"Approaching," Monti warned as he backed his horse into the cover of the tree line.
Kincaid stepped behind a tree just as he spotted the coach rounding the bend. It was snowing harder now, the snow mixing with sleet, driving sideways. It was a foul night for business. Dangerous. He wiped the wet snow from his eyes and drew his primed pistol. In the dim light of the moon, his gaze met Monti's worried one and he winked. Then he swathed his face in a scarf of red silk drawn from his cloak, and turned to face the approaching vehicle.
The coach rolled down the center of the guttered road and came to a halt at the log that blocked its advance. In the sleet, Kincaid couldn't make out the crest on the coach door, but it had to be Tolliger. What other fool would be out on such a dreary night?
Kincaid took a deep breath, drew a cocky smile, and stepped out of the trees. Rumor had it, it was his laughing eyes that made the ladies swoon. "Stand and Deliver!" he boomed in his best highwayman's voice.
But the moment the words passed his lips, he knew something was wrong. The driver leapt to his feet, swinging a musket from beneath his cloak.
A trap.
The coach door burst open and Kincaid found himself staring down the flared barrel of another musket.
Behind him, Monti gave a cry. Musket fire exploded into the night and the driver fell from his perch into the mud. The coach horses shied, and the vehicle began to roll backwards as more men poured from its door.
Soldiers. Blast them to hell!
Kincaid spun on the balls of his feet.
"Coming for you!" Monti shouted, barreling at a full gallop toward him.
"Alive! I want them alive!" ordered one of the king's soldiers.
Everything was happening so quickly. The wink of an eye. Yet in Kincaid's head, all seemed to move at quarter speed. He saw the frightened whites of the soldiers' eyes as they lunged for the infamous highwayman known as Captain Scarlet. He heard the pounding of hoofbeats as Monti approached.
Kincaid knew all he need do was reach up as his companion rode by and they would be able to escape two astride.
But then he remembered the woman hidden in the trees. He couldn't abandon her. The soldiers would surely arrest her as an accomplice. It would be his fault. She'd be in Newgate and he'd be drinking in the ordinary by dawn.
"Go on without me!" Kincaid shouted to Monti, turning to run in the opposite direction.
"Captain!"
"Go!" Kincaid signaled as Monti galloped by.
Kincaid fired in the direction of the oncoming soldiers as he rushed into the woods, heading straight for his Meg. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the stock of the musket as it swung down and cracked him soundly in the head.
The ground rushed up and Kincaid sank in darkness.
Two
"Meg? Meg, can you hear me, sweetheart?"
Margaret heard the voice from a distance, as if she were in a well. The sound echoed hollowly off the walls. Meg? Was the voice talking to her? No one ever called her Meg. No one but Grandmama, and that had been a long time ago.
"Meg. Open your eyes, sweetheart. You're beginning to worry me. Meg, I know you can hear me."
Whose voice was that? Margaret wondered. A man's, but not her husband's and not the earl's. No, this was a kind voice. Besides, Philip was dead, wasn't he?
Frightening memories flooded Margaret's mind. The baby. Philip's rage. The knife. Then blood.
She fought the emotions that overcame her, threatening to drag her down. He killed my baby. He tried to kill me. She was glad he was dead, God save her soul.
"Meg, please. Open your eyes. Let me see the color of those beautiful eyes." The voice was insistent. Someone was stroking her hair.
Margaret felt like she'd been heavily drugged. Either she'd been drugged, or given birth and then run miles in the snow and sleet. She attempted to open her eyes. For some reason the voice sounded familiar. It beckoned her from the well of unconsciousness.
Was she dreaming, or had someone picked her up from the road and put her on his horse?
She remembered the warmth of his broad frame, the sound of his husky voice. He had smelled of ale and tobacco and shaving soap. The voice had rescued her. She remembered now.
But where had the soldiers come from? She remembered the sounds of men shouting and musket fire. Her horse had shied. . . . Surely they had not tracked her from Rutledge Castle so quickly. Surely the earl hadn't—
Margaret's eyelids flew open.
