The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  "It can't be much farther," she told her mount, patting him on the neck. She squinted to see through the blinding rain. Hadn't it been raining the night she'd fled from Rutledge? Yes, raining and sleeting. She shivered, remembering that night. She didn't know where she'd gotten the courage to flee. She'd been a different person then, not as strong and confident as she was now. Kincaid had been the one who had given her that confidence.

  Kincaid . . . She wouldn't think about him now, nor about the loneliness of the days to come. She needed to concentrate on getting to her baby's grave and getting out of there safely. Then she would make the journey to the colonies. Maybe then, when she was safe with an ocean between them, she'd think about Kincaid.

  She passed the place in the road where she thought Kincaid had picked her up the night she fled the castle. She didn't remember much of that night. She was out of her head with grief and the exhaustion of childbirth. But this looked right. And the spot looked like a place Kincaid and Monti would have chosen for a hold-up.

  A little farther down the road Meg spotted a cluster of cottages. It had to be the little village of Rutledge. So what did she do now? Go straight to the cemetery? What if someone saw her?

  So what if someone did? The earl was in London. Who else would bother her? She was still Lady Surrey to the cottars—a woman of great importance. No one would dare stop her or question her.

  Among the huddle of thatched cottages, Meg spotted a young girl standing in the rain. She looked to be eight or nine with long gangly legs and corn-yellow hair. The girl was signaling to her.

  Meg didn't recognize the child. Who was she? What did she want?

  "Yes?" Meg urged her horse off the muddy road. "Do you need help?"

  The little girl pulled her apron over her head to shield herself from the driving rain. She grabbed Meg's horse's reins. "My grandmother says come in out of the rain, traveler."

  Meg looked up at the cottage and its lamplight flickering in the tiny sod window.

  "She has tea and biscuits," the girl enticed.

  Meg glanced up the road toward the castle. She had to go that way to reach the cemetery. She looked back at the child.

  "Just a little tea. 'Til you get warm."

  What's the harm? Meg thought. She was cold and wet and concerned, not for her own health, but the welfare of Kincaid's baby she carried. "All right. Just a cup of tea and then I must be on my way." She dismounted awkwardly, landing in a mud puddle.

  The child led Meg's horse away. "Be right back."

  Meg waited under the overhang of the cottage where a vagrant light shone in the window. A moment later the girl returned.

  "I put 'im in my uncle's stall and gave 'im a block a hay and water."

  "Thanks. I'll pay you for the hay."

  "No. Grandmother says that ain't . . . is not necessary. If the good Lord keeps us in hay, we got enough to share." The child opened the door to the cottage and went inside.

  Meg followed, having to duck to make it under the low sill. Inside the single sod room it was warm, the light dim. It smelled of clover hay, fresh floor rushes, and ginger. The room was sparse with a battered table, two mismatched chairs, and a hemp-rope bed. Overhead there were rows of baskets and bundles of dried herbs hanging from the rafters. In places, Meg had to duck to keep from striking her forehead on a basket.

  "Sit here by the fire and dry yourself." She dragged a chair from the table to the hearth, leading Meg. "I'll get the tea. You make yourself com . . . fortable." She watched Meg as she went to pour the tea that was already brewing in a crock on the table.

  Meg removed her cloak and hung it over the chair, rubbing her hands together in front of the fire to warm herself. "You said your grandmother sent you to get me. Where is she?"

  "Gone to deliver a baby. But she'll be back. She saw you when you came into the village. Thought she recognized your face."

  Meg took the cup of fragrant tea the child offered. "Who is your grandmother?"

  "Mavis, the midwife."

  Mavis. Memories of the night she delivered John came tumbling back. Mavis had been a strange woman who smelled of cloves, she remembered. But it was Mavis she had to thank for her escape. If Mavis hadn't given her those old clothes and practically pushed her out the door, Meg would never have had the courage to leave on her own.

  "I do know your grandmother!" She sipped the tea that had a strange taste, but was good. "She delivered at my lying-in."

