The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  He stood there for a moment, looking at her. Then he reached out and gently took her arm. "Certainly. Whatever you want. But this won't be the end of this conversation. I won't give up on you."

  Meg didn't answer. She didn't know what to say.

  Kincaid paced the length of the yard, stretching his long legs. It was so cold out tonight that his lungs ached with each breath he took, but he needed the time alone, the time to think. It was a clear night, illuminated by a three-quarters moon that hung in the sky above the city. The stars twinkled overhead, their beauty reminding him that there was indeed a God in the heavens.

  "I want to marry you? I'll give you babies," Kincaid muttered aloud. "I can't believe I said that!" He struck himself in the forehead with the heel of his hand. "Fool!" That was no way to woo a woman like Meg.

  Although she would admit to nothing, he knew she was a highborn lady. He could hear it in her speech. He could see it in the way she carried herself. And ladies didn't want to hear of such domestic drivel. Kincaid had enough experience to know they wanted to be told how beautiful they were, how sexually alluring.

  Kincaid gave a snort. He didn't know what was wrong with him. No woman had ever affected him like this before. No woman had ever made him say and do such foolish things. Of all the women he had known in his lifetime, from common whores to duchesses, no one had ever made him feel like this inside.

  Meg . . . Meg. She had him rattled. She was so feminine and yet she had the strength Kincaid had thought possible only in a man. She was bright; she was strong-willed.

  Kincaid reached the high stone wall of the gaol yard and turned on his heels to go the other way.

  Meg led him to believe she had committed some terrible sin, yet he could not imagine it possible. The truth was, he didn't care. He saw the woman she was. He saw the tenderness, the intelligence, and that was all that mattered to him. Monti had always warned him he would fall in love one day and that when he did it would hit him like a lead weight. He would give Monti credit where credit was due. Be damned if Meg hadn't hit him hard.

  "This is madness," Kincaid said gruffly, throwing up his hands. He startled a pigeon on its roost on the wall and it took flight, its wings beating in the frigid air. "I can't love this woman." She could never love you, whispered a voice inside his head. No one could. Wasn't that what his father said?

  Kincaid stopped in the center of the small walled yard and stared up at the moon. His father. The sick bastard. What kind of man would say that to a six-year-old boy?

  What kind of man would still remember thirty years later . . . still half believe it?

  He sighed, rubbing his arms briskly for warmth as he headed toward the door where some turnkey waited to let him inside the gaol again . . . for a price of course.

  Tomorrow Monti would be coming to visit him and Meg. Hopefully, the bribes would be taken care of and he would have word of their release. Once Kincaid was outside the walls of Newgate, he would be able to think with a clearer head. Outside these walls his feelings for Meg would make more sense to him. He rapped on the outside door with his cold knuckles. He hoped they would make more sense . . . he prayed.

  Five

  Percival Randall, the Earl of Rutledge, stood in the library doorway, tapping the toe of his slipper. He was dressed for bed in a flannel banyon and a skull cap to keep his balding head warm. "Hurry, men," he ordered through clenched teeth.

  The two servants came barreling down the dark hallway, one dressed in stockings and breeches, the other, barefoot in his holey nightgown.

  The earl pointed into the well-lit library, shrieking. "Who dusted today?"

  "I . . . I did, my Lord." Tom came to halt before his master and lowered his head subserviently.

  "And . . . and I," Sam admitted, stopping beside the other servant. Neither man made eye contact with the earl.

  Rutledge plucked at the callused deformity on his upper lip. "What are the rules?"

  "Gl . . . gloves," answered one man.

  "She . . . sheep's wool rags on . . . only," responded the other.

  The earl glanced over the servants' heads, his hand aching to slap them both. Why was it that for the sum of money he paid these two donkey's asses, they could not follow simple directions? "And how far from the end of the shelf must the spines be!" His voice echoed off the walls.

  "One—"

  "One Rutledge knuckle," Tom finished for Sam.

  The earl curled his finger, beckoning the servants into his library. The room was wall to wall, floor to ceiling bookshelves, and on those shelves was displayed one of the finest collections of leather-bound books in the world. Hundreds of tomes lined the walls, writings by Sir Thomas Malory, Machiavelli, Sir Thomas More, Michael Drayton, and John Milton.

