It was near midnight and the keeper of Newgate was not expecting him, but the earl knew that as soon as he sent Higgins in with his name, the keeper would make haste to receive such an important man. No one in London dared not show Rutledge every courtesy, for fear of retribution. Theirs had been one of the few families that had gotten away with switching allegiances to whomever was in power. The earl was in favor with the king, just as he had been in favor with Cromwell only a few years ago. It was said the Rutledge hand reached as far as Paris and as deep as a man's soul. It had been that way for more than a hundred years . . . since the curse began.
The earl sighed heavily. The inside of the coach was cold and dank. It smelled of wet leather and the garlic Higgins wore around his neck to ward off the threat of plague.
The carriage lurched sideways and the flickering lamp nearly went out, drowning in its own stinking oil.
Higgins grabbed the edge of the seat, his already pale face going whiter.
Rutledge chuckled. He enjoyed seeing men in distress, especially eels like Higgins. He glanced out the window again as the carriage righted itself. "Relax, Higgins," he offered, bored. "Once I find my dear sister-in-law, we'll settle in my town house for the night. Think of a warm bed and a tiny white ass snuggled against you."
Higgins made no reply but to look up at his master.
The earl smiled to himself, glancing away, staring out into the darkness through the window.
The vicar had come immediately to him. It seemed the old man thought he had spotted the Lady Surrey in the visiting room of the gaol no less. The interesting aspect of his observation was that he swore she was on the prisoners' side.
Imagine that! His sweet Margaret, a prisoner. What crime could the little mouse have committed? The idea was absurd, but the vicar seemed so sure of himself that the earl chose to investigate the matter personally. He had business with Buckingham anyway, so even if his sister-in-law did not surface, the trip would not be a wasted one.
The carriage turned sharply, then rolled to a halt. Outside, the earl could hear his driver speaking to a guard. After a moment the iron gates swung open and the coach was permitted to pass through. They had arrived at Newgate.
Higgins immediately alighted from the carriage, raising his hood to shield himself from the elements. A good five minutes passed before he returned, soaked, his face twisted in an agitated frown. He hoisted himself back into the coach and slumped onto the seat opposite Rutledge, slamming the door behind him.
"Well?" the earl demanded.
Higgins gave a loose bag a shove, making room for himself on the seat. He pushed back his hood so that the earl could see his ugly face. "The keeper, it seems, my lord, is presently occupied."
"Then tell him to leave his warm bed and his whore or there will be hell to pay!"
Higgins wiped the rain from his pox-scarred face. "I told the turnkey that you must see the keeper at once, but he insists he's preoccupied. We've been invited into the keeper's private apartments for warm refreshment and he will meet with you just as soon as he can."
The earl picked up the gold-tipped cane left leaning against his seat and tossed it angrily. Higgins covered his head with his arms, lest he be struck. "Does he realize who I am? Does he know his position could be in danger, should he not attend to me immediately?"
Higgins winced with each word the earl sputtered. "He . . . he says his position will be in jeopardy if he does not deal with the present matter at hand."
"And what matter is that that's more important than mine?" The earl showered Higgins with spittle.
Higgins's eyelids fluttered. "A jail break, my lord. It seems one of the inmates is attempting to escape . . ."
Seven
Meg ran down the unlit corridor beside Kincaid. He said they couldn't risk carrying a candle, so the moment they stepped out of their Press Yard room, they were launched into darkness. Fearful of tripping, she had pulled the hem of her gown up on both sides and looped it through a leather belt she'd borrowed from Kincaid. Tucked in the belt, as heavy on her mind as on her waist, she wore a primed pistol.
After a few moments of following Kincaid by the mere sound of his footfall, Meg's eyes began to adjust to the darkness.
"Steps," Kincaid instructed so softly that she wasn't certain if he spoke or she had heard his thoughts.
