The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  Because weeks had passed since Meg had seen the Earl of Rutledge, she had grown less fearful of him and more willing to go out in public. By now he had certainly returned to Rutledge Castle. All the years she had known him, he had never spent more than a few days a year in London. By the time he came again next year, she and Kincaid would be long gone from the city and far from her brother-in-law's reach.

  "So many people," she murmured from behind her vizard. "They make me nervous"

  "First water pageant of the season," Kincaid replied, making his way down the center of the street. Because of his size, he was able to move easily through the jovial crowd. "Just hang on. I'll not let you be trampled."

  She glanced up at him. Garbed as he was, in a black cloak and black felt hat pulled down low over his brow, he would be difficult to identify from any distance. "You sure it's safe to be out? I thought you wanted to lie low a few days." She lowered her voice. "You came so close to being caught on St. Alban's road."

  "I'm safe enough. My face was covered, but for my eyes. I couldn't be identified."

  "You were shot at, Kincaid," she whispered harshly. She touched the arm she had bandaged. It was naught but a powder burn, but the thought that it could have been far more serious frightened her. If he was caught again, there would be no second pardon. If he was caught, tried, and found guilty, he would be hanged at Tyburn as a thief.

  "A spot of bad luck." He shrugged his broad shoulders. "I ran into a constable."

  Meg kept a steady hand on her skirts to prevent them from being dragged in the animal dung and rotting refuse that typically littered the streets. "Bad luck? Not in the stars, you say?" She rolled her eyes. "That's Monti's nonsense. Perhaps he's right, perhaps you should begin checking with his astrologer before you step onto the highway."

  He laughed. "Perhaps. And maybe I should find a unicorn horn to wear around my neck, as well."

  She peered into his eyes, unsure of what he was really thinking. "Be honest, was it coincidence or had the constable been tipped off?"

  "I'd like to think it was coincidence."

  "But you're not sure?" When he made no reply, she tightened her grip on his arm. "Forget the rest of the list, or leave it behind for Monti. Let's just go, Kincaid. To America. You'll be safe in the colonies."

  He shook his head. "I can't do that, Meg, not yet. I'm sorry." He glanced down at her. "But it won't be much longer, sweet, I swear. Look, there's the barge Monti rented. See it?" Kincaid pointed and waved, dropping the subject of his safety. "Everyone else is already aboard."

  The Thames was ablaze with light as skiffs and barges floated down the river, illuminated by lanterns and torches. The vessels were decorated with flower garlands and multitudes of brightly colored banners.

  In the distance, behind her, Meg could hear the shouts of men and women who watched the pageant from balconies up and down the river.

  "Thought we were going to have to shove off without you." Monti grinned, his nose bright red from the great quantity of liquor he'd already consumed. From behind him came the sound of a lute and the sweet voice of a young girl who sang a lively folk song.

  "Good even', Monti." Meg smiled, offering her cheek to be kissed. She waved to one of his friends on the boat who was waving at her. "The street was so crowded."

  He took her arm, helping her aboard. Kincaid climbed onto the barge behind her and the hired sailors pulled in the mooring lines.

  "Happens every spring. The city simply goes mad." Monti pushed a jack of wine into Kincaid's hand. "Going to take off the disguise, Captain?" He grinned. "You're among friends now. It's truly not necessary."

  After greeting several men and women on the barge, Meg and Kincaid settled on a settee beneath a curtained pavilion in the bow of the boat. Kincaid laid back on the chair and Meg nestled between his legs, resting her back against his chest. The barge floated out into the center of the river, joining the other vessels in the pageant.

  For hours Meg and Kincaid laughed and talked with their friends. They sang songs, they played cards, they made bets on trivial matters. The wine flowed and there were platters of meats and breads to sup on.

  As the evening grew later, Meg found herself withdrawing from the group, content to lay in Kincaid's arms and soak up his love. Each time he touched her hand, or gave her a sip of wine from his cup, she found herself growing more aroused. Though they were among two dozen others, she felt as if there was no one on the barge but the two of them.

