The Pirate Lord

by Vanda Vadas

  ‘Information about His Grace. I seek this on behalf of another.’

  Her eyes flared in fear. ‘No!’

  ‘I won’t touch or hurt you lass. But I’m not leaving until you tell me exactly what he said, and how he treated you.’

  ‘He’ll … kill me,’ she sobbed.

  The Scot picked her clothes up off the floor and laid them neatly at the foot of her bed. ‘You’ll have my protection and my word. I have connections. If you wish for a better life away from here, lass, you’ll tell me what I need to know.’

  He stepped away from the bed and turned his back. ‘Now get dressed.’

  Lights flickered in the gathering dusk. Julian pressed his horse onwards until he reached the Royal Arms.

  The time-weathered building looked as aged as the tall oaks standing either side of it. Creeping vines hugged stone walls and a wooden plaque bearing the inn’s name hung askew above its entrance. Smoke streaming out of the crooked chimney promised warmth against the chill evening air.

  A gangly youth appeared from nowhere. ‘Can I take yer ’orse, mista?’

  Julian dismounted, sighting the stables over the youth’s shoulder. He flipped the lad a silver coin. He checked his diction, not wanting to give any hint of tonnish mores. ‘Rub ’im down. Feed an’ stall ’im for the night.’

  The lad tested the shiny coin between his teeth. His face beamed brighter than the yellow lamplight illuminating the inn’s windows. He would know better than to question the origin of a newly minted coin. ‘Right away, mista. I’ll see to it yer ’orse gets fresh straw an’ all.’ He took the reins and loped off towards the stables.

  Julian inspected his ragged coat, shirt and breeches and the worn leather shoes. He’d been wise to acquire them from farm-folk in preparation for his journey. It would have been too risky to travel the countryside in all his finery, especially entering deep into these woods. He didn’t fancy being a prime target for any villain who might frequent the Royal Arms. The pistol in his coat pocket would provide him protection should he need it.

  He examined his hands and dirt-encrusted nails, satisfied they looked as if he tilled the land. Shabby facial stubble and tousled hair beneath a grimy hat authenticated his disguise.

  He pulled the brim of the hat low over his brow and pushed through the wooden door of the inn. A stone-flagged passageway off to the right led him into a large room. A fire blazed in the open hearth.

  Tallow candles cast shadows on the faces of a crowded taproom. Vulgar-looking patrons turned their narrowed eyes on the newcomer who approached the bar. Julian knew his height and strength of stature would make any man think twice about challenging his presence. He had as much right as any other to enter and partake of the inn’s hospitality.

  The aroma of leeks, onions and rabbit stew wafted through cracks in the kitchen door, reminding Julian it had been hours since his last decent meal.

  The innkeeper looked him up and down. ‘What’ll it be?’

  ‘Ale an’ board for the night.’

  ‘Somethin’ to eat?’

  ‘Not ’til I find what I’m lookin’ for.’

  The innkeeper set a tankard down and suddenly looked nervous, his gaze darting around the room. Julian leaned in close over the counter top and spoke in a whisper. When he discreetly produced coins worthy of information, the man swallowed, hesitated, and then whispered a reply.

  Julian nodded his thanks and took up the ale. It soothed his dry throat and thirst. He turned to face the crowded room. Again, he attracted measuring eyes as patrons looked their fill. He brought the tankard to his mouth and gulped noisily. Froth left its mark above his top lip. He wiped it away with the back of his soiled sleeve. He did not challenge the stares directed at him, but instead looked about the room with an air of nonchalance. Conversation dropped to a low murmur. As interest in him waned, the din of chatter resumed.

  Only then did Julian’s sharp gaze settle on two men in nondescript clothes, seated in the corner of the taproom. He moved towards them. Both men stood, ready to leave. Julian set down his tankard and stayed a hand on each man’s shoulder.

  Obediently, they sat down, unwilling to look Julian in the eye. One man skittered along the bench. Julian took a seat beside him.

  The man opposite appeared nervous and took a swig of ale. ‘We’ve spoken to no one. We swear it. No one!’

