The guard that advanced on Kincaid had a club. He swung it over his head to crack Kincaid, but Kincaid was too fast for him. He moved so quickly that Meg didn't see the knife. Suddenly the guard howled and pulled back. By the light of the lanterns she saw blood gushing from the guard's forearm.
Slowly Kincaid was backing toward the gate. Another guard advanced, this one with a wooden staff. He swung it viciously at Kincaid's head. Kincaid ducked. He bobbed, he wove. Then with one leap forward, he managed to grasp the opposite end of the man's staff and rap him on the head with it. Now Kincaid had his knife and the guard's staff.
Then someone sicced the dogs on him. A yellow and a black hound charged, barking and snarling. Meg cringed. If the dogs attacked Kincaid, their powerful jaws would tear him apart. The dogs circled him, drawing closer. Kincaid moved slowly, still backing toward the gate. Both dogs lunged at the same instant. Kincaid raised the staff and struck the yellow one in the head. With one booted foot, he caught the other hound in its belly. The dogs yipped in unison. The yellow one was knocked unconscious. The black one just lay on the ground rolling and yelping.
"Hey! He hurt my hounds! The bastard tried to kill my hounds!"
Kincaid was nearly to the gate now. Meg knew she should run. This was her chance. She could be gone before Kincaid escaped from the prison courtyard. But what if he didn't escape? There were so many guards now. She stood in frightened silence, watching, in awe of how lithely her highwayman moved.
Kincaid swung his knife again and again, slicing the air with the steel blade. He struck another guard and when a fourth advanced on him, he caught him clean in the thigh. Meg wondered why Kincaid didn't just shoot them with the pistols on his belt, but she sensed it had something to do with his strange ethics. Apparently he could rob, he could shoot and wound English soldiers attempting to stop him, but he didn't want to kill prison guards.
The courtyard was filled with confusion. The skies had opened up in a downpour. Men were shouting. There was more light. Someone of authority in a black cloak, the jailkeeper no doubt, stood near the crested coach barking orders, calling for more guards. Another man was dragging the injured dogs across the courtyard.
Kincaid had nearly reached the gate now. It would be safe for Meg to run. But still, she hesitated. She turned to look up and down the dark, deserted street of Old Bailey. She could see the hired hackney coach waiting in the shadows. A man stood at the door, cloaked in black. It had to be Monti.
Kincaid burst through the gate, slamming it shut. "Let's go, Meg," he snapped, throwing out his hand for her. She had already turned right onto Old Bailey instead of following Holborn Street. There were perhaps twenty paces between her and Kincaid.
Meg took one look at Kincaid and the hackney beyond him, and ran.
"No, Meg!" She heard him swear foully. "This way."
She ran along the prison wall, down the street. "Go," she called over her shoulder. "Get the hackney and go."
"Not without you!"
The guards burst through the prison gate. "There they go!" came one shout after another.
"Stop them! Stop the bastard or it'll be your hides!"
Meg ducked down an alley, running as hard as she had ever run in her life.
"Meg!"
"Just let me go," she cried over her shoulder.
"No!" She ran through the maze of fetid alleys between the main streets. It was raining so hard that it was difficult to see. She needed a place to hide. She couldn't outrun Kincaid. But everywhere the shops were locked up. Doors closed. She raced around a dog cart, climbed over a barrel of stinking fish.
She turned a corner, out of Kincaid's sight. God help her if he caught her, because he was enraged.
She turned another corner, out of breath. Her clothes were so water-soaked that they were becoming heavy. She was tripping over her skirts that had come undone from Kincaid's belt. She couldn't run much farther. Then she heard the guards and their dogs again. They were on another street, perhaps in another alley, but they were still chasing her Kincaid.
She wondered why Kincaid didn't just give up his pursuit of her and make a run for it. For sweet God's sake, Monti was waiting with a coach. The guards were on foot.
Meg tripped over something in the street and fell headlong, striking her hand on a wooden gate. A gate in the alley? On her hands and knees, she fumbled for the latch in the blinding rain. The alleyway off the alley was so small, it was barely visible, the gate so narrow, she had to turn sideways to get through.