  Rutledge led them to the far wall, near the window. He pointed.

  Both men leaned to stare.

  "Do you see that?" the earl snapped, indicating the spine of a copy of Chaucer's Book of the Duchess.

  When the servants made no response but to gawk tongue-tied at the book, the earl thrust his finger onto the dusted shelf. "One Rutledge knuckle!" he shouted. "One Rutledge knuckle! Does that look like one Rutledge knuckle to you?" He was shouting so loudly, with such force, that spittle ran from the hole in his palate, over his lower lip, and down his chin. "Does that look like a Rutledge knuckle to you?" he repeated, slapping Sam in the face.

  Sam's cheek reddened, but he didn't flinch. He didn't dare. "No . . . no, my Lord."

  Tom, the braver of the two, reached out with one finger and pushed Chaucer back a hair. "No, my Lord."

  "No, my Lord. No, my Lord," Rutledge mimicked, walking away. He was so angry that he could have broken bones. "Do you think Mister Chaucer would appreciate his life's works set askew on a shelf?"

  The servants stood at the shelf designated for fourteenth-century poets, still staring at the book. Somehow, despite their lack of intelligence, they seemed to sense it was a rhetorical question.

  The earl tapped his foot. "Show me one Rutledge knuckle."

  The servants held up their index fingers, each marked with a thin, deep burn line.

  "Excellent." Rutledge took a deep breath, pleased that he was able to remain so calm, considering the severity of the crime. "Now," he went on, his voice placid. "How shall we repair the damage done?" He lifted his hands toward the domed ceiling painted in fresco by an Italian artist. "What if another tome is amiss? I haven't drawn too close for fear that if I find another blunder, I'll lose my forbearance."

  The two men just stared at the earl, too frightened or lack-witted to move.

  Rutledge made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Check the books! Check the books! Measure them again!"

  "A . . . all of them, my Lord?"

  "Yes, all of them!" Rutledge sprayed Tom with spittle.

  Tom whispered something to Sam beneath his breath and Sam dashed out of the library. Not three minutes later, the servant reappeared, carrying white cotton gloves, each pair with the right index finger missing. The two donned the gloves and moved to the far wall. Hands trembling, they began to measure the distance between the edge of the bookshelf and the spine of each book, book by book.

  The Earl of Rutledge tucked his hands behind his back and walked to the window to stare out at the night. Behind him, on the mantel, a case clock chimed three in the morning. He looked out at the bright three-quarters moon low in the sky. It was a cold night, so cold that when his breath hit the window, it frosted the Italian glass panes.

  "So where the Christ are you, Margaret, dear?" he muttered, staring into the abyss beyond the window. "Where do you hide, you clever little witch?"

  It was because of Margaret that he was awake at three in the morning. It was because of his sister-in-law that he couldn't sleep at night, or concentrate on his business during the day.

  Rutledge pulled on the tie of his flannel robe, giving it a snap. His little brother Philip was dead and his murderess was still free. That was why he couldn't think, h
e couldn't sleep, he couldn't enjoy what he ate.

  It was her fault, that perfect little bitch with her creamy unblemished skin, silken waves of hair, and perfect rosy mouth. He closed his eyes thinking of the fullness of her breasts, a fullness pregnancy had brought on. He thought of the curve of her hips and the length of her legs that he had caught a glimpse of whenever she climbed the grand staircase.

  Rutledge made a fist with one hand, squeezing so tightly that he felt the sharp bite of his own polished fingernails. God above, how he hated her perfection. He sighed. How he had loved it . . .

  He opened his eyes, staring at the window that caught his own reflection from the candlelight behind him. He stared at his twisted mouth, so ugly, so abominated.

  It wasn't fair. He, a man of education, of title, of royal blood by marriage some generations ago, should not be so cursed. It wasn't right, he, a man who so appreciated perfection in art, in music, in literature, should be so devil-cursed.