  Julian’s gaze fell to the unhealed welt across the man’s left cheek. Candlelight emphasised its angry redness.

  The man looked up and studied Julian in return, brows drawing together in a deep frown. Suddenly his eyes flared wide and he leaned in close. ‘My Lord!’ His harsh whisper carried a mix of surprise and fear. ‘You put your life in danger by being here, despite this …’ He gestured to Julian’s get-up. ‘This convincing cover.’

  ‘Admirable concern, though unnecessary. And no need for formalities here. You must be Watkins.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Julian turned to the ginger-haired man next to him. ‘And you are Tate.’

  Tate nodded. ‘What brings you here, so far from your estate?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’

  Watkins cast a suspicious glance around the inn.

  ‘You needn’t fear,’ assured Julian. ‘I came alone.’

  ‘How did you know to find us here?’ asked Tate.

  Julian rubbed his thumb against his index and middle fingers. ‘Money talks, but I’ve not sold you out to any other. Those loyal to you have my solemn promise you would meet with no harm.’

  Both men visibly relaxed, shoulders slumping.

  Julian wasted no time in getting to the point. ‘You both were in the employ of His Grace, the Duke of Arlington, as his coachmen. Correct?’

  The men held their silence. Julian discretely opened the left side of his jacket to reveal a leather pouch sewn to the lining. The weight of the pouch pulled at the threads, indicating it held considerable coinage. ‘Will this help jog your memory?’

  Watkins exchanged a look with Tate. ‘Thank you, but we won’t be bought. We’ve a little too much pride to be taking bribe money from a nobleman we respect. We’d be only too happy to answer your questions if it brings you closer to finding Lady Eloise.’

  ‘My gratitude, gentlemen. I misjudged you. Clearly, you are men of honour, but you are without employ and I’ve no doubt you have families to provide for. You’ll be rewarded away from prying eyes. You will take it or risk offending me.’

  Watkins nodded. ‘Bless you.’

  ‘Now, I’m given to understand you voluntarily left the service of His Grace.’

  ‘Voluntarily?’ Tate hissed. ‘We were dismissed!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘His Grace said we were incompetent. That it was our fault the highwayman stopped us and abducted Lady Eloise. Said we should have whipped the horses into a lather to lose the highwaymen. But what if me and Watkins had been shot and killed, with no driver at the reins? I tell you, we did what they asked of us, thinking only of the Lady Eloise’s safety and that of her maidservant.’

  Julian saw contempt in Tate’s eyes. ‘And not the safety of His Grace?’

  Tate pointed to his friend’s cheek. ‘Ask him how he got that.’

  Watkins bristled. He turned his cheek towards Julian. The candle gave better light to the welt. ‘His Grace did this to me. Refused to hand over my severance pay when I reminded him of it. Used his riding crop on me instead, saying it was the only payment due me.’

  The sight of the raw wound stung Julian as if he’d suffered the blow himself. He shook his head. Gareth had no violent flaws. ‘You’re mistaken. This is not the behaviour of the man I’ve known since childhood.’

  ‘Begging your pardon,’ said Tate, ‘but ’tis common behaviour for His Grace to fly into a rage when it comes to those who serve him. He’s grown increasingly intolerant since Lady Eloise’s abduction. To the likes of society, he dons a different face.’

  Julian sat back in his chair. He struggled to digest this informatio
n. The man they described was not the brave youth who’d heroically saved his life. He’d always believed Gareth was kind, compassionate and the only man worthy of marrying Eloise.

  He leaned forwards. ‘Tell me what happened that day. How did the highwayman conduct himself?’

  Watkins wiped his brow. ‘Like a man born to a privileged life. Spoke like one, too. Sat tall and proud in his saddle. He wore a fine cloth, tailored to his broad shoulders. Impeccably dressed, he was, entirely in black.’

  Julian remembered his own encounter with the man. ‘And his henchman?’

  ‘Not so refined in his manner of speech but both men showed civility towards Tate and me. I sensed an immediate change in the leader the instant he laid eyes on His Grace. His mask did not hide his anger, it was there in the set of his mouth and in the way his fingers itched to pull the triggers of both pistols. He looked like nothing would please him more than to shoot His Grace in cold blood.’