  Gooseflesh rose on the back of her neck as Kincaid casually laid his hand on the nape of her neck. "Want to go for a little walk, Meg?" he whispered in her ear. She recognized the husky sound of desire in his voice.

  "I would." She pressed her mouth to his in a kiss meant to tempt him.

  "Minx."

  Meg climbed off the settee, and Kincaid rose behind her. "You make it rather difficult for a man to walk," he teased, shifting his legs.

  "Where you going?" someone called to them as they left the covered pavilion through the swaying, transparent curtains.

  "Just a little fresh air, Edward." Kincaid gave a wink and the others burst into bawdy laughter.

  Meg elbowed Kincaid playfully as they walked away from the others, out of the lantern light. "Is it really necessary that you make it that obvious why we're coming out here?"

  "Why are we coming out here?" he teased, slipping his arm around her waist. They walked toward the relative privacy of the stern of the barge. "For no reason but to draw a breath of fresh air and gaze at the stars."

  Meg was just about to make a retort when a skyrocket shot from the far side of the river screamed into the sky. It exploded in a thousand twinkling lights, falling like stars from the heavens.

  "Oh, did you see that?" Meg ran to the rail just as another rocket burst in the dark sky and fell hissing into the muddy water. "Aren't they beautiful?"

  Soon streaks of yellow light criss-crossed the sky up and down the river. Men and women on the skiffs and barges clapped and shouted their approval. Lanterns dotted the dark shoreline as others gathered to watch from the edge of the city.

  "It is beautiful." Kincaid came up behind Meg, wrapping his arms around her waist and resting his chin on her shoulder. "And so are you."

  She turned her head, lifting her chin until their lips met. "Mmmm, you taste good," she whispered. She turned in his arms, molding her body to his, stroking his buttocks with her hand as she pressed her mouth to his again. "I just can't get enough of you. What a miserable hussy I am."

  He chuckled, his voice husky and warm in her ear. "Ah, sweetheart, you don't know what most men would give to have a woman like you love them."

  Meg's gaze met Kincaid's in the darkness. "And I do love you," she whispered passionately.

  "Then why not—"

  "Hush." Meg silenced him with a searing kiss that left them both trembling with desire.

  "Want to sit?" Kincaid asked when she finally broke the kiss. He indicated a lounge chair nestled against the curtained wall of the lighted pavilion.

  Meg's heart was pounding. All evening as she had sat in Kincaid's lap she'd thought about what she would do with her man when she got him alone. "Can they see us?" she murmured, watching the silhouette of a couple dancing.

  "No." He stroked the small of her back. "They're in the light, we're in the dark. We can see them, but they can't see us." His lips touched hers in a kiss of promise. "Come on, sweet, just sit with me a moment."

  Meg listened to the others' laughter. They were singing and clapping now to a gay tune the lute sang. "I don't suppose anyone will come out."

  Kincaid led her to the lounge chair where someone had piled some of the same transparent fabric that had been used to drape the walls of the pavilion. "Of course not." He kissed the pulse at her throat, settling on the chair, pulling her down with him.

  Though Meg was hesitant, she put up no protest. It seemed that any sense of decorum she had once possessed was gone. She wanted to lie with Kincaid under the stars in
the searing light of the skyrockets. She wanted to touch him and be touched. She could feel her loins burning for want of him. Her breasts ached for the weight of his hand.

  Meg lay on her side in Kincaid's arms, half reclining. "All right, but I'm not going to take off my clothes," she warned softly.

  "What kind of gentleman do you think I am?" His eyes twinkled merrily as he dangled one hand over her shoulder, his fingertips brushing the swell of her breasts.

  "I know what kind of man you are—that's what concerns me."

  "Ah, you are so beautiful, my Meg," he whispered as they lay on their sides facing each other. "Your smell." He nuzzled her neck and inhaled deeply. "The taste of you." He leaned forward and licked the pale flesh of her breast.

  Meg moaned softly, threading her fingers through his silky hair that fell over his shoulder.

