to walk to the village from here, just a short distance to the road, and then to the left. Although, if I were you, I would think twice about living with a skinflint like Whitfield. He did not even care enough about you to hire an outrider to protect you on your journey, knowing you were traveling with his gold!"
"Please, sir," she said in a breathy little voice, "I beg you, do not harm me."
He tched in exasperation. Whitfield had no business being guardian of this mouse, but it likely appealed to him, having control of someone terrified of her own shadow.
"I have no intention of harming you, Miss Deford, I give you my word."
She moved forward a step and dropped the hood of her faded cloak, and Jack nearly dropped his lantern. The girl was gorgeous. Silver gilt hair topped a triangular, kittenish face, her pale blue eyes slanting above high cheekbones and a mouth almost too wide for that piquant frame. She was a veritable woodland sprite, a pocket Venus.
Whitfield was going to have this fragile fairy child living under his roof? Whoever sent her off to the old lecher ought to be taken out and shot!
"Good Lord, child, how old are you?"
"Sixteen years, sir," she said in a small voice.
Oh, now this was beyond enough! If Whitfield were standing here in front of him Jack would shoot him himself, for morality's sake, if nothing else!
"I am badly frightened, sir," she whispered again, clasping her hands together at her waist. "Please, I need a moment to compose myself before we go on. A moment of privacy. If I may, I will just step outside..."<
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And now Jack himself felt like the greatest unhung rogue in Christendom for terrifying this little girl. A red flush of shame stained his cheekbones behind his scarf.
"I didn't realize I'd frightened you so—of course, Miss Deford. You do what you need to while I make the fire," and so saying, he turned his back on the young woman and busied himself kneeling at the firepit, while she stepped out of the cave's entrance to the nearby bushes. So engrossed was he in thinking about the success of the robbery and his plans for the future that he never heard a sound.
Jack did, however, feel the full force of the blow as a fist-sized rock connected with his skull.
* * *
Sophia Deford looked down at the fearsome highwayman, stretched out unconscious before her like a large, black hearthrug in front of the firepit.
"Idiot," she murmured, and tossed the rock aside.
* * *
Jack moaned as he regained his senses, his head throbbing like all the devils of hell were dancing in it. He tried to touch the back of his head to check the damage and stopped, not because it hurt, but because his hands were securely tied behind him. And he was naked, a condition only slightly ameliorated by the flames danced merrily in the firepit. They also illuminated the slender woman seated before the fire, tugging his boots onto her rag wrapped feet. He gaped at Sophia Deford as she stood and walked a few steps, testing the fit. The chit was dressed not only in his boots, but was wearing his trousers, tucked in at the boot tops, his shirt, his cravat and his greatcoat! Her own gloves were tucked in at the waistband of the trousers. She watched as he rolled over onto his back with difficulty, for his ankles were also tied with cloth, most likely torn from his missing smallclothes, and pushed himself to a sitting position against the cave wall. He shivered, drawing his legs up for warmth—and modesty.
"What is this?" he rasped.
"Good, you are awake." She gazed down on him with all the empathy and concern of the cat she resembled, as if he were a minor annoyance standing between her and whatever she wanted. An annoyance to be ignored, or toyed with and destroyed.
"This, Sir Highwayman, is my leave taking." She pursed her lush pink lips and looked him over. "If you get out of here, you might consider a different career. You do not have much talent for this one."
"Leave?" He goggled at her, letting her insults pass. "Where will you go, back to Whitfield?"
Her laughter rang out, clear and bell-like as it echoed off the walls.
Her full bodied laugh made her look more than ever like a mischievous sprite.
"Why should I go live with that old reprobate now? Thanks to you, I have gold, a good horse, and freedom to do as I wish. I even have a new set of clothes!"
"That's my gold! Whitfield cheated me at cards!"
She looked at him blankly.
"Of course he did. The whole world knows Whitfield is a Captain Sharp. Only the greenest Johnny Raw...never mind Whitfield. To let you know how much I appreciate your assistance, I will not tell the authorities you are tied up in this cave. It should give you all night to work your way free of the bonds. And here is a cover so you do not catch your death. After all, you have been of great service to me."
She walked over to him with a blanket and peered down at his naked form thoughtfully. "My, you are affected by the cold, aren't you? Now, now, that kind of language is unnecessary, sir!"
She threw the blanket over him and turned away.
"And now, goodnight and good-bye, Sir Highwayman."
Jack unclenched his jaw far enough to say, "You're taking my money and my horse? You are nothing but a common thief!"
"Sir, I protest! You are nothing but a common thief. I am an uncommon thief!"
He played the last card of a desperate hand.
"You can't do this! You're just a little girl!"
"Are you angry someone my size was able to overcome you? I did lie about one thing. I am twenty years old, not a girl of sixteen. Here is a final lesson then for you to think about this evening—because it looks like you will have a great deal of time to reflect on your sins— treachery wins out over size and muscle almost every time, Sir Highwayman."
With that she mockingly saluted him, and without another word turned on her heel and left.
He yelled impotently at her to return and untie him, but as he heard his faithless mare's bridle jingle off into the distance, he settled for cursing her and her kind all the way back to Mother Eve.