  Cursed. That was what the yeomen down in the village whispered, though they didn't dare say it aloud. The Rutledge Curse was what they called it. The cottars down the hill were having their perfect mealy-mouthed children while up on the hill, every child born of the Rutledge name, save one, in the last one hundred years had been deformed in some manner or another. He himself had been born with a harelip, Philip with his club foot. Their brother, Morris, had been born with part of his brain exposed. Dear little Jacob, who had lived nearly ten years, had entered this cruel world without legs, but instead, tadpole-like flippers.

  The earl continued to stare at his own hideous reflection. He had never attempted to wed. Women found him abhorrent. But Philip, Philip had been the charming one, his deformity more easily hidden. He'd had three pretty young wives in a row. Mary had given birth to James, a perfect son, but then others had followed, limbs twisted, holes in their faces where mouths should have been. Mary followed her last three children to the grave. Then there had been Anne. Anne had only lasted through two births. She, too, lay beside her deformed children in the graveyard.

  But lastly, lastly had come sweet Margaret. A child. She was here even before Anne met her untimely death on the stairs to the tower. Margaret had grown into such a lovely woman. So perfect. Surely such an icon of perfection would have spawned perfection. But that child had been born harelipped like himself, and when Philip had done away with the abhorrence, as he had with the others, sweet Margaret had killed him.

  Rutledge drew his mouth back tightly in anger. Then the bitch had fled. She had actually thought she could escape him. She thought she would not have to pay for what she had done.

  There was another Rutledge who had fled, a long time ago. James had been perfect, too. Perhaps it was impossible for perfection to survive here at Rutledge Castle . . .

  The earl turned away, passing the two servants, one on a ladder, the other on the floor. Both were still measuring furiously.

  "Put out the light when you're done," he called as he passed them.

  "Yes, my lord."

  "Yes, my lord."

  The earl went down the pitch black passageway, a candle unnecessary, for he had been born in this house. He had spent a lifetime walking these hallways alone and in the darkness. He would go to bed. He would sleep with the aid of a draught. And in the morning he would call his men together and begin a search of his own. He'd not leave it up to the authorities to find her. James had managed to escape. He could do nothing about that now. But Margaret, sweet Margaret would not escape. He would find her and he would punish her. He would punish her for the crime she committed . . . and for her perfection.

  "No, let me stay." Meg hung back. "You go to the gigger, meet with your friend, and I'll just stay here."

  "I'm not leaving you alone, not with Archie breathing on the door." Kincaid pulled her cloak off the wall and held it out for her. "Besides, I want you to meet Monti. He's as good a friend as a man can have."

  Meg remained near the window in indecision. After nearly a month inside these walls, she was ready to move on. Her body physically healed from the birth and her mind stronger, she was anxious to go into the city and seek her fortune. She was also anxious to put a distance between herself and Kincaid. She was growing too comfortable with him, too dependent upon him emotionally. She needed to be on her own and Monti, it seemed, was the key to her release.

  "He's bringing sweets from the bakery," Kincaid said, in an attempt at bribery.

  She laughed at his boyishness. "Kincaid, I'm not a child that I can be bought with cakes."

  "I like cake." He grinned handsomely. "I especially like cake when I can share it with you."

  She rolled her eyes, walking toward him, knowing she had to give in. The flattery he heaped upon her was embarrassing, and yet in some strange way it was very healing. For the first time in her adult life, here was someone who liked her, who thought she was pretty, who was interested in her opinion. At times, it was intoxicating.

  "All right, I'll go."

  He dropped her cloak over her shoulders. "Good, because if you didn't come voluntarily, I'd have had to drag you out."

  She tied the ribbon of the cloak at her throat. "Hah! I made short work of the turnkey, what makes you think I couldn't do the same with you?"

  He laughed as he opened the door and let her pass. "Excellent point, my dearest. Why do you think I sleep on my pallet by the hearth with a blade clutched to my breast. In fear, of course." He locked the door behind him and reached for her arm.

  Meg allowed him to be so familiar with her because it was all part of the farce. She had to play the highwayman's woman if she was to convince others she was indeed Meg Drummond, lady's maid, of the Press Yard as of late. It was all a ploy, she kept telling herself . . . she tried to convince herself.