  Kincaid slid his hand inside the bodice of her watered silk gown that was the color of violets. Meg held her breath in tingling anticipation. His mouth touched hers, their breath mingled. He took his delicious time in stroking her, his tongue darting out to tease her upper lip.

  Meg could feel herself trembling all over as he began to knead her breasts. She moaned, her mouth twisting hungrily against his.

  "Kincaid . . ." His name passed her lips, breathy. She tugged at the hem of his shirt beneath his coat, pulling it out from his breeches. Finally she was able to slip her hand beneath the linen and graze his bare, broad chest.

  Kincaid kissed her again and again until she was breathless, until her head spun. All the while he was touching her . . .

  Kincaid brushed the pad of his thumb against her nipple and she laughed softly, still in awe of the pleasure he could bring her. He knew her body so well.

  When Kincaid unhooked the first few buttons of her gown, she watched him by the faint glowing light that came from the pavilion. Then, when he lowered his head to her breasts, her fingers wrapped around his neck, encouraging him, guiding him.

  Shivers of pleasure rippled through her as he suckled first one taut nipple and then the other.

  When Kincaid reached down to pull up the layers of her gown and petticoat skirts, she pulled at the silk with him. His fingertips brushed the creamy flesh of her inner thighs. Instinctively, she parted her legs slightly.

  "Meg, Meg . . ." he whispered. "I'll love you forever . . ."

  Hot, pulsing desire leapt in her veins as he brushed the dark curls at the apex of her thighs. She could already feel herself wet; she could smell the perfume of her own desire.

  She took a shuddering breath as he delved deeper with his fingers. All conscious thought slipped from her mind. He was kissing her face now, her cheeks, her chin, the tip of her nose.

  He rolled her onto her back and lowered his body over hers, straddling her with his knees. His hair fell in a curtain over her face and she lifted her head to kiss him on the mouth.

  She knew she must have looked a sight with her bodice unbuttoned, her breasts bared, and her skirts hiked to her naked thighs, but she didn't care. All she cared about was the sound of Kincaid's voice, the touch of his hand.

  Kincaid sat up, straddling her on his knees, his face looming over her. He stroked her calves, running his hand over her silk stockings. He touched her inner thighs, tracing invisible patterns with his index finger. She could feel the silky material that covered the chair under her buttocks, sensuous against her skin.

  Meg kept her eyes open, watching him, reveling in the desire for her she saw plain on his face.

  "Can I kiss you here?" he whispered, brushing his fingers over her woman's mound. His gaze never left hers. "Can I taste you?"

  She reached up to stroke his cheek with her hand. "Touch me," she whispered, a hint of a smile on her lips "You knowhow . . ." Then her eyes drifted shut as he lowered his mouth over her.

  With the first stroke of his tongue, Meg raised her hips off the chair. Her head reeled with the pleasure of his lovemaking. Kincaid gave of himself completely and freely and it was that thought that excited her as much as his touch.

  Throbbing, incandescent heat radiated from her stomach. She could hear her own breath, ragged, as she called Kincaid's name. The excruciatingly sweet pleasure of his tongue was almost more than she could stand. Time slipped through her fingers like the silky sheets she lay upon.

  "Kincaid," she finally panted, stopping him. "Make love to me."

  He lifted his head from between her thighs. "I am, my dearest."

  "No." She tugged on his shoulders, pulling him toward her and he rose until his body was parallel over hers again. "You know what I mean." She knew color suffused her cheeks. "I want you. I want to feel you . . . inside me."

  Kincaid's lips brushed hers as he fumbled with the buttons of his breeches. He tasted of her . . . of her passion, of his own.

  Meg felt the burning heat of Kincaid's rod against her bare thigh and instinctively she lifted her hips. She was so close to release . . . she could feel her muscles strung tight with pent up desire, demanding release.

  Kincaid knelt between her legs and with one movement he took her. Meg cried out with pleasure, lifting in response to his hearty thrust.

  Kincaid buried his face in her hair, his own ragged breath matching hers. Their movements were quick and hard. Suddenly this was no gentle lovemaking, it was sheer passion. It was hard, and hot, and sweaty.

