"Meg, Meg," he protested.
She kissed him again, thrusting her tongue between his lips. This time he made no attempt to protest. Kincaid didn't know what had come over his Meg, but he was learning that all he needed to do at a time like this, when her past seemed to haunt her, was to be there for her. To listen. To tell her he loved her.
"Meg, my love . . ." His dark brown eyes sparkled with life.
Suddenly where they were seemed unimportant. All that mattered to Kincaid was the desperate need to comfort his Meg in any way he could. At this moment making love to her was what was important.
Their mouths still molded, Kincaid raised her gently from the seat beside him and pulled her onto his lap, straddling his legs. Her fingers brushed the nape of his neck sending a shiver of desire down his spine. Their tongues intertwined, he savored the taste of the wine on her breath.
He reached with one hand beneath her cloak, finding the curve of her breast. She moaned in encouragement.
The coach swayed as they careened around a corner. She had knocked off his hat, his periwig. She yanked off her gloves, his. She unpinned her hair and splayed it over her shoulders.
Kincaid tried to remain calm and keep his breathing steady. But his Meg made it difficult. He could feel himself growing hard, straining against the taut material of his breeches.
She flung off her cloak, pulling down the bodice of her gown so that he could touch his lips to her breasts that thrust above her corset. Kincaid groaned, teasing her nipple to a ripe bud as she settled down deeper into his lap, pressing her groin to his.
Meg's breath was ragged in his ear as she murmured his name again and again.
Taking her other nipple gently between his teeth, Kincaid slipped his hand beneath her abundant petticoats to a place he knew would be warm and wet.
Meg lifted slightly on his lap, parting her thighs. Suddenly the scent of desire, his and hers, was heavy in the dark coach.
Kincaid pressed his lips to Meg's again, smoothing the soft down of curls between her legs. She squirmed against him, aiding his caress. She threw back her head, running her hands through his hair. He kissed the pulse at her throat, the warm spot at the valley between her firm, peaked breasts.
The sound of Meg's soft moans made Kincaid shudder with desire for her. He had been with so many women, women whose names, faces he'd long forgotten, but no woman had ever made him mad like this. No woman had ever made him desire her as he desired his Meg.
So this was love? The desire to give without feeling the need to take? Was this what he had searched for his entire life? As his mouth met Meg's again and again, he came to the conclusion that this was love. This ache in his heart.
Lowering Meg in one arm, he continued to stroke her, parting the soft, sweet folds of her femininity.
"No, no, not so fast," she murmured breathless and panting. "I'm not ready. Let me . . ."
Then she slipped to the floor of the coach, down on her knees. Before he could protest or even try to calculate how close they were to Ram Alley, Meg was pulling on the tie of his breeches. The moment his breeches fell open and she slipped her warm hand inside, he was lost to any objection he might have tried to express.
Kincaid exhaled heavily as she wrapped her nimble fingers around his stiff rod. "Meg, you don't have to—"
"Shhh," came her voice out of the darkness. "Let me give to you something of what you've given so many times to me, Kincaid. Let me express my love as you express your love for me."
What else could he say? He slumped back against the leather of the coach bench, running his fingers through her hair that had come tumbling down from the hairpins.
Kincaid heard his own groans of pleasure as the tip of her tongue touched the tip of his engorged shaft. He closed his eyes, riding the waves of pleasure until finally he feared he could not stand her ministrations another second.
"Meg!" His voice was sharp. "Come here, love." Then he lifted her by the waist into his lap.
She lifted her skirts, fighting the yards of billowing satin. Their mouths met hungrily, both Kincaid and Meg desperate for release.
With a little maneuvering Kincaid was able to lift her and guide her down on his shaft. They both moaned in unison as the union was made.
"Kincaid," she panted in his ear, lifting and lowering.
"Sweet, sweet Meg." He kissed her temple, the rhythm of his breathing reaching a frenzied high.