  The girl perched herself on the edge of the table, swinging her feet. "Grandmother delivers all the children, bastard brats to the earl's nieces and nephews," she said proudly. Then she looked at the floor. "Well, she did deliver at the castle."

  Meg wasn't sure what to say. Did the girl know who she was? Meg decided it would just be better to skirt the whole issue. "So what's your name?"

  The girl looked up, beaming. "Annie, Annie Mavis, named after my grandmother. My mother died and my father left me here to find work elsewhere."

  Meg nodded. "You speak very well, Annie."

  She nodded. "Grandmother teaches me the right words. Someday soon, when I'm bigger, I'm going to work in a big house." She wrinkled her nose. "But not Rutledge Castle. Bad spirits. Grandmother says I'm to stay away from Rutledge and the curse. She says if you got away, I can, too."

  Meg stared at the little girl. "Your grandmother knows who I am? Not just that I'm a traveler?"

  Annie leaned over to whisper as if someone else could have been in the tiny cottage. "You're the wife who got away. Lady Surrey. Ye didn't end up in the graveyard same as the others," she whispered. "Grandmother says you're a woman to be reckoned with." She crossed her arms, wrapping them around her thin waist. "When I grow up I'm going to be just like you, Lady Surrey."

  "Shhh, child. Don't call me that." Meg rose. "I'm Meg now, Meg Drummond. It's just a ghost of the past that passes through here now. Do you understand?"

  "The earl said you murdered his brother, but Grandmother called it self . . . self . . ." She struggled to find the right word.

  "Self-defense," Meg finished for her. "And your grandmother is a smart woman. I did kill him, but only because he was going to kill me." She saw no need to tell the little girl about the baby. No need to upset her.

  "Would you like a ginger biscuit and more tea?"

  Meg looked out through the window. If possible, it seemed to be raining even harder. She only hedged for a moment. "Oh, all right. Since the rain hasn't let up. But then I have to go."

  "Grandmother said to tell you to spend the night. She won't be back till tomorrow, come a baby born to life or a baby buried. She said you'd need your strength for your trip."

  This was all so eerie that Meg considered leaving. How did Mavis know so much about her? "I . . . I don't know if I should stay."

  Annie brought her a cake on a clean piece of cheesecloth. "Grandmother said not to be afraid. She's no witch, just a woman who knows about mothers. She said to tell you she knew you'd come back. She knew you'd want to see the grave before you got on with your life."

  Meg smiled. "My baby is buried in the churchyard?"

  "Sleep in my bed with me tonight and I'll take you in the morning. Grandmother said I could."

  Meg sat down in the chair by the fireplace to nibble on the ginger cake. The thought of spending the night and going to the churchyard in the morning was enticing. It was so warm and comfortable and dry in here and so wet out there. And what if she did visit the grave now? Where would she sleep, then? She'd certainly not make it back to London in the storm on the nag she'd ridden here on. And then what would she do when she returned to London? The ship to America wasn't leaving for days. Chances were Kincaid would be looking for her. Rutledge was the place he'd never know to look for her.

  Meg took the teacup the girl had refilled for her. "I think I will stay."

  Annie jumped up and down, clapping her hands. "Oh, goody. A friend to stay with me. I hate sleepin' here alone when Grandmother's birthing babies."

  "So bri
ng your chair." Meg waved her hand. "Come have tea with me and tell me a story. I know a girl as bright as you must have a good story or two in her pretty head."

  Annie dragged the chair through the floor rushes. "Oh, I do. Just wait till you hear this one!"

  The Earl of Rutledge stood at the window of his library staring at the dreary rain. Even a fire in the fireplace had not been able to take the chill from his bones.

  He was in a foul mood. He'd received word from Rutledge Castle that his nephew had arrived. He'd taken his carriage at first light yesterday from London back to Rutledge just to see James, to be here with him in his ancestral home.

  But by the time Percival got here, the turd was already gone. Apparently he'd stayed no more than an hour or two, but the messenger had already been sent to London.