"Green. Of course. I should have known your eyes would be as green as summer grass."
Slowly she focused on a broad, handsome face. He was smiling, smiling at her in a way no man ever had before.
"Who . . . who are you?" she whispered, her voice as dry and cracked as the old midwife's had been. She saw no sign of the earl or his retainer with the limpid eyes.
The man brought a tankard to her parched lips and she sipped the cool water.
He was smiling at her still, as if welcoming a long lost friend . . . or lover. "The name's Captain Scarlet. Your servant . . . Meg."
"I . . . I told you my name was Meg?"
He lifted a dark brow. His shining crown of sleek black hair hung freely about his shoulders, still damp from bathing. "Aye. Is that not your name, mystery woman?"
Margaret knew she had to think quickly. She tried to sit up in the bed. "Yes . . . yes of course. Meg."
He sat down on the edge of the bed so that the blanket tightened about her waist. "You don't sound certain." He was testing the credence of her words, but he didn't seem hostile, only inquisitive.
She lifted the coverlet, glancing beneath it. Sweet heaven, someone had removed the ragged clothing the midwife had provided and put a fresh sleeping gown on her. Her gaze darted about the small room. Suddenly she was frightened. Where was she and who was this man?
The room was small compared to those of Rutledge Castle, perhaps three paces by five. Worn tapestries covered portions of the stone and mortar walls. The space was furnished with pieces that were of good making, but had seen years of hard use. The draperies that covered the windows were nearly threadbare. The tabletops were scarred, the crimson seat cushions tawdry.
"Are we in an inn, sir?" She clutched the blanket tightly to her chin.
He looked away. "I wish it were so, dear." He rose to fill the tankard with water again and she saw that he was a tall man. A giant of a man, more than eighteen hands. "But I fear in my well-meaning, I've put us in a bit of misfortune."
The sound of a woman's cry in the distance made Margaret start. The shriek echoed off the walls. They were in some large building. As she listened harder, she heard more voices, more movement. Somewhere below chains rattled. She looked with frightened eyes at the man called Captain Scarlet. "Where am I, sir?"
It was in that moment of his hesitation that Margaret spotted the bars on the windows, nearly hidden by the draperies. "No," she whispered.
He looked at the window. "I'm sorry. Truly I am. I meant only to take you from the cold." He shrugged. "But then I ran into a bit of trouble with the king's soldiers."
Margaret tried to think clearly. She knew that the next words she spoke might mean her life or death. Was he saying that they were here because of him and not her? Did he truly not know who she was or what heinous crime she had committed?
"Where are we?" she repeated, her voice stronger.
"London."
"London? How?" She looked at his kind face, confused.
"You've been unconscious . . . asleep more than a day. They brought us here—the soldiers. I cared for you myself."
"Where in London?"
He glanced at the tankard in his hand. "Newgate. We're in Newgate, Meg. Thanks to me." He looked up at her. "But I'll get us out. I swear I will."
Margaret nearly laughed out loud. She was in Newgate Prison, the very place she had run from Rutledge Castle to avoid. So the joke was on her . . . no, on the earl, for surely he would never look here for her, would he?
"Coul
d I get you something to eat? Bread? Cheese? There's a bit of goose and a few oysters still left." He pointed to a small table strewn with bowls and platters. Oyster shells were stacked haphazardly on the corner. "Perhaps a little sack posset to clear your head?"
Margaret . . . Meg ran her fingers through her clean hair. She was Meg now. She made the decision in an instant. A new life. She would put the past behind her and begin anew this moment. "How did I get here? Who changed my clothing?" She looked at her bare hands, then her arms. The blood was gone. "Who bathed me?"
"I apologize for my forwardness, but a maid couldn't be hired at the time of day we arrived. I looked the other way when I changed your clothing, I swear I did."
Meg knew her cheeks colored. No man had ever seen her naked, but Philip, and even then it was in the shadows of darkness and candlelight. She knew she should be angry, but instead she felt an odd sense of gratefulness. This Captain Scarlet, this stranger, had done more to care for her than Philip had in fifteen years.