Meg brushed her hand against the cold, wet wall. Her footsteps echoed on the stone risers so loudly that she feared everyone in the prison could hear her. A rat scurried past and she gasped, flattening herself against the wall, but she made no sound. One sound, one step in the wrong direction, Kincaid had warned stoically, might betray them. And if they were caught, he said, she'd be hanged, he'd be drawn and quartered. No questions asked.
At the bottom of the staircase, at the entrance to the Press Yard and Castle where she and Kincaid had been held, they turned toward the common felons' side. She knew which way they went, not because she recognized the narrow passageway, but because she had memorized Kincaid's sketch of the prison's layout.
Kincaid stopped suddenly and pressed his back to the wall. Meg did the same. Ahead, footsteps echoed. Someone was approaching.
Meg stared at her highwayman by the dull light that escaped through a crack in a closed door. He was armed with two blunderbuss pistols and a blade tucked into the waistband of his breeches. Dressed in tight sailcloth breeches and a dark brown shirt open to the middle of his chest, he had discarded his coat, and cloak. He had tied his hair back with a red sash wrapped around his forehead so that he appeared more like a Caribbean pirate than a footpad.
But what was even more startling to Meg than the odd costume or the fortitude of his weapons, was the look in his eyes. This was not the man she had spent the last month with. This was some stranger, focused and intent upon escape. Behind in their cell he had left his gentleness. This man standing beside her, waiting, watching, was the epitome of strength and brawn. All six foot three of his stature was muscle and power. He appeared to Meg to be a man looking for a fight.
She brushed her lips with her fingertips, remembering the kiss they had shared just before they slipped out the door of the cell. In the last three days there had been many shared kisses, each one building on the last until Meg feared she would explode. But thankfully, Kincaid had made no attempt to touch her intimately. She was thankful, because if he had, she knew she would have been powerless to stop him, to stop herself. To touch and be touched was what they both wanted . . . needed.
That was why Meg had to run. She couldn't become intimately involved with Kincaid. The man was a highwayman, a common thief. And she was a murderess. She had to run, to hide from the Earl of Rutledge. She couldn't become involved with a man right now, perhaps she never could.
Meg peered into the darkness, listening as the footsteps came closer.
Kincaid held up two fingers. Two men.
She nodded.
Slowly Kincaid inched his way toward an impression in the wall of the corridor. It was only a slight indentation, perhaps eight to ten inches deep. It looked to be a doorway that had been walled up years ago.
Kincaid slid over, making room for her, and she imitated his action, pressing herself into the tiny alcove. She willed herself to become invisible.
The footsteps grew closer. Meg could hear the men's voices now. She tried to breathe steadily like Kincaid, staring straight ahead.
"So I says to Tadpole, you either pay yer debt or yer feedin' the fish on the black bottom of the Thames."
The other man cackled. "And what'd he say then, Artie?"
Artie was one of the guards. Meg remembered him from church services on the third floor where all the prisoners were herded every Sunday. Artie was missing one eye and wore a leather patch over it.
"He started sweatin' hard and makin' excuses." Artie snorted. "Hog crap! I love to see a man sweatin'!"
The other guard laughed with him. The men passed by the alcove where Meg and Kincaid stood, so close she could smell on their
clothing the bacon the men had eaten for supper.
Meg held her breath as the two guards passed, exhaling only after they turned the corner in the corridor.
Kincaid slipped from the alcove, on his way again, and Meg followed. All around her she could hear the night sounds of the prison. Even though it was midnight, it could have been noon for the sounds that reverberated off the miserable walls. The air was filled with the cries of men and women. For the inmates there seemed to be no day or night, only the endless hours of dim light and hopelessness. Meg could hear laughter; she could hear screams. Chains clanged. Doors slammed shut. From somewhere above she heard the groans of a man being satisfied, perhaps by a woman, perhaps by his own hand. All of the sounds mingled until they were one, sounds she knew would haunt her forever.
The odd thing was that as they walked through the prison no one of authority seemed to be about. The turnkeys and guards who were normally stationed in different sections of the prison were oddly absent. Was that how bribes for breakouts worked? A man simply paid the authorities to look the other way?