  Rutledge slapped his hand on the desk, rattling an ink well. His patience was wearing thin with the boy. Here he was to inherit this great estate one day and he barely gave Percival the time of day. He'd expected better of him. Once Percival had released his brother's funds to James, he had expected frequent visits. Perhaps a party thrown by James in Percival's honor. A little ass-kissing. Percival felt he deserved it.

  But the boy had a mind of his own. He always had. That was why Philip had kicked him out of the house to begin with. It had all been over politics. The boy hadn't seen the profit that was to come from siding with Cromwell and his Roundheads. He hadn't realized the financial opportunities as Percival and Philip had. The boy's head had been filled with thoughts of loyalty to the Crown, nonsense that could have gotten him killed if it hadn't been for Percival's power. So Philip had sent his son packing and the boy had wandered off to Europe with so many idealist cavaliers.

  Percival wandered away from the window and his desk, bored. It was raining too hard to return London tonight. Besides, he had matters to take care of before he returned. He was due for a trip home anyway, so while he was here, he thought he might as well see to them.

  Matters to take care of . . . He thought of the dungeon down below, a spark of an idea flickering in his head. Hmmmmm. He was bored. Perhaps that which waited downstairs for him could alleviate some of that boredom. He chuckled at his own cleverness. Of course! Why had he not thought about that before?

  "Higgins!" Percival opened his library door and stuck his head into the hallway. "Higgins, where the hell are you?"

  He immediately heard timid footsteps in the stone corridor. "My lord?"

  "I want my supper."

  "N . . . now, my lord?" Higgins kept his head bowed, his eyes averted.

  "Yes, now!" Percival reached out and plucked him in the forehead. "You think I meant tomorrow?"

  "N . . . no, my lord. It's only that it's early for your supper. You usually insist—"

  "You're going to argue with me," Rutledge sputtered, "about when I want my blasted supper? Me, the Earl of Rutledge?" As he spoke spittle flew through the air. He wiped his deformed mouth impatiently with the corner of his handkerchief. "Tell me my household doesn't need disciplining! With that last burst of words, he touched his chest with his hand, feeling a tightening.

  Higgins took a step back, just out of Percival's reach. "No, No, my lord, your household is in definite order."

  The earl exhaled, waiting for the pain. After a moment he breathed deeply again, relieved that no pain came this time with the tightening in his chest. "Good," he said, forcing himself to calm down. The pains seemed to come when someone aggravated him. "I'm glad to hear it. Now bring my supper and then you are dismissed. I shall entertain myself this evening and will not need you again."

  "Yes, my lord." Higgins began to back away.

  "Oh, and Higgins . . ."

  He turned back to look at Percival standing in the lighted doorway of the library. "Should I have a body to dispose of . . ."

  The man immediately lowered his gaze. "I would take care of it discreetly, my lord."

  "Excellent, because were I to need such services, there would be a reward."

  Higgins looked up, licking his lips. A reward, sir?"

  "Have you seen the young girl that lives with the old midwife?"

  Higgins touched his periwig. "The blonde with the blue eyes? Oh, yes, my lord."

  "Would you like her?"

  Higgins lowered his gaze, his lust obvious in his shark-gray eyes. "I would, my lord."

  "Aye. I thought so, you sick bastard. So go with you and I'll call you, should your service be needed."

  "Yes, my lord." Higgins backed into the shadows. "Thank you, my lord."

  Percival smiled his crooked smile as he turned away, already anticipating his own evening's distraction. Perhaps a trip home was just what he needed to pick up his spirits afterall.

  Kincaid lay in bed, his boots on the white counterpane, staring dismally at the rain that hit the window. Cradled on his chest was a bowl of calf liver stew only half eaten, in his hand, a pottle of wine he drank straight from the container.

  Meg never let him drink from the bottle. It always had to be from a glass. Even when he told her he'd always drank that way at home, she'd said not in her home. She wouldn't let him eat in the bed, either. Crumbs.

  He picked up a cold muffin from the plate on the side table and flung it onto the bed, watching the crumbs fly. He stared at his muddy boots and at the place on the counterpane where they'd left their mark. No dirty boots were allowed in Meg's house, either.