Meg slammed the gate behind her and set the latch. She was in a tiny courtyard with only the gate and a door that led into a building. A private home, perhaps. She checked the door, but it was locked. She was trapped if anyone found the gate, but if they missed it, she was safe.
Exhausted, Meg found an old crate to sit on and drew it under the eaves to get out of the rain.
"Meg?"
When she heard Kincaid's threatening voice, she froze. What would he do with her if he caught her? Would he react like Philip? Philip's anger was always accompanied by a cuff to the chin. Or would Kincaid be able to control his temper as she had seen him do in the past. She shivered in the rain. A part of her wanted to answer him when he called.
She heard his footsteps pounding, water splashing as he went by. "Meg? Damn it! Where the holy hell are you?"
She held her breath.
He passed by.
Not three minutes later, two or three men and a barking dog ran by. Guards. She prayed Kincaid got away.
Once the men passed, the little alcove was quiet again. Minutes passed. Then an hour. The rain still fell and Meg huddled under her wet cloak, trying to stay warm. Suddenly she felt so alone. Kincaid was gone. Surely by now Monti had picked him up and they had disappeared into the London night.
So now where did she go? She had no money. No possessions. Only the clothes Kincaid had given her and the loaded pistol on her waist. She supposed she could sell the blunderbuss for money, to eat and for a room to stay in. But she would have to find employment eventually, else she'd starve or freeze to death.
Time dragged on. Kincaid and the prison guards were long gone, but Meg hesitated to leave her alley. Still, it would be dawn soon. She had to go somewhere. Maybe she'd find a tavern and get a hot meal. There she could dry out and collect her thoughts. A hot toddy would do wonders for her outlook on her situation right now.
Slowly, Meg rose from her crate, her bones stiff from sitting so long in the cold and rain. Cautiously, she opened the gate and peered out into the alley. She could see nothing, but the black night had turned to gray. The rain had stopped.
Meg stepped into the alley, listening for any sound of the men who had pursued them. She heard a cat meow. Somewhere overhead in the two-story building a woman shrieked for her husband to get his lazy arse out of bed.
Meg walked down the alley to its exit onto the street.
"There you are, you ungrateful jade!"
Kincaid.
Meg swung around in astonishment. Where did he come from?
Before she could speak, he grabbed her roughly by the shoulders. "Let me go!"
"Shut up."
She struggled. "Let me go, Kincaid. I don't want to go with you!"
"Shut up before someone hears you!" He dragged her along the dark street. There were a few men and women about now, shopkeepers, those employed in stables and wealthy households.
"Let me go!" she insisted under her breath, angry at him for thinking he could force her to do what she didn't want to do. So, he was no different than any man, than Philip and his brother.
He turned the corner and stopped at a hired, closed coach. "Get inside." She could hear the edge to his voice that came just before he lost his temper.
"Kin—"
He grabbed her around the waist, opened the coach door, and shoved her inside. "Go!"
Even before he climbed inside, the coach lurched forward and he made a jump for it. The door slammed shut and he fell onto the seat.
>
Meg looked up from where she lay in a heap on the floor. The coach was rolling fast down the street, swaying so that she could barely balance herself as she climbed onto the seat. "Bastard! This is kidnapping."
He grabbed the handle that came out of the wall, steadying himself as she was thrown against him when the coach careened around a corner. "Kidnapping? After that stunt you pulled, you're lucky I didn't wring your pretty little neck . . ."
Eight
"I cannot believe she escaped in a futtering jail break! And with a highwayman, no less!" The Earl of Rutledge stood in the center of the bedchamber of his London townhouse. He was clothed in an East Indian dressing gown, his wig removed, with a silk turban around his nearly bald head.
Percival had arrived from Newgate at almost three in the morning and roused his caretaker from his bed. The man had not been expecting his master, as Percival had not sent word he was coming. Since then, the fire on the marble hearth in his lordship's bedchamber had been lit and tallow candles illuminated the room in the hour before dawn. Most of the furniture was still covered with its dust drapes.
