He grabbed her shoulders and yanked her roughly against him, forcing his mouth to hers. His original intention was only to frighten her.
She squirmed a little, squeaking with surprise.
Percival opened his mouth, thrusting his tongue between her blood-red lips. She tasted of wine and unmarred perfection. The thought that she was so willing, yet forbidden, excited him. It made his blood rush. Freeing one hand he squeezed her breast cruelly, reveling in its softness in his hand.
"Ouch!"
She brought her hand under his coat, caressing his chest with her small hand. "Easy, boy," she whispered huskily. "You don't want to damage the goods."
He pressed his mouth against her neck, sucking until he knew he would leave a bruising mark. He wanted to possess her. He wanted to hurt her for her insolence. To hurt her because she was so pretty and he was so ugly.
Pushing down the taffeta bodice, he found her nipple with the pad of his thumb. She moaned softly in his ear, almost mewing. He kept thinking of the deformed kitten she had owned. What a sick bitch.
Percival caught the button of her breast between his thumb and forefinger and pinched hard.
"Ouch." She slapped at him lightly.
He reached around behind her and slapped her ass hard.
She fell forward against him, exhaling in a rush of wine breath. "Easy, Percy." She was giggling. Her voice was husky. She liked it.
Percival smiled in the darkness. A part of him wanted to warn her against a man like himself. A part of him wanted to tell her to run while she still had the chance. She was no match for the Earl of Rutledge. But a larger part of him wanted to possess her—the part of him that was blue-veined and rigid, throbbing in his breeches.
"Do you suck, Mary?" he whispered in her ear. "You like that, too?" He squeezed her breast hard.
She was giggling, panting. "I suck," she whispered, nipping his neck with her pearly teeth.
He unbuckled his breeches, letting them fall to his ankles. In the semi-darkness he watched her lower herself to her knees in a puddle of pink taffeta. He caught a curl of hair at her temple and twisted it until he felt it tighten and pull at the tender flesh.
"So suck me," he whispered. "And suck me well, my little slut, or there'll be hell to pay."
She reached out to catch him expertly in her mouth.
So, sweet Mary Mummford had done this before . . .
"Tomorrow I have to see to a widow who's sent word to Scarlet through Monti." Kincaid sat down on the chair near the hearth as Meg had instructed. "She says she's in desperate need. One of the men on my list, Joseph Auger, is forcing her out of the inn she's been running since her husband's death because she cannot pay his exorbitant rent."
"Good. I'll accompany you. It'll be a good way for me to get started."
He sighed. "It's pointless to go through this again, Meg. You will not become involved. Not in the Elizabeth Small matter. Not in any matter that concerns Captain Scarlet."
"You're being obstinate without just cause." She lathered her hands with a wet bar of soap and applied the suds to his broad, angular face. "If you would think about it logically, you'd admit I'm right."
He wrinkled his nose. "What kind of soap is that you're using? It smells like flowers."
She grinned. "Violet and chamomile. It was all I had left." She picked up his razor. "Now close your mouth before I slice off your lips."
"So this is why you offered to shave me? You knew I'd be a captive audience!"
She slid the long razor down his cheek and he clamped his mouth shut. She chuckled. "That's better. You listen. I'll talk." She wiped a streak of soap and dark hair on a towel resting in his lap.
"I could help you on your missions."
"I have a partner," he mumbled, tight-lipped.
She brought the razor close to the tip of his nose. "This is the first time I've ever done this. I wouldn't move if I were you."
He groaned.
Meg went on shaving. "I could help you alter your methods of operation. I don't mean to criticize, love, but you're not a terribly creative highwayman."
"I—"
"I'm talking. You're listening." She stroked his chin with the razor, the blade making a scraping sound as she shaved the skin clean. "I already have several ideas. My theory is that the sooner we knock the men off your list, the sooner you and I can get on with our lives. The sooner we can make plans to go to America." She kissed his lips, wiping the shaving soap from her own chin. "I was thinking we could purchase some land with some of that money you're making at cards. What's your feeling on growing tobacco?"