  "So how do you like that, Miss Neatness?" he said to the empty room. "I can eat where I want. Drink when I want. Just like the good old days before I had a woman to drag me down."

  No one answered him of course, because there was no one there. Monti was dead. Friends had claimed his body and it was being prepared for burial right now. Kincaid had seen to the matter on his way home from Saity's.

  And of course Meg was gone.

  Meg . . . his sweet Meg, his light in the darkness. How the hell had this happened? Why hadn't he seen it coming?

  He shoved the bowl of stew onto the table and got out of bed. And what was he going to do now that she was gone? He felt so empty inside without her.

  He groaned. She'd killed his father, damn it! How could he still feel this way about her? Why did he still physically ache for her, knowing the horrible truth of what she'd done. What was wrong with him? God's bowels, she was his stepmother and she'd killed his father!

  He took a slug of the wine, resting the bottle on his shoulder the way the men had done in his drinking days in Paris. But for some reason it wasn't fun like it had been then. And without Meg here to tease, it seemed silly. Juvenile.

  He set down the wine. Because it was juvenile. His whole reaction to this mess had been childish. His intention when he left Saity's had been to get drunk. Really drunk. Drunk like he hadn't been but a few times in his life. But the thought quickly lost its appeal. No matter how much he drank, he knew Meg would still be gone.

  She'd left him. Not really loved him, he guessed. Wasn't that what his father had told him? That no one would ever love him? Could love him?

  "Oh, Meg, why didn't you tell me?" he whispered. "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

  And then, it happened again. Just like it had in the Rutledge nursery. He could almost hear her voice in his head.

  Because you would have hated me, she whispered in his head.

  "No, I wouldn't have," he said aloud.

  Because I would have hurt you . . .

  Kincaid stood in the middle of the room, his head hung so that his chin touched his chest. "Because you loved me," he whispered to the empty room. "Of course. I see your reasoning. You left me because you loved me enough to sacrifice yourself and the happiness you so well deserved."

  He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes clouding with tears.

  He had to find her. He had to tell her how he honestly felt. What he really thought. Hell, the truth was that if he'd had the chance, perhaps he'd have killed his bastard father, as well. He knew what a cruel man his father had be
en. How could he blame her without hearing from her what had happened that night in their bedchamber? Knowing Meg as he did and knowing Philip Randall, he knew logically Philip was probably the guilty party and Meg the innocent.

  So, what was he going to do now? How was he going to find his Meg? How was he going to tell her that he still loved her, despite the blood on her hands?

  Saity, of course, was his only hope. Saity had to know where she'd gone. The trick would be getting her to tell him after he'd been so nasty to her.

  He stared out the window at the pouring rain, deciding that the best way to endear himself to the laundress was not to wake her in the middle of the night.

  He sighed, running his hands through his black hair, pushing it over the crown of his head. He'd go to Saity tomorrow. That was what he'd do. And he'd take one hell of an apology with him when he went.

  Twenty-eight

  Kincaid stood in Saity's doorway, several cloth sacks and boxes in his hands. "I come bearing gifts and a humble apology," he told her sheepishly.

  Saity lifted up on her tiptoes to peek inside one of the sacks. "You got chocolate in there?"

  He smiled a little. "And an orange."

  Saity's eyes grew wide with excitement. "Orange? Bring yourself into my humble shop, my lord." She led the way. "I don't know how long I'm willin' to let ye stay, but at least long enough to let me get a taste of that orange."

  Kincaid laughed. "I do owe you an apology, Saity." He dropped the boxes and bags on her worktable that was piled high with laundry. "I was an ass yesterday. I was mad and I was hurt and you were the only one around I could take it out on." He looked up at her, feeling awkward, but glad the apology was over.

  Saity stared at him until finally Kincaid lifted his hand. "What? You want more groveling?"

  She shook her head, her forehead wrinkled. "No. I'm just tryin' to figure out what you are, cause I know you ain't no man. Men don't ever say they're sorry. Never admit to being wrong, either."