The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  "Take that!" she cackled, waving the knife. "And see what ye can do with it, Higgins."

  "Stop her," Percival shouted, still behind Kincaid, limping down the stairs. "Stop that crazy old woman, James. She's mad. Everyone knows she's mad and can't be trusted." He thrust out his hand. "Look, she's killed my manservant."

  Kincaid reached Mavis and put his arms out to her. "Are you all right?"

  "No thanks to 'im!" She pointed to Higgins's body that had come to rest at the bottom of the stairs. The servant stared at the ceiling, his gaze lifeless.

  "Where is she?" Kincaid said softly. "Where's my Meg? Please tell me she's not dead."

  "Don't know if she's still 'live or not." Mavis wiped the blood from the blade on her skirt. "Only know where 'e put her."

  Kincaid held his breath. "Where?"

  "The dungeons."

  Kincaid started down the steps again, taking them two at a time. "You son of a bitch," he shouted over his shoulder. "You'll pay for this, uncle!"

  "Wait, wait, James." Percival stumbled down the steps, past Mavis. He was out of breath, his deformed face pale. "Wait," he called in a pitiful voice. "Let me explain. You don't understand, nephew. Let me explain!"

  Kincaid burst out the front door, dropping into a dead run. His Meg in the dungeon? What kind of animal was his uncle?

  "Meg! I'm coming," he shouted as he raced toward the entrance to the cellar at the kitchen wing. "I'm coming, Meg."

  Just please still be alive.

  Thirty

  Meg closed her eyes, leaning her head against the cold, rough stone of the wall. Her legs were stiff from sitting so long and the metal of the chains bit into the flesh of her wrists and ankles. Time passed so slowly that it had seemed to stop. Here in the dark, isolated from sight and sound, it was easy to let her mind wander, to take her places she didn't want to go. It was all she could manage to fight the panic in her chest that threatened her ability to think rationally.

  Earlier, the cell door had opened and Higgins had brought water. She had always hated the man, trusting him even less than she trusted the earl. When she'd begged Higgins to help her, to send for help if he was too afraid of Rutledge, he had only laughed. When she tried to question him about the woman in the next cell over, he had slapped her across the face and told her she needed to worry about herself.

  Despite how much she despised Higgins, Meg had hated to see him go. At least when he came there had been the light from his lantern and a breath of air. He'd only stayed long enough to check the security of her chains and give her the water. Then he closed the wooden door and dropped the latch and Meg was in darkness again, in tears.

  Her tears had long dried up. That had been at least an hour ago, perhaps two. She was done feeling sorry for herself. Now she was ready to do something about her situation. She'd told Higgins to send that bastard Rutledge down, hinting that someone would be here soon looking for her.

  Meg was expecting Rutledge anytime. She didn't know what she was going to do or say when he got there. She didn't know how she was going to get out of this mess, only that she would. She had to.

  When Meg heard the echo of a door opening somewhere in the cellar, she tapped on the wall. It had been a long time since the woman in the other cell had responded. "Can you hear me?" she called. "He's coming. I'm going to talk to him. I'm going to figure out a way to get us out of here. Do you hear me?"

  She waited and was rewarded by a single tap.

  Meg smiled in the darkness. "I will get us out of here," she said softly, brushing her hand against her abdomen. "I swear I will."

  Then Meg heard footsteps. Someone running. Running?

  The door to her cell swung open and she squinted in the bright light of the lantern. "Who . . . who's there? Percival?" She tried to see who it was.

  "Sh . . . shut up." A hand grasped her arm and yanked her to her feet.

  "Who is it?" she demanded.

  He was unlocking the chains that bound her to the wall. Then her feet. "Thank you, thank you," she whispered.

  Then she realized it was Sam, one of the earl's servants. "Sam? Sam? You're letting me go?" Sam had never taken the initiative in anything in his life. He was petrified of the earl. Maybe he was taking her to him . . .

  "Sam, answer me!"

  "L . . . let's go." He grabbed her by the arm and when she didn't move fast enough, he dragged her.

  "Sam! What the hell do you think you're doing?" She struggled to get away, beating him with her fist. "I want you to let that other woman out of there! Do you hear me?"

  Then Meg felt the cold barrel of a pistol pressed against her cheek. She immediately ceased struggling. She stared at the pistol and then Sam.