"Meg. It's not that I wouldn't welcome your help, but it's dangerous. We could be caught—"
She dipped the razor blade into a basin of warm water. "I could be thrown into Newgate, for heaven's sake!"
"This is not a matter to joke about. In aiding me, you would become as guilty as I. A criminal. You could be shot and killed. You could be hanged at Tyburn."
He had used that argument over and over again until Meg was sick to death of it. She would be a criminal? She was already a criminal, one of the worst kind. She was a murderess. The fact of the matter was that she didn't care. She wanted a life. She wanted a life with Kincaid and she was willing to fight to get it.
"Meg, this isn't your fray. It's mine. I know it's foolish, the entire notion of punishing these men for what they did, but—"
"It isn't foolish. It's noble. And as for it being your cause, it has become mine." She squatted in front of him, resting her elbow on his knee so that she could look into his eyes. "I knew men such as those who are on that list. I knew some of them personally. They supped at my husband's dining table." Her voice grew bitter. "My husband and his brother were men that should have been on that list of yours, Kincaid. I don't know how you missed the curs."
"Meg." He tried to take the razor from her hand, but she refused to let it go. "I'm just trying to protect you."
She stood up, turning his cheek roughly to finish the other side of his face. "Would you do it for me?"
He opened his mouth to speak, but she grabbed his chin. "Just nod. I'm the one who's supposed to be talking, remember?"
She could tell by the glimmer in his dark eyes that he was growing angry with her. He jerked his chin in a nod.
"All right, let's reason this one out, Captain Scarlet. You would aid the woman you loved—you do love me, don't you?"
He nodded.
"All right. You would aid the woman you loved in a dangerous task, yet you do not believe that I should aid the man I love? Do I understand you correctly?"
Again he opened his mouth to answer. She shut it by touching the tip of the blade to his chin.
He nodded.
She smiled. "So how, in that man's brain of yours, does that make sense?"
He grabbed the razor out of her hand. "Because you're a woman, damn it, Meg!" He jumped out of the chair and headed for the mirror to finish his own shaving. "And women do not fight for causes. Women do not get involved in politics. Women do not get wounded or killed trying to hold up coaches."
She followed him to the mirror, refusing to give an inch. "No. Women stay at home and care for their husband's lands while men fight each other over honor. Women are sold into marriage, beaten and raped at the hands of brutal men in the name of political righteousness. Women die giving birth to men's sons." She watched his face in the mirror.
"It's not the same thing and you know it, Meg."
"The blessed hell it's not!"
His face shaven, he brushed by her, tossing the razor into the bowl. Water splashed over the sides, dripping onto the towel laid out on the table. "That's the end of the discussion." He yanked his clean muslin shirt over his head. "Tomorrow I go to see Elizabeth Small and you remain here where you'll be safe."
"You can't tell me what to do," She accused, her own temper flaring. "You don't own me. There's no wedding vows between us, Captain Scarlet."
"You're making me angry, Meg." He perch
ed himself on the edge of the chair and shoved his stockinged foot into his boot. "Don't make me lose my temper."
"That won't work with me, because I'm not afraid of you and your temper!" She dropped her hands to rest on her hips. "I don't care if you run and shout, jump up and down. I'm going."
The other boot on, he grabbed his coat, headed for the door. "You're not going." He flung it open and stepped into the hallway, practically slamming the door in her face. "End of discussion!"
Meg lifted the reins of her mare, urging her to move faster as she followed Kincaid down the muddy road just outside of London. Darkness had just fallen. The evening was cool, but not cold, and there was the smell of the budding spring in the air.
Meg adjusted her seating on the side-saddle, having no trouble keeping up. Philip had made certain that from an early age she was well educated in horsemanship, as any lady should be.
"Is it much farther?" Meg urged her spotted mare up beside Kincaid's steed.
He glared without answering.
He was still annoyed by the fact that she had won their argument. But she didn't care. She'd won. Well, a small victory. He'd agreed to allow her to accompany him to the Widow Small's inn on Ratcliff Highway. Once he heard the widow's full story, if he chose to seek out Joseph Auger, Meg would have to remain at the inn until Captain Scarlet's business was complete.