Kincaid stopped and Meg was so intent upon trying to ignore the cries of a woman that she bumped into him. He turned to her, the look on his face chastising. No mistakes, his expression said.
Meg watched as he tapped lightly on a wood and iron door. After a moment it swung open. She stepped directly behind Kincaid as he put out his hand to pay their passage. In return, the man at the door turned his back and allowed them to pass through. Behind her, she heard the door bang shut and the iron lock turn.
Please get me out of here safely, Meg prayed in silence. Though so far their escape had gone smoothly, the closer she got to the outer walls, the more frightened she became. She had never seen a man drawn and quartered, but her imagination was sufficient to know that she didn't want that for Kincaid. No man should have to die such a gruesome death.
Kincaid led Meg down another stone corridor. On the floor above, she suddenly heard commotion. Men were shouting. There were footsteps hard and fast on the floorboards above.
Kincaid looked over his shoulder, their gazes meeting. Without words he conveyed the same thought that ran through her mind. Had their escape been detected?
Meg had wanted to ask what their chances of escaping would be if they were detected, but she didn't dare speak. Her nerves were stretched so taut that she was shaking from head to foot, but she kept up with Kincaid, her lifeline.
How much farther could freedom be?
Something banged into Meg's leg and she gave an involuntary cry. She stumbled, going down on one knee, and Kincaid grabbed her hand, yanking her to her feet.
She clutched her breast, her heart pounding. A mop and bucket! She had tripped over a mop and bucket left in the hallway. She almost laughed at herself and her own foolishness. She was just being skittish. Kincaid said the bribes had been paid. The wheels of the gates had been greased. They would slip out of Newgate and into the London streets without anyone ever knowing they were gone.
They started up another staircase and Meg hurried behind Kincaid, resting her hand on the small of his back for guidance. Halfway up the staircase, he turned unexpectedly and started down again.
"What?" The words were barely out of her mouth when she heard the pounding footsteps coming directly toward them, down the staircase.
"Halt!" a gravelly voice commanded.
Kincaid grabbed her arm, and broke into a run, leaving Meg no choice but to keep up. Lantern light came from behind them, filling the corridor with shadows. A shot was fired and the lead bullet whizzed past them to strike a wall and ricochet back.
They kept running.
Now Meg could smell the stench of the black powder. Acrid smoke lingered in the dank air.
"Run! Faster!" He was half pushing her, half dragging her.
Meg could hear the footsteps pounding in back of her. The guards were not more than twenty paces behind them. Her lungs ached. Her heart was racing.
Down another corridor, left, through a doorway, right, down another corridor. Kincaid seemed to know where he was going. Meg was completely lost.
"Halt," the voice called again. "You cannot escape! Give yourselves up, Scarlet, and we'll be lenient on the woman!"
"Faster," Kincaid hissed in her ear.
"I'm trying," she moaned, her slippered feet pounding on the damp flagstones.
"Plead belly."
"What?" She shook her head in confusion. "Plead belly? I don't understand."
"If we're caught, plead belly. Tell them you're going to have a child. It will keep you from the noose. Give Monti time to get you out."
He meant if they were caught. If he was killed. Meg ran faster.
They made two more turns, putting more distance between themselves and the angry guards pursuing them.
"This way," Kincaid whispered. He turned down a narrow hallway that appeared in the darkness to be a dead end. Ahead loomed a stone wall.
Meg was trembling from head to foot as they came to a halt. She could hear the guards behind them. She leaned over gripping her stomach, panting from the exertion. Kincaid had made a wrong turn, an error. An error that would cost them their lives.
But to Meg's surprise, rather than turning to prepare to defend himself, Kincaid dropped down on all fours and began to slam his fist against the wall. "It's here somewhere," he muttered. "But, damn you to hell, Monti, where?"
"They're coming," Meg whispered, more afraid for Kincaid than for herself. "What are we going to do?"
Then she heard the sweet sound of scraping wood and stone. Out of the flat stone wall, a small door miraculously appeared. Kincaid swung it open and gestured for her to pass. It was pitch dark beyond the secret door, but what choice did Meg have? Without another thought, she dove through the hole. Kincaid followed behind her, swinging the door shut.