"Y . . . yes, my lord. A jailbreak." Higgins stood inside the bedchamber door, but out of striking distance of his master.
"And was she my brother's wife?" Percival had never had an opportunity to speak to the keeper, but Higgins had talked to one of the guards at the gaol.
"Well, could be. The woman who escaped went by the name of Meg Drummond, but she resembled the Lady Surrey."
The Earl of Rutledge sipped sherry from a fluted glass. In his anger, some of the red spirit trickled down his chin. "And what, out of curiosity, was this woman incarcerated for, Higgins?"
"Highway robbery, my lord. She was a rum-pad's wench."
"What did you say?" Rutledge boomed.
"This . . . this Meg Drummond, she was arrested for being an accomplice to attempted robbery. Along with a well-celebrated highwayman, Captain Scarlet." Higgins cringed with his own last words.
"Highway robbery!" Rutledge spat, sending sherry sputtering into the air. "And you think this jade could have been my sister-in-law? A highwayman's whore indeed. S'death, Higgins, have you lost what little sense you ever possessed?"
"No. Yes. I . . . I don't know, sir. I mean I don't know if it was her. I'm trying to get information on the arrest."
"Margaret, an accomplice to robbery?" The notion was so preposterous that now he thought it was funny. "Chaste little Margaret would be less likely to play a part in such a crime than I would be to sprout wings and fly over the London Bridge!"
"Yes, my lord."
"So why are you wasting my time, Higgins? The wench who escaped couldn't have been my little Margaret."
"It is a coincidence, sir, that the woman's name was Meg and that she was arrested on the road from Kent to London the same night your brother, Lord Surrey, was murdered. I just thought that I would—"
"Do I pay you to think, Higgins?"
The servant held himself erect in the doorway. "N . . . no, sir. Not usually."
The earl wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Then restrain yourself from doing so." He set his glass on a draped table. "I want her found."
"Yes, my lord."
"She's here. I can smell her. I want her."
"Yes, my lord."
Rutledge glanced about his bedchamber. "I've decided I'll stay in London for a time. I want the house opened. I want my clothing and personal items brought from Rutledge."
"Right away, my lord."
"And I want her found. Not tomorrow, not next week." He was spitting again. "Today, preferably this morning. Surely the woman could not have gone far. Christ's blood, she barely had enough sense to find her own way back from the shit-house!"
"Well, it has been more than a month, sir. She's obviously—"
"Higgins!"
The man dropped his cold-eyed gaze to the hardwood floor. "My lord?"
"I want no excuses. I simply want her found."
"If you don't mind my asking, sir." Higgins looked at him with his gray, shark eyes "How do you propose I find a particular woman in Londontown? It . . . it has grown rather large since the king returned."
"I do mind your asking!" Rutledge snapped. "Must I do everything myself? Check with any relatives we have here in town, no matter how far from the castle wall the lineage might be. Then check the markets. The woman must eat! Check every tavern and house that rents to women without escorts. Look in the Royal Exchange for bloody Christ's sake. Where else would a woman go, but to buy trinkets?" He was now counting off on his fingers. "The parks. The theater. Listen to the gossip. A lady of her ilk just doesn't disappear. Someone has seen her and someone has aided her!"
"As you wish, my lord."
"Now, go." He fluttered his hand in a dismissal. "I must have some sleep. Hire what servants are needed to run the household."
"I'll take care of the matter, my lord."
Rutledge sat down on the edge of his bed, made with fresh linens he brought in his own travel bags. "And Higgins . . ."
The man stopped in the doorway, but did not turn to face the earl. It was a game Higgins played, to act subservient one moment, discourteous the next. The earl only tolerated it because the dog couldn't be easily replaced.
"Get me an invitation to the king's next supper. I've been away from court too long."
"Yes, my lord."
He closed the door behind him and Percival laid back on a heap of pillows. His Margaret a highwayman's whore, indeed! He leaned over to blow out a candle, laughing aloud.