"Monti's not coming?" she asked, trying to make conversation to lighten his black mood. An owl hooted in the maple and elm trees that hung low over their heads.
"Should I need him, he'll come." He nodded in the direction of the lamplight that shone ahead. "There 'tis. The Cock and Crumb."
They rode toward the hanging sign that bore a rooster and a slice of bread with falling crumbs. Outside the door, under lamplight, Kincaid dismounted and helped her off her horse. A young boy who appeared out of the darkness took the horses to the barn in the back.
"Now you let me do the talking, do you understand me?" Kincaid took her by the arm and led her inside, suddenly possessive of her.
Meg nodded, smiling. "Whatever you say, dear."
Kincaid threw her a disapproving glance as a tall, beefy woman approached them, wiping her hands on her apron. She wasn't pretty, but she had an honest face. "Good even', madame, sir. Do you seek sup or a bed or both?" She had a warm voice that exuded hospitality.
"Widow Small?" Kincaid addressed her in a gentlemanly fashion.
She patted the damp hair at her temple, momentarily flustered. "Yes?"
"You sent for me," Kincaid said softly so that the few other patrons in the public room did not hear him. "I came immediately as was requested."
The widow's honey-brown eyes suddenly grew round with surprise. "Captain—"
"Could you show us to a discreet table?" he said loud enough for the others in the room to hear. "The lady is famished, but we prefer privacy."
Flustered, the widow led them to a trestle table in a cubby hole in the corner of the room near the staircase. A cherry-wood fire crackled, giving off warmth and the sweet, pungent smell of cherries. Kincaid helped Meg out of her wool cloak and she took the chair Kincaid offered her. Kincaid took the seat directly across the table. "A meal, Mrs. Small. We truly are famished. Something hearty. Have you sack?"
" 'Course, sir." She bobbed a nervous curtsy, obviously uncertain of what she was to do next.
"Then bring us our refreshment." He smiled, then lowered his voice. "And we'll talk."
The widow rushed off, reappearing a few moments later with three dusty green bottles. She set them down with a bang, knocking one over in her apprehension. "I got clary water if your wife would want it . . . sir," she stumbled, righting the bottle.
"That would be fine." Meg smiled, trying to set the widow at ease. The poor woman was so apprehensive that her clean, wrinkled hands were shaking. "And a bit of bread whilst we wait for our meal."
The widow nodded. "Be right back. With fresh butter, too, sir."
This time she returned with a glass of clary water. "Your . . . your meal will be ready soon. My son is dishing the stew."
Meg sipped her drink, speaking softly. To anyone in the room, she knew she appeared only to be making conversation with the innkeeper. "Your message stated you could not pay your rent on this establishment." She ignored Kincaid when he cleared his throat to get her attention. "That suggests business is poor, and yet I see a public room of hungry guests."
Mrs. Small shook her head that was covered with a stiff white cap. "Oh my, business is good ever since His Majesty came back, only . . ."
"Go on," Meg urged. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Kincaid frown. She knew he'd said he would do the talking, but it was obvious he made the widow nervous. And why wouldn't he, as large and imposing as he was in his black cloak and feathered cavalier's hat? It simply made sense that it would be Meg who would speak with the widow.
"He . . . Mr. Auger, has raised the rent three times," she whispered. "It's now more than double the cost when my husband lived." She crossed herself hastily. "God rest his soul."
"And his price is unreasonable?"
"My husband always said he was high to start with, but when our own tavern burnt to the ground some years back, we didn't have no choice but to take Mr. Auger's offer." She leaned over the table, speaking so softly that Meg had to strain to hear her. "My husband was always suspicious of the fire that put us out. It was set by some unknown villain."
Meg glanced up at Kincaid, satisfied with what the widow had to say. "When is this rent due?"
"Last Saturday. I'm two months behind. He says that if I don't have the coin day after next, he'll put my babies and me out on the street." With the corner of her flour-dusted apron she wiped a tear that trickled from her eye. "I got nowhere to go, ma'am. No way to feed my three boys but from this place. No skill but my cooking."