  Julian recalled snippets of conversation he’d had with the highwayman. How he’d asked him to state his demands, thinking money the motive. He’d accused the highwayman of lacking scruples and honour and remembered well the countered slur. Perhaps you should look for such a man among your peers.

  The blackguard had had the opportunity to kill Julian, or at the very least maim him, and yet, he’d hadn’t. ‘Go on, Watkins. What happened next?’

  ‘His Grace offered up his money and jewellery, insisting they be unharmed. Oh, and …’ he cleared his throat, ‘not that it’s any of our business, mind, but I believe congratulations are in order. We understand Lady Eloise and His Grace are engaged.’

  Julian blinked. ‘Engaged?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘We overheard His Grace tell the highwayman.’

  Another untruth. Eloise had rejected the idea no matter how often Julian encouraged it. There’d been no discussion between himself and Gareth. No permission granted regarding an impending proposal. Had Gareth gone behind his back? In a carriage? Had Maisy witnessed this proposal?

  Julian stared at one man, and then the other. ‘Think carefully. Did either of you hear His Grace’s exact words?’

  Tate nodded. ‘We both did.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He said, “We have money and jewellery, take it.” The highwayman questioned who he meant by “we”, and His Grace said, “My fiancée and her companion.”’

  Julian surmised the highway rogue had expected to find Gareth travelling alone. Had he abducted Eloise as an afterthought?

  He kept his anger in check. What reason would Gareth have to speak of Eloise as his fiancée? Was it to protect her? No. It wouldn’t matter to a highwayman what their relationship was.

  Or did it?

  Julian’s gut clenched. ‘Did His Grace actually speak my sister’s name?’

  ‘No. Just used the word fiancée.’

  Julian reflected on his altercation with the highwayman and how he’d lost the advantage with two swords pointed at his chest. He was as good as dead. The highwayman had done the unfathomable, returning Julian’s sword to him, insisting there was no reason to fight.

  At the time, Julian had been too outraged to understand that one word had caused the highwayman’s loss of concentration. ‘Sister!’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ asked Watkins.

  Julian didn’t hear him, too lost in reliving the moment when he’d injured the highwayman, whose only reaction was to whisper Eloise’s name.

  Julian saw it now, if he hadn’t back then: the shock and confusion in the highwayman’s eyes. It was as if the man had endured something infinitely more painful than the wound to his shoulder.

  It dawned on Julian that up until that point, the highwayman hadn’t known whom he’d abducted, and Eloise would have stubbornly refused to tell him.

  Tate voiced his concern. ‘Are you all right?’

  Julian held up his hand to ward off the distraction. The highwayman had addressed him as ‘Marquess’, suggesting they both discuss the matter like the gentlemen we are. So they were acquainted? He was no more the wiser and brought his fist down hard on the wooden table.

  Watkins and Tate flinched.

  Julian resumed their conversation. ‘Her name. We were discussing the mention of my sister’s name.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Tate. ‘It could have been spoken when they were out of our earshot.’

  ‘Which was when?’

  ‘Well, before I answer that, I’ll add something else, though I don’t know if it’s at all relevant. When His Grace mentioned his fiancée, the highwayman roared with laughter.’

  Julian closed his hand in a fist. ‘Did he state what he found so amusing?’

  Both men shook their heads and shrugged.

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘Lady Eloise called for His Grace. He went to her. The highwayman followed on horseback. We could hear voices, but not well enough to understand what was said.’

  ‘Besides,’ chipped in Watkins, ‘that’s when the accomplice bound us hand and foot. He did the same with His Grace, and, well, you found him in his humiliating state of undress. We heard Lady Eloise scream. Next thing we saw was her, unconscious, seated before the highwayman on his horse.’

  ‘What were his parting words?’

  ‘That he was happy to see we had been fairly treated, and comfortably bound. As you know, His Grace was gagged, but the highwayman taunted His Grace, asking him how much Lady Eloise was worth to him. He finished by saying he looked forward to meeting His Grace again.’

  ‘Anything else?

  ‘That was it. They rode off.’