  Half sobbing, Meg clung to Kincaid, arching, crying out. The pinnacle of her pleasure hit her with such force that it made her dizzy. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard Kincaid groan, felt him thrust one last time to spill his seed into her.

  Then he collapsed over her and she sighed, enjoying the feel of his body pressed fully against hers. Aftershocks of pleasure rippled through her body and she panted.

  After a moment, Kincaid rolled off her onto his side. He pulled her against him to cradle her in his arms. He reached down and lifted some of the silky material of the chair over her exposed body. The sheer sheeting felt cool on her hot, prickly skin.

  "I'm sorry, sweet. I didn't mean to get in such a hurry there at the end." He kissed her temple.

  She looked up at him, her smile wide. "It was me as much as you. I swear I'll go straight to hell for my lust."

  "Not for a man you love," he whispered, kissing her again.

  She snuggled against his chest. "Not for a man who was my husband?" She didn't know where the thought came from, it just popped up out of nowhere.

  Kincaid's gaze met and held hers. "Don't trifle with me, Meg. You'll break my heart."

  She brushed her lips against his, intoxicated by the scent of him, of their lovemaking. "I've decided," she whispered, as surprised by the words coming out of her mouth as she knew he was. "I'll marry you, Kincaid. I'll be your wife."

  There was a knock on the door to their apartment. Kincaid looked up from the table where he was studying a map of the American colonies. It was early afternoon and they were enjoying a quiet afternoon alone. "Meg? Door."

  When she made no reply from the bedroom, he rose from the table still set up in the drawing room from a party two nights before.

  The knock came again, this time impatiently.

  "I'm coming!" he called. As he turned the corner, he stumbled on a new carpet Meg had recently laid in the entranceway. He was certainly trying to appreciate her feminine touch in their home, but change was always hard for a man to get used to.

  The banging came a third time.

  "I'm coming, blast it!" At the door, he hesitated, his hand on the knob. Suddenly he had a bad feeling. "Who is it?"

  "Message for the Honorable James Randall."

  Seventeen

  Kincaid knew he must have paled. He looked behind to be certain Meg wasn't there. He'd not heard that name in more than a decade. Suddenly spirits of the past rose out of the ground to wrap their wispy arms around his ankles. His hand trembled as he opened the door, feeling if he opened the gates to the underworld. "What the hell is it?" he demanded.

  A short, ugly
fellow with cold eyes stared up at Kincaid. He reminded Kincaid of an eel on a dinner plate with its cold, lifeless gaze. "James Randall?"

  "What do you want with him?" Kincaid snarled. "Out with it, I'm a busy man."

  The man fluttered his eyelashes. "I've been sent by the Earl of Rutledge to retrieve his nephew, the Honorable James Randall." The eel fingered the garlic amulet he wore around his neck. "Are you James?"

  Kincaid rested his hand on the doorjamb for support, his mind numb. Suddenly he was short of breath. His uncle had sent for him after all these years? It could only be for one reason. His father . . .

  Kincaid hung his head, the guilt, the shame, the pain of the past falling on his shoulders like a shroud. "I'm James," he said softly.

  The eel smiled smugly. Then he bowed, sweeping his hat off his head. "Abner Higgins, your uncle's personal secretary. It is a pleasure to meet you after all these years, young James.I have heard much about you." He dropped his cocked hat onto his head. "I shall wait in the coach."

  Kincaid stepped back inside the apartment.

  "Something wrong?"

  He looked up to see Meg. His dear Meg. She was going to be his wife. He was going to start a new life with her. Children, a home. Why the hell did this have to happen now?

  "I have to go somewhere," he snapped, not meaning to be harsh with her, but knowing it came out that way.

  "Do you want me to come along?" She held her graceful hands together at her waist.

  "No." He jerked his coat off the chair where he'd left it. She met him at the door to hand him his black cavalier's hat with the plum feather "I don't know how long I'll be. Don't wait up for me." He kissed her hastily, then was out the door.

  Kincaid didn't know what news his uncle had that he would seek him out after all these years, but knowing his uncle, it couldn't be good.