"Where is he now? Will he come himself for the rent or does he send a messenger?"
"Oh, he comes himself, the old skinflint. He wouldn't pay a messenger." She curled her upper lip. "He collects the rent and stays to eat twice a man-sized meal. More bread. More honey. More potatoes." She swept her arm with a flourish. "Then he takes brandy from my larder to comfort him on his ride home without ever leaving a ha'penny to cover the expense."
"He comes from his home?"
"From his home to his daughter's where he stays the night, then here the next day. Like a good clock he is. I could give you the way to his place. The daughter's, too." She paused for a moment, then turned to Kincaid, clasping her hands. "Please, Captain Scarlet. You're my only chance. My only hope. My sister, she lives in Whitechapel, she said that was what you did. You helped folk like us."
This time Meg didn't even bother to look at Kincaid. "We'll see what can be done."
The widow turned to Meg, taking her hand. "Thank you," she whispered, her emotion sincere. "I will never forget your kindness." She glanced at Kincaid. "Nor yours, sir."
Kincaid sighed. "Is our meal ready, Mrs. Small?"
"Oh, yes. Of course." She threw up her hands. "I'll be back directly."
Kincaid waited until she was gone, then turned his eyes on Meg. "Why did you say we would help her? You don't know—"
"The oaf is going to put her and her children out on the road. And he's one of the men still left on your list." She took a sip of her clary water. "How could we not help her?"
"We?" He brought his face closer to Meg's. "When did this become we? I only brought you with me for fear of the trouble you'd cause if I left you with Mother Godwin."
"Don't worry, sweet." She rubbed his hand. "I already have a plan that will work perfectly. You're going to love it . . ."
Fourteen
"This is insane, Meg. I cannot allow you to—"
"It's a good idea." Standing beside the road in the late afternoon light, she pulled off her cloak and handed it to him. "Monti, tell him it's a good idea. It will lead the suspicion away from Captain Scarlet." She removed her riding hat and her hair fell loose over h
er shoulders. "Won't it, Monti?"
"It's a very good idea, actually, Kincaid. Clever."
Kincaid gathered her cloak in his arms, ignoring Monti. "Auger will never fall for a lady in distress! He's an addlepate, but not that senseless."
"Bet me." She ran her fingers down the tiny buttons of her gown. "Put your coin where your mouth is, Captain," she taunted.
"Meg?" Kincaid stared at her, suddenly realizing what she was doing. "Meg, why are you taking off your gown?" He glanced at Monti who was watching with obvious interest, then back at Meg. "You can't take your clothes off in the middle of Ratcliff Highway!"
She stepped out of her gown and tossed it to Monti. "I'm not going to take it all off, just a few layers." She unlaced her busk. "I do want to appear to be seriously in distress."
"She's not taking it all off," Monti repeated with a grin. He accepted her undergarment, cocking a thick eyebrow. "Just a few layers."
"I will not be a part of this," Kincaid fumed.
"You're not." She stepped out of her first petticoat. "Just go stand in the woods and let Monti and me take care of business. All you have to do is have our horses ready to make the get away." Her tone was light and teasing. She stepped out of the second petticoat. The air was cool, but she wasn't chilled. Her nervous excitement kept her warm.
Monti took the two petticoats from her arm. She was now standing at the roadside in nothing but a cotton and lace smock, white stockings, and pearl-gray heeled slippers with grosgrain bows. "What o'clock is it?" she asked.
Monti checked his pocketwatch. "Near five."
"Good. If the Widow Small is correct, our Mr. Auger should be passing through on his way to his daughter's home at any moment."
Meg took the dagger from Monti's sheath around his waist and picked up a coil of rope at her feet. She walked off the road, up the bank. Years of coaches, horsemen, and tradesmen on foot and in carts had cut the road in a trench. Once she set foot in the grass roadside, she headed toward a grassy spot beneath an ancient, gnarled sycamore tree.
"Meg!" Kincaid called after her. "Meg!" Angrily, he thrust her cloak and hat into Monti's arms and followed her up the slight incline. "I don't like this whole idea. Not one bit."
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 15