CHAPTER 2The springtime sun shone warm on Sophia Deford as she made her way down to the sea, refreshed after a night spent snug inside an abandoned barn, wrapped up in the highwayman's greatcoat. Sophia chuckled to herself as she remembered the look on his face as she rode away. His indignation at being bested by a mere girl, his outrage over her taking Lord Whitfield's money, all of it combined to put a fine gloss on a splendid evening and had given her something to smile about. For the first time in many months.
She might not have a home or a family anymore, but she had an opportunity almost no woman received, the opportunity to reinvent herself into someone new. And certainly not by living with Lord Whitfield! As her father's cousin and Sophia's closest living male relative, it fell to Lord Whitfield to do his Christian duty and take Sophia into his house following the tragic death of her father, or so he told everyone. Sophia had her own thoughts on what Whitfield's intentions toward her were, and they weren't avuncular. When he patted her on the shoulder, his touch lingering just a bit too long, it was all she could do not to run up to her room and scrub herself all over with strong soap to remove the memory. There was no one who would take her off his hands, as Whitfield himself made clear when he went off to London, telling her to pack for her move to his house. He sent his dilapidated carriage, Mrs. Dingle, and unbeknownst to Sophia until last night, the proceeds of his excursion to the gaming hells.
She grinned to herself at the memory of how she'd escaped from that idiot back in the cave. There was no denying though that if the highwayman was an idiot, he was an idiot easy to look upon. When she'd stripped his clothes from his unconscious body she could not help but appreciate the trim muscles and lean length of him. His sun-browned form was a far cry from the fishbelly-white and flabby gamesters she saw at the manor. If she was going to throw caution to the wind and run away, shamelessly looking on a naked highwayman was a small act in comparison.
But such a rewarding act, like taking a fine horse, she thought as she patted the mare on her neck. The mare was a sturdy mount and steady, nothing showy about her to attract attention. The road was lightly traveled today because it wasn't market day, and Sophia passed few others. She kept her head down, her hair tucked up beneath the highwayman's old fashioned tricorne, his scarf wrapped over it and around her neck to keep the overlarge hat in place. She bought bread and cheese from a farmwife who clucked her head over such a young boy taking to the roads, but wasn't it all too common with so many men away to war, and here was a tart for the fine lad since he had so much growing to do.
After traveling on back roads and sleeping rough, Sophia was reeling in the saddle by the time she saw her destination, and she could smell the salt tang and less attractive odors carried by the wind. It was full dark when she pulled up in front of the modest cottage on the edge of Portsmouth, and tiredly knocked at the front door.
The woman who answered peered at her nearsightedly and said, "I'm sorry, lad, I do not have any work to offer. If you come around to the kitchen entrance I can give you some bread and soup. But be careful of the press gangs while you're out."
"Annie, it does me good to see you are still willing to open your door for every passing stray."
The woman blinked and whipped a pair of spectacles out of her pocket.
"Sophia?"
"In the flesh, Miss Johnson, returned to you like a bad penny."
"Oh, my dear," the retired governess said, and hauled her charge into her arms for a hug. "But...what are you doing here? Where is your father?"
"Time enough for
all that later, Annie, and I will take you up on the offer of some soup. But first I must see to this faithful mount, for she has ridden far with me these past days."
Anne Johnson blinked again, this time at the mare with her head
hanging low.
"Of course you must! There is a livery stable down the street. They know me, and you can stable her there, but..." Miss Johnson waved her hand at the modest cottage. "I do not have much extra and cannot afford to keep a horse."
"Not to worry, my old friend, for I am flush with blunt."
Annie tsked disapprovingly.
"You know how I feel about gambling cant, Miss Deford!"
"Ah, my dear Annie, if that sends you into the boughs you will positively swoon when you hear the rest of my story," Sophia said cheekily.
"I doubt that, miss, but I will hear it nonetheless. After you have fed, bathed, and put on decent clothing!" She grew serious. "You are not hurt, are you, Sophia? No one bothered you while you traveled here?"
"No, I am in fine fettle, Annie, and when you hear my story...never
mind, let me see to the horse first."
* * *
"...and that," she said, putting down her soup spoon with a satisfied sigh, "is how I came to be on your doorstep loaded down with gold and a stolen horse."
"You know I cannot approve of how you obtained that gold! And you stole the man's horse!"
"I am fully justified in taking both," Sophia said unrepentantly. "That highwayman was a thief, and I have no doubt at all Lord Whitfield cheated my father."
"Poor Mr. Deford. I do feel sorry for him, despite everything."
Sophia sighed. "So do I. You know how he was, Annie. He believed there was always a better day waiting, waiting on the turn of a card, or the speed of a horse. I was just glad you were able to find another position right away."
Miss Johnson poured herself another cup of tea and topped off her guest's cup. The surface of the tea shimmered as the rushlight flared briefly before settling back into a steady burn.
"I wish I could have stayed with you, Sophia—"
"Do not say another word about it, Annie. You needed to be able to earn enough to provide for yourself, and we could no longer afford a governess. I daresay your frugal ways and the position you took with the Crenshawes helped you purchase this cottage, something you would not have been able to do had you stayed with us. It is a harsh world, Annie, and it is every woman for herself. I do not blame you for seizing a better opportunity."
The Bride and the Buccaneer Page 1