  "You . . . you m . . . move a . . . long and k . . . keep quiet. You . . . you understand me?"

  "Where are you taking me?" Meg stared at his face. She didn't know what was happening, but realized something wasn't right.

  Then, coming as brightly as a light in the darkness, she heard a familiar voice.

  "Meg?"

  She stumbled. Sam was leading her deeper into the catacombs of the cellar—away from Kincaid. "Kincaid!" she screamed. "Help me! I'm here, Kincaid. Help me!"

  "L . . . Let's go," Sam said in her ear, dragging her when she lost her footing. "C . . . can't disappoint the . . . the earl. C . . . can't. He'll . . . he'll k . . . kill me for sure."

  "Kincaid!" Meg screamed. "He's taking me away." She jumped up and down, making as much noise as possible, betting Sam wouldn't have the guts to shoot her.

  She heard Kincaid running. She heard him calling her name. "Where are you?" he shouted. "Meg!"

  "Here! Here!" she sobbed. She fell on the dirt floor and thrust her feet up in the air, kicking Sam as hard as she could. Sam tripped and fell and the pistol went off in a flash of light. The lantern flew through the air and hit the ground several feet from her, casting ugly, warped shadows on the gray wall.

  "Here, Kincaid!"

  Suddenly he burst into the light and she felt his arms around her.

  "Meg, Meg." He went down on one knee, pulling her against him, stroking her hair. "Are you all right? Tell me you're all right. He didn't hurt you?"

  Meg was close to tears. "I'm sorry," was all she could say over and over again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I murdered him. I didn't want to kill him, only defend myself."

  "No, no." He pushed her tangled hair from her face so that he could look her in the eyes. "Don't say it. Don't ever say it. It was self-defense. That's not murder."

  She rested her head on Kincaid's sturdy chest, tears now running freely down her cheeks. He believed her! He truly believed her!

  "He killed my baby, Kincaid. He wasn't born dead like they all said. Mavis saw him alive, ask her," she sobbed. "Philip . . . he slit his throat because he . . . he had a harelip and he said he couldn't stand the ugliness."

  "Meg, Meg," Kincaid's voice cracked. "I'm so sorry." He rocked her in his arms.

  "Goodness, isn't this cozy?" The Earl of Rutledge appeared in the circle of light with Mavis just behind him. "So the two of you are acquainted." He leaned against the wall. His left arm hung limply and he was clutching his left breast, obviously ill. His face was bright red and appeared bloated. Sweat trickled down his temples. "Don't tell me you know this woman, this murderess, intimately."

  "You sick bastard," Kincaid whispered. He would have stood, but Meg wouldn't let go of him. She couldn't. Not yet.

  "I don't know how this came about!" the earl flung in a tirade. "Did you help her escape that night? Did you cuckold your father, aid in the murder, and then help our Margaret escape? Have you fornicated with your stepmother?" he screeched, spittle running from his twisted mouth.

  "Not his stepmother at all," Mavis injected.

  "Shut up." Percival whipped around, flinging a hand to slap her, but the old woman was too quick for him.

  She stepped closer to Kincaid and Meg, further into the light. "Time he heard the truth," she cackled, obviously tauntin
g Rutledge in his state of incapacitation. "Cut my tongue if you like. Been threatenin' me all these years, do it! But the midwife knows, doesn't she? The midwife always knows the truth behind the family bloodlines."

  Kincaid stood, lifting Meg to her feet, holding her against him in his arms. "Know what truth? Whose bloodlines?" He looked at his uncle. "What's she talking about?"

  "Tell him who he is," the old woman chanted. "Tell the boy. Tell 'im. Tell 'im. Tell 'im."

  "Shut up!" Percival covered his hands with his ears. "Shut up! Shut up!" Then suddenly he doubled over in pain. His wig fell off his head and he kicked it with the toe of his shoe as he caught himself against the wall. "Shut up! Shut up or I'll—"

  "You'll what? I know, cut out my tongue? Ye haven't the strength old man!" Mavis threw back her head in crackling laughter. "It looks like yer own curse will send you to the grave, eh? Look at you, your heart tears as you speak. It's yer evilness eatin' you up."

  The earl tried to take a step toward Mavis and went down on his knees. He was a pitiful sight with sprouts of white hair on his bald head. His shirt and cravat were wet with his own spittle.