  Kincaid led Meg through the hallways he was as familiar with as a man would be in his own castle. As they passed other prisoners in the chilled, fetid hallways, both men and women greeted him, speaking with a mixture of awe and admiration. It seemed that Captain Scarlet had quite the reputation among the commoners. For reasons that eluded Meg, they all saw him as some sort of hero, despite the fact that he was a thief.

  "This way," Kincaid intoned, passing a guard to whom he slipped a coin. "Just through these doors, sweet."

  Side by side, her hand in his, the two entered the public visiting room of Newgate, known as the gigger. Here, prisoners were able to meet with friends and loved ones. Food and embraces were shared. Good news and bad news crossed the beaten tables where prisoners and free men sat across from each other.

  The large room was an assault to Meg's senses. It was loud and bright and filled with confusion. It stank of unwashed bodies and despair. Prisoners called out to friends and loved ones, waving. Baskets of food and sometimes coin passed hands. Some couples kissed. Children crawled over the tables to touch their fathers, many of whom had no chance of release.

  Here was also where contraband entered the prison. Kincaid had informed Meg that anything could be had for a price inside the walls of the gaol: clothing, medicine, weapons, drugs to ease pain, poisons to murder. Professional criminals such as pickpockets, clippers, and coiners carried on business from here, ordering employees and collecting fees. It was rumored that somewhere between the walls of Newgate, counterfeit money was being produced to the tune of six thousand pounds per month.

  Meg scanned the room, her heart going out to the men and women on both sides of the tables.

  A woman at a table against a barred window wailed as she held her imprisoned husband's hand. Meg recognized the man as Pete, from the debtors side. Pete owed two pounds to a fishmonger and until he met his debt, he would remain behind the walls of Newgate. Of course, imprisoned, Pete could not earn a wage to repay the fishmonger. Now his eldest son, only nine, worked in a hatter's loft in an attempt to earn enough to keep his mother and four brothers and sisters from starving. To add to their troubles, food had to be brought into the prison to Pete daily, else he would starve. It w
as an unjust system, Meg saw, that discriminated vastly against the poor.

  "There he is!" Kincaid gave a wave and pulled her along. "Monti!"

  Meg took the chipped, painted stool Kincaid offered her. He sat beside her, stretching his broad hand out. "Good to see you, friend."

  Monti was a short man with a broad, ruddy face and bright blue eyes. He wore a long mustache and a pointed goatee on his chin. He was certainly not an ugly man, but nor was he handsome. Of course in Meg's eyes, no one could compare to Kincaid.

  Monti clasped Kincaid's hand, but looked toward Meg.

  "And this is my Meg." Kincaid released Monti's hand and took Meg's again. "A tearing beauty isn't she, Monti?"

  She offered her hand.

  He stood to accept it. "Tearing." His smile was genuine, his grip on her hand firm but gentle.

  Another kind man! Meg couldn't believe her luck. "It's good to meet you, sir," she said shyly. "Kincaid speaks often of you."

  "Not too badly, I hope." He was still smiling.

  "God's teeth," Kincaid muttered, pulling Meg's hand from Monti's. "Could you stop drooling on my wench, Monti, and take your seat?"

  Monti reluctantly turned his attention back to his partner. "How are your accommodations? Are the meals coming from the tavern?"

  "The accommodations are fine. The meat is fine," Kincaid said impatiently. "Now what news have you," he lowered his voice, "of our leave of this fine establishment?"

  "I'm working on the matter. But it takes time." Monti and Kincaid spoke in hushed whispers.

  "I thought you'd have us out by now," Kincaid murmured, glancing at the guard that passed. "I'm itching for a decent bed and a home-cooked meal."

  Monti kept looking at Meg as he spoke. He was obviously taken with her and she couldn't help wondering how Kincaid would handle the matter. Kincaid obviously considered her his property. Philip's jealous rages had been frightening. Were all men the same in the matter of their women?

  "As I said, it's not been easy, seeking your release," Monti went on. "It seems there's been a rise in crime on the highways and some jackanapes has decided something needs to be done about it."