Then a thought came to her, and she felt the heat in her cheeks. If he had stripped her, surely he knew she had only recently given birth. She would still be bleeding. Then she realized she could feel clean rags between her legs. She looked up at him, knowing he knew what had crossed her mind.
Captain Scarlet smiled gently, not in the least embarrassed. "I will not pry, but I feel it necessary to ask. The child—"
Meg looked away. She refused to cry because if she started, she feared she'd never stop. "Dead, sir. Buried in the churchyard." She hoped, she prayed.
"I'm sorry."
She looked at his broad, striking face, into his soft brown eyes with flecks of green, and she knew that he was truly sorry.
Meg laid back down in the bed, her head spinning. She closed her eyes. "We're in Newgate, you say, but not a cell?"
"All is bought and paid for here, sweet. Nothing free. Even those tossed here for debt must pay their way. I rented this room. You'd not be safe below with the commoners, a lady like yourself."
"And how do you know I'm a lady? I was dressed in rags when you found me."
"There's more to a lady than her clothing. I can bear witness to that."
She let her hand fall limply at her side, choosing to change the subject for now. "Might I ask what our crime is? Why did the soldiers bring us here, you and I?"
He came to her with the tankard in his large hand. She was fascinated by his height and breadth. He had a sweeping frame and shoulders like a stable blacksmith's. "Highway robbery, I fear."
Her eyes widened. "You're a highwayman?"
He flashed a charming grin that she intuitively knew could make a woman wilt in her slippers.
"Not exactly."
"You do not rob, sir? The soldiers were mistaken?"
He frowned, his sparkling eyes crinkling at the corners. " 'Tis a difficult matter to explain. Rather complicated."
She closed her eyes to fight off waves of nausea. She felt weak, as if she were barely in control. "It looks as if I have the time. I'm not going anywhere anytime soon, I suspect."
She heard him sigh. A chair scraped wood against wood as he dragged it to the bedside. He sat. "I do halt coaches and request a donation."
"So these men give of their jewels and coin voluntarily?"
"After I strip 'em and tie 'em to a tree they do." He slapped his knee, laughing at his own jest.
Meg opened her eyes. Something in what he said rang familiar. Only last week at the dining table Philip and the earl had been discussing an infamous highwayman the soldiers had been unable to capture. The bold highwayman was said to be swathed in red silk. Not only did he rob the rich, but he stripped the gentlemen and their female companions down to their undergarments and tied them to trees at the roadside for passersby to see. Philip had said the rumor was that the swaggering jade always kissed the women before he departed.
Now she remembered. Philip said his name was Captain Scarlet. "You . . . you're the one I've heard of! You rob a man not only of his purse, but his clothing, as well!"
He chuckled as if she'd paid him a steep compliment. "Aye. That's me. A man must make his mark on the highway these days, else he'll gain no reputation at all."
Meg closed her eyes, genuinely shocked. A highwayman. It was only her luck that the man who would save her would be a common criminal!
"Listen, darling," he said after a moment. "There's really more to the story than meets the common eye. I'm a good man at heart. A Godly man."
This was all too much for Meg to fathom. She had killed her husband who murdered her baby and tried to murder her. She had fled her home. A man had saved her along the roadside from death, a highwayman, and now she was imprisoned alongside him. She drew a deep breath. "Am I imprisoned as a thief, as well?"
His tone lost its amusement. "An accomplice."
"But I did nothing." She thought hard. The last forty-eight hours were a blur in her mind. "At least not that I can recall. But then I can recall very little," she finished lamely.
He propped one black-heeled boot on his knee. "You were with me when I was apprehended. Astride my horse. That makes you an accomplice, sorry I am to say."
She turned her head to stare at the wall beside the bed. The initials R.L.G. and the date 1642 were carved in the stone. "I'll be tried on these false charges?"
"Eventually you would be, but we'll not be behind bars long enough to have our day in court."
"What do you mean?" She looked back at him. "Surely not escape?"