Again and again she rose and fell in his lap, and he shuddered with each thrust. Realizing by the sound of her voice that she was near to spent, Kincaid lifted himself halfway off the seat, gripping her bare bottom. Meg cried out, shuddering, and he fell back, spilling into her, calling her name.
Meg dropped her hands onto his shoulders, laughing. In the dim light he saw tears rolling down her cheeks.
Then suddenly the coach stopped. Meg's eye widened in such surprise that Kincaid burst into laughter.
Meg leapt off his lap, falling into the seat across from him. Kincaid was just closing his breeches, she pushing down her skirts when the driver opened the door.
Stifling their laughter, the two of them gathered their discarded clothing, the cloaks, gloves, his periwig and hat, and stepped out of the coach into the cold night air.
Kincaid paid the driver, who was now straining to see inside the coach. Then Kincaid grabbed Meg's hand and led her down the street, their cloaks still bundled in their arms.
It was a glorious night. Perfect.
Much later, after they made love again, Kincaid lay sprawled in their bed with Meg cuddled up beside him. It was that quiet before they slept that Kincaid enjoyed so much. When they spoke of their day, their plans for tomorrow. This was the time when Meg made him feel like he finally belonged somewhere . . . to someone.
Since they had arrived back at Mother Godwin's, he'd been thinking about Meg's asking to run away together. He kept thinking about the commitment he had made to himself and he had come to the difficult conclusion that he couldn't leave London, not yet. The question was, how could he explain it to Meg? How much did he tell her? All of it, he finally decided.
"Meg?" he said softly. "You still awake?"
She stirred, snuggling deeper into the feather tick, her hand brushing over his chest. "Um hmm."
"Listen, sweet. We need to talk. I . . ." He exhaled. "I can't leave London tomorrow."
She opened her dark eyes to stare up at him. "You can't?" Her voice was sleepy.
He ran his hand over her bare shoulder. "No, I can't," he answered equally hushed.
She pushed up on her elbow, pulling up the counterpane to cover her breasts. "Why not Kincaid? We don't have to go to America if that's not what—"
"No. It's not that, Meg." He took her hand in his and traced one of the long lines of her palm with his finger. Monti would know what the line represented, but he didn't. "Meg, I can't go because I have a commitment here."
She wrinkled her nose. "Who made a commitment? Kincaid? James? Or Captain Scarlet? Just so I know which man we speak of."
He liked her droll wit. "All of us. You see . . ." He looked away, still caressing her hand. "I haven't been entirely honest with you."
"Oh?"
He exhaled. Why was this so difficult? He wanted to tell her he wasn't the thief she thought him to be. That he had a purpose to his crimes. That he was avenging injustices. But he knew he was afraid because in explaining Captain Scarlet to her, he would be baring a part of himself.
"No. I'm not really a highwayman."
She chuckled. "Innocent like the rest who went to the gallows are you, Scarlet? Come now, that won't work with me. Remember, I was the one arrested with you that night you tried to rob that coach."
He let go of her hand and laid back on the bolster. A fire crackled in the hearth, giving off the room's only light. He stared at the ceiling, watching the jagged shadows dance. "The robberies are not random, as the High Sheriff believes."
She was watching him closely now, studying his face. "Go on.
"
"And I do not keep the profits. Never have. Not half a shilling."
"Where do the profits go? For surely there are profits. I read only last week in the papers that the dashing Captain Scarlet had stolen a sapphire necklace the size of a plum from some unsuspecting woman."
He appreciated her making light of the conversation. She made it easier for him to go on. "I donate the profits to those who live in the slums of the city. To the citizens of Whitechapel, Fisbury, Southwark, and the like."
"A Robin Hood of modern day?" Her face lit up and she was laughing, but not at him.
Now he was a little embarrassed. It did sound silly when he spoke the words out loud. "Not exactly, Meg."
She placed both hands on his chest and leaned on him, looking up at his face. "So who are the victims? You said the choices are not random. What did they do to you that you feel you must rob them of their coin and jewels and distribute it to the poor?"