  Out of the darkness, Sam crawled. "My lord, my lord are you all right? Should I send for your surgeon or take you to bed?" The servant was desperate. "A drink. Brandy? Your brandy always helps."

  "Get back," Kincaid ordered Sam in a tone that indicated he was in control of the situation. He stared at his uncle with hatred in his eyes. "We'll send for your surgeon, but first you must tell me what the midwife speaks of. Is this the babbling of a mad woman, or is there truth in her words?"

  "No," Rutledge sobbed. "It's not true. None of it. Whatever she says. A lie. A lie conceived by that slut bitch mother of yours. That's why your father had to do away with her."

  Meg felt Kincaid stiffen beside her. "My father killed my mother!"

  "Not your father," Mavis offered gleefully. "Not your father at all, eh, Rutledge? Eh, dying Earl of Nothing! Here is where this bloodline ends. Here in the dirt where it belongs. This man," she pointed to Kincaid, "he will lead the Randalls back to the honor they once held."

  Kincaid looked to Mavis. "What are you talking about. Did my father kill my mother or he didn't?"

  "Aye, Philip killed your mother, but 'e weren't your father." She laughed. "Why do you think you escaped the curse? Not a Randall at all."

  Kincaid brushed his lips against Meg's cheek and then carefully disengaged himself from her. He went down on his knees in front of his uncle who now lay on the dirt floor. "Tell me," Kincaid insisted.

  "Lies. Lies," Percival blubbered. "A surgeon. I must have a surgeon. A letting of blood is what I need. Call for the leech!"

  Kincaid looked at Sam who sat against the wall, huddled to protect himself. "Go. Do as he says. Fetch the surgeon." He gave the trembling man a push. "Hurry."

  When Sam finally scrambled to his feet, Meg caught a whiff of fresh urine. Sam took off down the corridor toward the exit.

  Kincaid looked back at his uncle and then up at the midwife. Meg hung back, realizing Mavis wasn't just babbling. She was trying to tell Kincaid something very important.

  "Tell us, Mavis," she said.

  "Please tell me," Kincaid repeated. "Tell me what you speak of. If I'm not my father's child, whose am I?" He pointed at Percival. "Not his?"

  She snickered. "Not a Randall at all, I said, boy. Listen, listen. Blue runs in your blood."

  "Not a Randall?" Meg whispered, utterly confused. "If he's not Philip's and not Percival's, whose is he?"

  Mavis rubbed her wrinkled hands together with pleasure. "A Stuart, of course!" She grinned. "A Stuart."

  Meg knew her mouth must have dropped as she stared incredulously. "A Stuart?"

  "Brother to our present lord and king, Charles II. Born on the wrong side of the sheets to the first Charles. A bastard, James be, but a Stuart no less."

  Kincaid rose slowly, staring at the midwife. He spoke haltingly, as if it took time for the words to sink in. "My father was the King of England?"

  "Aye. Lord Surrey knew it from the first. Took the royal leavings as 'is own, 'e did. Took the king's gold to give the child the Randall name. But 'e hated ye. Always hated ye," she told Kincaid.

  Kincaid looked at his uncle for confirmation. The idea was absurd. Mavis was mad. And yet the idea was so ridiculous that it could have been possible. "Is it true, Rutledge? Am I not a Randall at all?"

  "Not fair," Percival moaned, his eyelids fluttering. "It was never fair. You were so perfect. That's why you were so perfect. Not one of us . . . never one of us. But not hard enough. We tried. We tried."

  Meg stared at Percival, lying so pitifully on the floor. The man disgusted her, and yet a tiny part of her almost felt sorry for him.

  As she came toward him, the earl rolled his head back and gasped for air. His chest rose and fell with a wheezing sound. His entire body convulsed and then he was still.

  Kincaid crouched over him, pressing his hand to the earl's neck. "Dead," he whispered. Then he straightened, reaching for Meg's hand. "His heart, I think. My grandfather, his father," he corrected, "went the same way."

  Meg threw her arms around Kincaid, holding him tightly. "You came for me," she whispered. "You found out the truth and you still came."

  He kissed her cheek where it was damp from her tears. "We'll talk about this later. Let's just get out of here," he whispered against her hair. "As far from here as possible."