Kincaid dragged Meg by her arm along a narrow street. In the early morning hours there were few people about. Doors were closed, shutters drawn. They must have been very near to the Thames because she could smell it. "Where are you taking me?" she demanded angrily. Monti trailed behind them.
"You deserve to go straight to hell after that trick." Kincaid gave her arm a jerk, forcing her to keep up. "I spent four hundred pounds and risked my life to get you out of crapings! "
She jerked her arm out of his hand. "I didn't ask for your help! I never asked for anything! I certainly didn't ask for you to pick me up and drag me into your criminal behavior."
"You'd rather I'd left you on that road to freeze to death?"
"I'd rather not have ended up with lice in Newgate!" she snapped.
"Just like a woman." Kincaid looked at Monti, pointedly ignoring Meg. "Never happy. No matter what you give a wench, what you do, it's never enough."
Meg glanced up at the boarded windows that loomed on both sides of the narrow street. A vender walked by hawking breakfast breads. It was a strange place, somehow different than the London street she had studied from the Press Yard window. "You still haven't told me where we are."
Monti hurried to catch up, flanking her side. "Ram Alley, in Whitefriars, Mrs. Drummond."
Meg glanced at Monti. She noticed he addressed her as Mrs. rather than Miss and she was thankful for his tact. Miss was a term reserved only for very young girls and whores. She politely turned her attention to Monti. If Kincaid could ignore her, she could certainly ignore him. "And where, or what might I ask is Whitefriars?"
Despite the chill of the morning air, Monti's forehead was damp with perspiration. He wiped it with the sleeve of his coat, seemingly nervous in her presence. "A place in the district where the less fortunate can take haven."
"Thieves, criminals, debtors," Kincaid offered gruffly.
A scowl puckered Meg's eyebrows. "And this is the sanctuary you bring me to?"
Kincaid eyed her dangerously. "You were expecting Whitehall, madame?"
"It's really not so bad," Monti went on. "Some here are good men and women that bad times have simply befallen. Here's a place they can be accepted . . . and hide from the constable."
Kincaid stopped at a closed door and Monti stepped forward to unlock it with a key. Kincaid stepped into a dimly lit entranceway and when Meg hesitated, he grabbed her hand and pulled her inside. The hall was dark and
quiet. She heard the door close behind her and Monti turn the lock. She was trapped.
"Where are we now?" she whispered.
"This is where we'll be staying for a short time. Until our pardons can be arranged."
Meg followed Kincaid down the hallway which opened into a large eating room. She wondered if they were in a tavern. Rich drapes hung from the ceiling to partially cover the windows, blocking out the morning sunshine. The walls were painted in some kind of murals, though in the dim light she couldn't make them out. There were tables everywhere still littered with bottles, nuts and oyster shells, and dirty plates. Chairs were overturned. The room smelled of stale liqueur and heavy perfume.
Monti lit several candles illuminating the public room. To Meg's shock she could now see the painting on the walls clearly. They were nudes. Naked women embraced naked men on two of the four walls, their bodies tangled in various lewd sexual positions.
She heard Kincaid chuckle and she looked at him to find him smiling at her. Meg knew her cheeks burned red with embarrassment. "What kind of place is this you've brought me to?" she demanded.
He laughed, dropping his hand onto her shoulder. But Meg was in no mood. She pushed his hand aside.
Kincaid shrugged and walked away. "Monti has rented a room here for us. It's the best he could do on short notice." He went to a sidetable along the wall where bottles of liquor stood half-empty. He grabbed a dirty glass from a table and poured himself a draught of cherry brandy. "Remember, you were the one who insisted we escape immediately."
Meg grabbed a chair that lay on its side and righted it. She was so tired she could barely think. "I want you to let me go." She sat down.
"Go where?" Kincaid downed the brandy in a single swallow and poured himself another. Monti poured his own.
"I don't know. Anywhere but here. I . . . I'll seek employment . . . as a lady's maid."
"And you think someone will hire you with no references? Would you, if you were a lady of quality, hire a woman without references? How would you know she wasn't a swindler?" He shrugged his broad shoulders. "An accomplice to highway robbery even?"
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 8