"I have a list."
"I'm not surprised."
"Meg." He frowned. "Can you not see that this is hard for me to explain?"
She kissed his chest. "I'm sorry, sweet. Go on."
He reached for the half-glass of brandy left beside the bed. "Monti and I, we came up with the list just after we arrived in London last year. The men . . . the men whose names are on the list committed crimes against fellow Englishmen. Fellow Englishmen less fortunate than themselves."
"What do you mean crimes?"
"These men took advantage of the change in the political climate. They jumped ship. One day they were supporters of the Crown and the next they were loyal Parliamentarians." His voice grew edged with steel. "Men like my father claimed allegiance to that bastard Cromwell and his Puritan ways and profited from their friends who refused to abandon their king, though he was exiled. Sick bastards like my father accepted lands, moneys, even women, confiscated from loyal Royalists." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, tasting his own bitter anger. "Then, when Charles returned, the turncoats simply crossed the plank again. Suddenly they were supporters of the Stuarts, claiming they had been supporters all along. And our king, attempting to truly restore our country took them in with open arms. He felt he had no choice." He shrugged, a catch in his voice. He was thankful he saw no laughter in Meg's eyes now. "So you see there was no price for their disloyalty."
"So you are punishing them one by one by robbing them on the highway?"
" 'Tis a small enough gesture. I certainly cannot take the riches from them that they have accumulated, I know that. But once the list is complete, I intend to publish a satire naming the men and explaining why they were chosen. At least they will lose face. Some will lose business with the men who remained loyal to the king despite their hardships."
"You're going to write a satire?" She was smiling.
"Aye. 'Tis one of James's foibles." He lifted a hand lamely. "I didn't tell you because I didn't want you to think me silly."
She laughed lightly, obviously amused.
His forehead creased. "Why do you laugh?"
"I'll show you later. But for now, I want you to tell me, when you've visited each man you intend to visit, will your work be complete? Will your commitment be done?"
"It will, Meg."
"And then will you be free to leave your anger behind?" She looked down at him, her gaze concentrated and serious. "Not just your anger with these men, but your anger with the father you rarely mention?"
He closed his eyes, unable to withstand her scrutiny. How was it that this woman could always understand him, always know what was closest to his heart? "I believe I can," he answered.
"How many men are left on this list?" She was talking practicalities now.
He opened his eyes, thankful she had not asked him about his father. "Not a dozen."
She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. "And when this list is done, you would go with me? To America?"
"I would go to the ends of the world with you. And it's not that they are more important than you Meg, it's only that—"
She kissed him lightly on the mouth. "You don't have to explain it to me. I understand." She rested her chin on her bare knee, lost in thought. "A dozen men," she reasoned aloud. "That wouldn't take you long to accomplish if you could track them all down."
"That's James's job. He earns money to support us and gleans information on who is coming and going out of the city."
"I feel like I'm in bed with several men at once." She laughed. "All right. If James gets the information, then Captain Scarlet can see the deeds through."
"Yes."
"And the sooner the remainders on the list have been visited, the sooner you and I can get on with our lives."
"Aye. But I've been careful not to commit the robberies too close in time or physical proximity."
"And you only rob on the highway around London? You've no other method of operation?"
"No. Why do you ask?"
"Well, you're not being creative enough. Sounds like you need some help from a lady."
His gaze narrowed. Did she mean what he thought she meant? "Pardon?"
"You need a woman's help. And I'm your woman." She was grinning, obviously pleased with herself.
"You're no thief."
She rose up on her knees, letting the counterpane fall so that she was naked. She kissed him again. "And neither are you, my love."
Thirteen
"Percival, how good to see you again." Mary Mummford fluttered her fan, glancing away from him so that, to a wandering eye, she didn't appear to be speaking to him.