  Meg nodded in agreement, then looked up, suddenly remembering the other prisoner. "There's someone else," she whispered. "Another woman."

  Kincaid looked into her eyes. "Another woman where, Meg? What are you talking about?"

  Meg let go of Kincaid and grabbed the lantern, stepping around the earl's body. She ran back down the corridor, not even certain which door it was. "I don't know who she is. A woman. She's here somewhere. I heard her. Rutledge was keeping her prisoner here, too."

  Meg turned the corner, passing the open door to the cell where she'd been held. "Here!" She tried to open the door, but it wouldn't budge. Locked. She banged on the door with her fist. "We're here," she shouted. "We've come for you!"

  Kincaid came up behind Meg. He tried the door with a hand. "Stand back," he said.

  Meg stepped behind him and lifted the lantern to give him more light. She watched as he lifted his boot and kicked the door. It took three kicks for him to shatter the frame. When the door popped open, a muffled, whining sound came from within.

  Mavis stepped through the doorway and stopped.

  Meg raised the lantern high to cast light into the ill-smelling cell.

  In the back, in the corner lay someone, something that resembled a human.

  Meg closed her eyes, so dizzy she feared she would faint. It was a woman near to starving, so thin her ribs could be counted. She was completely nude, but a leather hood was pulled over her head that did not allow her to see or speak.

  Mavis reached out to the woman, and she shrank back, making the animal sounds.

  "It's all right, sweet thing," Mavis cooed. "Come to Mavis."

  Meg watched in horror as the midwife gathered the woman into her arms like an infant. She unlaced the hood and pulled it off her head. The woman just lay in Mavis's arms, helpless.

  "Oh my God," Kincaid whispered, pressing his hand to Meg's back.

  "You know her?" Meg whispered.

  Kincaid took the lantern from Meg's hand and set it on the ground. "I'll send help down, Mavis," he said. "You stay with her."

  Kincaid took Meg by the shoulders and led her toward the staircase where the light came pouring down.

  "Who is it?" Meg whispered, holding tightly to him, shaking.

  "Mary Mummford," he answered. "The Baron Mummford's daughter." He led her up the staircase and into the sunlight. "She's been missing for months. Presumed dead."

  Meg rested her head against Kincaid's shoulder as they stepped out of the cellar and into the grass. "I'm glad he's dead," she said softly. "Heaven help
me, may the Earl of Rutledge rot in hell."

  The song ended with the final gay note of the fiddle and Saity burst into laughter, flinging herself into the lap of her new husband.

  "Again, again!" Clancy shouted, wrapping his arms around her and clapping his hands as the fiddler began the next tune.

  Breathless, Saity planted a kiss on his lips. "No, not . . . not again! I'm done too tired out fer another. It'll have to be Meg that dances this next piece!"

  Meg stood beside Kincaid in the public room of Mother Godwin's House for Girls. It was a wedding celebration. Saity and Clancy had been married this afternoon and Kincaid had insisted he throw them a party. The room was filled with Saity's old friends and their customers. The idea that a girl could leave a whorehouse and find happiness was cause for great celebration among those who had not yet been so lucky. Meg found it gave them hope. She could see it in their smiles and hear it in their laughter.

  "Meg! Meg! Meg!" Mary Theresa and Maria chanted. They were dressed alike tonight in pink taffeta dresses cut down to their rouged nipples, the skirts hemmed above their knees. In their hair they wore pink ribbons.

  "Dance for us!" Maria encouraged, her cheeks flushed from the good wine Kincaid had ordered. "Dance for us, Maiden of Honor."

  Meg looked up at Kincaid. His brown eyes were sparkling with green flecks of light. "Should I?" she murmured.

  "Why not? Dance well enough and I'll buy you one of those gowns to match Maria's and Mary's." He winked at her.

  She laughed and lifted up on her toes to kiss him. When she did, she parted her lips to tickle him with her tongue.

  He tried to catch her by the waist, but she was too fast for him. "I thought you wanted to see me dance," she teased, slipping out of his arms.

  "I'd prefer something else!" he called after her.

  The crowd burst into bawdy laughter as Meg lifted her skirts and joined the other women in the country dance. As she whirled and dipped, copying their steps, she was watching Kincaid.

  He clapped to the lively tune, tapping his foot, watching her watch him.