Meg laid on her hands and knees for a moment, trying to collect her wits. Behind the door she could hear the guards shouting and cursing. Something about 'disappearing into thin air.'
Finally she picked her head up, only to strike it on the ceiling. They were in some kind of tunnel. "Kincaid?" she whispered.
"Here." He reached to touch her, his hand accidentally caressing her bottom. "I'm here; let me pass and lead the way."
She squeezed herself against the cold, sweating stone of the wall. "The pleasure is mine, sir."
With a dry chuckle, he passed her on his hands and knees. Meg followed. She hated enclosed places. She felt like she was inside a coffin, but she'd come too far now to turn back. If Kincaid said this was the way to safety, then this was the way Meg was going.
She didn't know how far they traveled on their hands and knees, but it seemed like miles. Thankfully, there were no rodents or insects inside the stone tunnel, but it was pitch black and cold and wet. As she crawled, she felt completely disoriented. Her pounding heart was in her throat. Could Kincaid really get them out of Newgate alive?
The air inside the tunnel was stale and cloistering, but slowly Meg began to feel moving air. At first it was just a wave of fresh air, barely a breath. Then another. Meg breathed deeply taking in great gulps of the air that had to be coming from outside the prison walls.
When Kincaid halted, Meg stopped. "Are we there?" she whispered. "Does this lead outside the gates?"
"Almost."
Her heart sank a little. Freedom meant fresh air and a chance at that new life, but freedom also meant parting. She wasn't going to tell Kincaid goodbye. He would only argue with her, perhaps even try to physically restrain her. Once they were outside the prison, on the street, she would just run.
"This leads to a small courtyard, where the vehicles come and go. We've but to pass through the courtyard. A gatekeeper with coin in his palm will open the gate on the far side." She heard Kincaid take a deep breath. "So are you ready, sweet?"
"Ready," she whispered.
They crawled another length before Kincaid stopped and pushed another door. A rush of fresh air poured into the t
unnel and Meg closed her eyes in pleasure. It was raining. She could smell it. And the air was cold, but she didn't care. The rain and the cold were freedom; they were a new life.
Kincaid disappeared ahead, then she felt his hand reach back into the tunnel for her. She gripped it and allowed him to pull her out.
Rain immediately struck her bare face and she put out her tongue to catch a drop.
Kincaid still held her hand. "This way," he whispered, pointing.
Meg stared through the darkness. They had to pass a waiting coach to reach the gate which was barely visible in the driving rain.
"Ready?"
She turned to him, "I'm ready, but thank you." She threw her arms around his neck. The hood of her cloak fell back on her shoulders. The cold rain hit her hard in the face, but it felt good.
"Whoa. We're not out yet, sweet. But there'll be plenty of time for you to express your appreciation once we're on the other side of that wall."
"Thank you anyway," she whispered. Then she lifted up on her toes and kissed him hard on the mouth, hugging him. "Thank you so much."
When she looked into his eyes, he was looking at her strangely. "Women," he muttered. Then he took her by the hand. "Let's go."
They were halfway across the dark courtyard, just passing the coach and four when light appeared behind them. "There they go!" a man shouted. "I found them!"
"Through the gate," Kincaid hissed under his breath as he turned to draw his knife. "It's unlocked. Monti'll pick you up on Holborn."
Meg backed up through the mud puddles. Guards were pouring from the prison entryway. She heard a dog growl ferociously. "What about you?" She grabbed Kincaid's sleeve, afraid for him.
"I'll be coming directly." He dashed at the rain in his eyes. "Now get the hell out of here whilst I hold them off."
Meg took one look at the guards, then another at Kincaid.
"Go!" he ordered.
Meg made a run for the gate. Sure enough, it was unlocked. Just as she slipped through, she saw the first guard attack Kincaid. She knew she should run, but she couldn't make her legs move. From outside the gate, she peered inside.
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 7