He shrugged his blacksmith's shoulders, grinning. "It's easier than you think." He rubbed his thumb and index finger together. She noticed that his hands were clean, his nails neatly trimmed and polished like a gentleman's. "It takes but the right coin to grease the wheels of justice—or injustice as in our case."
Meg closed her eyes again. "I can't believe this is happening."
There was silence from Captain Scarlet.
After a moment she opened her eyes to look at him, knowing he looked at her. He obviously wanted something. "What?"
"Well, I've told you about myself. Is there anything you want to tell me? We're going to be together awhile. 'Twould make it easier, getting to know you."
"It's not necessary that you get to know me, sir." She bit down on her lower lip, averting her eyes. "I've nothing to say. My past is my past and my affair alone."
"I must ask if you're another man's wife."
"Dead," she answered. "As dead as my babe."
He watched with concern in his gaze. "All right then," he said softly after a moment. "I'll not ask. I've certain matters I wish to share with no one but my Maker." He tucked her blanket beneath the mattress to ward off the chill in the room. "I only want to say I'm sorry for who has hurt you, for what they've done."
Meg looked away, a lump rising in her throat. What an odd thing for a man to say, a stranger. . . . "What makes you think I've been hurt, sir?"
He brushed the back of his hand against her palm, lying open on the blanket. It was an odd gesture, but strangely intimate coming from a man she didn't know. "I can see it in your eyes, Meg. I hear it in your voice."
She looked away, not knowing how to respond. No man, nor woman for that matter, had spoken to her so tenderly in many years.
When she made no reply, he seemed compelled to speak again. "I just want you to know that I won't hurt you. I want to protect you, Meg. Care for you."
She gave a look of skepticism. "You don't know me. You don't know what I've done."
"So tell me. I'll forgive you."
"No."
"Then I forgive you anyway." Before she could respond, he got up from his chair and dragged it back across the plank floor. "I'm going down to the tap room for an ale. I'm mighty dry. Would you like me to bring something when I return? Clean clothing? A bath? Something to eat?"
"No." She turned to the wall, her back to him. Suddenly she was tired. Exhausted! The man didn't make any sense. None of what had happened—was happening—made any sense
to her. It was all beyond belief.
"All right, then," he said at the door. "I won't leave you long." He paused. "Rest."
She heard the door open before she called to him. "Wait."
He was at her bedside in an instant.
She didn't turn to face him. "Your name. I don't know your name."
"I told you, Captain Scarlet. It's what everyone calls me."
She frowned, rolling over to face him. "That's ridiculous. You and I are sharing sleeping quarters, for sweet heaven's sake! I'll not call you anything of the sort. Don't you have a Christian name?"
He grinned. "Feeling better, already, I see. Yes, I have a name. My friends call me Kincaid."
"Kincaid." She rolled over presenting her back to him. "Kincaid," she repeated, liking the sound of it. "Bring me some wine when you return, Kincaid. I prefer claret."
"Yes, Meg. Anything else, sweetheart?"
"Yes. Don't call me that. I'm not your sweetheart."
She heard him chuckling as he closed the door behind him.
Three
Meg pushed the piece of blood sausage around her pewter plate, circumnavigating her peas and onions.
"Sweetheart, you have to eat."
She looked up from the plate at Kincaid. He'd barely left her side for the last week, God bless his soul. Without him, Meg didn't know what she'd have done.
The world of Newgate Gaol was so different from that of Rutledge Castle. It wasn't that Meg had ever been tenderly cared for in Philip's home, but at least the servants had provided a warm hearth and food on the table. Even here, in the privileged rented rooms of the Press Yard, Kincaid had explained patiently, common needs had to be sought out and paid for. Inside the walls, a prisoner was at the mercy of the corrupt men and women employed there. Through bribery, anything could be obtained, but at an exorbitant cost.
There was the laundress who kept the fire lit and brought fresh candles and bedding each day. There were meals to be brought in from a tavern on Holborn Street by the turnkey. There was the daily rent on the room to be paid to the jailer, plus a long list of fees like easement that Meg still didn't quite understand. But Kincaid had been here for her. He had provided the knowledge and the coin to keep her safe and in relative comfort.
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 2