"Madame." Percival nodded. He stood two feet from her, in the shadows, watching a hand of Waterloo at a gaming table. Whitehall's privy gallery was filled with ladies and gentleman tonight, their faces flush with good wine and foul gossip.
"I waited for you to call on me again, sir, yet you did not and I'm sorely vexed with you. I even sent you a note by way of my handmaid. I received no reply." She pouted, her lips pursed seductively.
The Earl of Rutledge allowed himself a sideward glance at the engaging strumpet. She was dressed this evening in a pink and maroon taffeta gown, her busk so tight that it pushed her round little breasts up and over the neckline of her bodice. He was certain it was the ring of her dark areolas he saw at the lace edging. Her face was painted and patched as was the fashion, but overly so. He wondered if the girl realized she looked more like a child who had played in her mother's lip pomade than a woman.
"I apologize for not calling upon you," he murmured so that others couldn't hear him. "But I encountered your father at the East Indian House where we were both seeing to business." He watched her as she lifted a wine glass to her rouged, bee-stung lips. "He asked that I not call on you again as you have several suitors already interested in matrimony."
She drank down the last of the wine with a tip of her wrist. "Screw Father!" She dropped the glass on the edge of the nearest gaming table, ignoring the frown of some matronly baroness. "I'm bored, Percy. Will you walk with me?"
Percival licked his dry upper lip, feeling the curve of his deformity. He glanced up and down the gallery teaming with satin coats and brocade gowns. The Earl of Mummford was nowhere to be seen.
"Percy?"
He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't resist the girl. He came out of the shadows to offer her his arm. "Mary."
She smiled, linking her arm through his. "It will be our little secret, won't it, Percy?" She patted his arm like she must have patted the deformed kitten.
"Madame?" He led her along the north wall of the gallery, remaining out of the direct light of the thousands of candles that burned in chandeliers and wall sconces.
"Our trysts."
A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He liked the vein of the conversation, and yet it disgusted him at the same time. Where had the morals of Mother England gone? "I assure you my intentions are completely honorable."
She glanced at him over the edge of her painted pink fan. "Mine aren't." She gig
gled. "The lambs must play whilst they have the chance, don't you believe? I'll be wed soon, Percy—to someone. Whoever is the highest bidder, I suppose. And I don't like the thought. Not one bit. The idea of a beautiful young woman like myself marrying some old crook-back like Arnold Blithe is as welcome as a looking glass after the pox!"
"The Earl of Acres is a wealthy man of considerable influence at Court. He possesses many holdings, including a fine home in Dover. I've been his guest there."
"Yes, well, he's been through three wives in the last ten years. All of them dead of childbed or the pox in less than three years." She smiled innocently at a lady and gentleman passing, her frown reappearing the moment they were gone. "I don't like the odds, sir. Not one bit. And what do I want with a home on those godforsaken cliffs? I want a home in London and one in the country nearby so I can escape the plague when it comes in the summer."
Percival couldn't help but laugh at Mary's naivete. Nor could he help but compare her to Margaret. Had Margaret ever been so young and simpleminded? She had certainly been young. She couldn't have been more than nine or ten when she came to Rutledge Castle. But she had never been such a simpleton.
"You laugh at me, sir?" Mary cut across the galley, leading him into the bright light.
Rutledge squinted. How he was beginning to despise the light that revealed his failings. "You know so little of life, my dear."
"I know what I like and what I don't. What I want and what I do not want." She ducked down a dark, vacant passageway, pulling him along.
Again Percival knew he shouldn't be here with her. He had no right to dishonor her father thusly. But the scent of her supple, young skin . . . skin unmarked by pox or time. It was intoxicating.
In the darkness Mary pushed him against the wall. For a woman of small stature, she was strong. "Why don't you kiss me?" she whispered with her wine breath. "Can you kiss with that mouth?" She was pressing her body against his, those pert breasts, straining against him, begging for release.
Percival could hear his own breath, heavy and labored. To this point he had been able to restrain himself.
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 14