  Julian’s gaze bored into the wood grain of the uneven, roughened table-top. He gripped the tankard so tight his knuckles turned white. ‘Gentlemen, you are … were His Grace’s coachmen.’ His voice was tight, controlled.

  He looked each man in the eye. ‘Is there anything else untowards about his character that I should be made aware of? Any illicit or clandestine meetings or dealings he concealed? Who called on him? Who would he call on? Was he feuding with anyone? I want names. Anything that might lead me to Lady Eloise.’

  Tate sucked in a shaky breath. ‘Before His Grace sent us on our way, he threatened our lives, and that of our families, if we were to breathe one word to anyone about anything we’ve heard or witnessed during our employ with him.

  ‘This tavern is not easy to find, and when you presented yourself at our table we thought …’ He swallowed and shuddered. ‘We thought His Grace had sent you to hunt us down and do us in. You must understand –’

  ‘I do. As far as I’m concerned, this meeting never took place. But consider this. Are you of the opinion that His Grace will keep his word, that he will not send someone after you, regardless of whether or not you hold your tongue?’

  Blood drained from Tate’s face. Watkins’s eyes showed the fear of a marked man. Their heads turned to look around the taproom as if every man present had been dispatched to kill them. So convincing were their reactions that Julian had to seriously consider what they’d revealed about Gareth.

  Watkins touched an unsteady finger to his scar. ‘You’re right.’ He looked at Tate. ‘We know firsthand that His Grace is not to be trusted, and I for one would rather divulge his secrets than carry them to my grave.’

  Tate’s furtive gaze roamed the taproom and returned to Julian. ‘Perhaps we can discuss this elsewhere. I suddenly feel all the more ill at ease.’

  ‘Are you rooming here for the night?’

  ‘Yes, but we’ll be gone by dawn.’

  ‘As will I. Have you eaten?’

  ‘No,’ they said in unison.

  ‘Come with me.’ Julian stood and made his way to the counter. Watkins and Tate followed closely behind throwing nervous glances over their shoulder.

  Julian tapped on the counter. The innkeeper rushed to attend him. ‘Send three meals and ale to my room.’ He left payment on the counter.

  The innkeeper passed Jul
ian a large iron key and an unlit candle. ‘Take the stairs. Second on the left.’

  Flickering candles in sconces on the walls lit the way up the narrow stairwell and down the hall. Floorboards creaked underfoot. Julian touched the wick of his candle to a flame. He slid the key into the lock and pushed wide the door. ‘Close it behind you.’

  Inside the room, he set the candle in a tin taper pan on the dresser and gestured to the men to take a seat on the narrow bed.

  He leaned one shoulder against the door, arms folded. ‘Now, where do you wish to begin?’

  Watkins looked thoughtful. ‘With Viscount Derby.’

  Chapter Fourteen

  Eloise woke gradually from a deep sleep to a sense of being reborn, of emerging anew, which had everything to do with Zach.

  He’d made love to her.

  He’d made her a woman, leaving her sated, in awe of her own body and its reaction to his touch. He’d unlocked for her the secret of pleasure and physical union between a man and a woman.

  One hand slid across the sheet in search of his solid strength. ‘Zach?’ Disappointment stung her; the bed was empty and the sheet cold where he’d lain.

  ‘Zach? Are you here?’ The silence suggested duty had called. It wasn’t fair to begrudge his responsibility to ship and crew. She gathered the blanket around her, breathing in the hints of a wondrous night. She touched a hand between her legs where liquid heat pooled. Her body thrummed with the knowledge of having had him inside her.

  Zach. He’d looked so –

  She froze. In shock, her eyes snapped open.

  There! For a fraction of a second, in less than a blink of her lashes she detected light, like peeking through a key-hole to glimpse a summer’s day. Last night she’d seen his face. So his image hadn’t been a desperate act of her imagination? She threw back the blanket and sat up.

  Heart pounding, she took a deep breath, held it, puffed it out, and breathed in again. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and sat unmoving, staring at the widening scope of light. Dry eyes forced her to blink. Irregular lines and indiscriminate shapes came into view in faded shades of colour.