Moonstruck Masness

by Laurie McBain

  Walking down its length, her footsteps echoing faintly, Sabrina suddenly shivered. It was so quiet. Like a tomb. Certainly too quiet for a rollicking midnight card party. But then gambling was the only thing these dandies and fops took seriously—and indeed, showed any competence at, Sabrina thought scornfully, unless it was in their ownelaborate appearances; prancing peacocks, the whole lot of them.

  Sabrina grinned beneath the concealment of her mask as she thought of her own finely-cut velvet breeches and coat and the strip of bright tartan. She had a part to play, a reputation to live up to, and these popinjays would be sorely disappointed if her appearance fell short of their rather fanciful expectations of what the infamous Bonnie-Charlie, the impudent, gentlemanly Scots highwayman, should look like.

  Sabrina felt the hilt of her sword riding comfortably at her hip—a necessary tool of the trade. She drew her pistol, primed and ready to answer, just in case one of the gentle­men had a sudden urge to play the hero.

  Most of the furnishings of the upstairs were still shrouded in protective dust covers. That army of servants Will had spoken of hadn't been too busy, Sabrina thought as she swiped at a cobweb in front of her face.

  The large hall below was quiet and shadowy, the light from a few candelabras barely lighting it as Sabrina quietly made her way down the staircase, pausing cautiously as she heard scuffling and voices from the servants' door beneath the staircase. Descending the last few steps quickly, she pushed an oak chair in front of the door and tipped it so the back was wedged beneath the doorknob. That would detain the servants, should they become curi­ous. From beyond a closed door Sabrina suddenly heard laughter and the clink of glasses.

  Smiling in anticipation, Sabrina moved forward, her gloved hand reaching out for the doorknob. Turning it slowly with her left hand, her right firmly holding her pis­tol, she opened the door suddenly and rushed in to take her victims by surprise—only the room was empty!

  "Looking for someone?" a satisfied voice asked.

  Sabrina turned quickly, her heart beating in her throat as the scar-faced man stepped from behind an oak screen, a pistol held casually in each hand and pointed at her head, a mocking smile on his face.

  "You seem surprised, Bonnie Charlie," he laughed. "Did you get the wrong information? One of your spies must've heard wrongly if you thought there was to be a card party here this evening—for there is only I," he informed her with a widening grin. "And you, of course."

  Sabrina's fingers tightened on the trigger as her hand shook imperceptibly, and she looked over at the curtained window expectantly.

  "Oh, if you're hoping to see your large friend, you'll wait in vain, for I fear he has met with a slight accident," the Duke of Camareigh explained carelessly, a gleam in his sherry-brown eyes.

  "A trap," Sabrina said beneath her breath, her eyes darkened by fear.

  "Yes, a trap. But I should introduce myself to you. A captive should have the pleasure of knowing who en­trapped him. I am the Duke of Camareigh. You may ad­dress me as Your Grace."

  Sabrina felt suffocated. She had to keep a clear head. This was no time to panic, and drawing on some deep reserve of courage, she found her voice.

  "You seem to have overlooked the fact, Your Grace, that I also have a pistol pointed at your head."

  "I had noticed," the Duke replied evenly. "But I seem to remember you threatening me with your sword point." He glanced at Bonnie Charlie insultingly. "Of course you were surrounded by your armed friends at the time. By the way, did I kill your big friend the other night? I'm afraid I aimed hastily and might have been a bit off the mark."

  Sabrina's temper flared at his offhand and callous in­quiry. He was a swine, and she'd like to knock that mocking smile off his face. "No, you only winged him, Your Grace," she answered smoothly. "Which leads me to wonder how good a shot you are if you can't hit as big a target as my friend," Sabrina taunted in return.

  The Duke laughed in genuine amusement. "You are a cool one, Bonnie Charlie. So how do you prefer to die? I'll let you choose. I could put a hole in you now, but I think I prefer to play with you a bit before I run you through and send you to your grave."

  A deafening roar cut through the silence, and Sabrina took an involuntary step backwards as she gasped and saw the eagle's feather from her hat float to the floor and land in front of her boots. Behind her mask, her face paled and cold perspiration broke out on her forehead. Carefully she placed her pistol on the floor as he directed with the barrel of his other pistol.

  "I yield to your superior treachery, Your Grace," she spoke softly, a blaze of fury beginning to glow in her eyes. Very well, if she were to die at his hands then she would, but only after she'd done an injury to this meddlesome Duke, she thought in anticipation of drawing his blood.

  He smiled coldly and moving forward kicked the sur­rendered pistol from out of Bonnie Charlie's reach and placed his own on the mantel shelf.

  "I do dislike fighting in an obviously unequal match," he commented as he drew his sword from his hip, "but you have asked for it." He shrugged his shoulders regret­fully. "No one slaps me and goes unpunished. You may not be much to look at, but you're a vicious little fellow and I think it's about time that you learned a few lessons in manners."

  Sabrina drew her sword, raising her chin arrogantly. "As I promised once before, I shall give Your Grace a matching scar for his other cheek."

  The Duke stood facing her, his buckskin breeches molded to his muscular thighs and his fine lawn shirt and stock covering a wide expanse of chest and shoulder. His blond head gleamed like newly minted gold under the flickering candlelight as he pushed back a chair with the heel of his boot, sending it sliding across the floor.

  "On guard, my soon-to-be-dead friend," he challenged with a laugh.

  Sabrina sidestepped agilely, her smallness to her ad­vantage as she thrust at the Duke's chest with her sword. He parried it effortlessly and lunged, pushing Sabrina back as she struggled to parry the driving force of his thrust. The clashing of steel against steel rang in her ears as she danced about the larger man.

  Sabrina began to gain confidence as she kept the Duke busy defending himself, until she saw the wide smile on his face and knew that he was merely amusing himself while he played with her. He knew he had her out­matched and was only prolonging the moment until he would cut through her guard and pierce her heart with the point of his sword. A black rage rose in Sabrina and in a fit of uncontrollable passion, lending her renewed strength, she lunged suddenly and caught the Duke off guard, prick­ing his shoulder slightly before he ducked out of reach and turned on her fiercely, the amused light gone from his eyes as he viciously attacked, his sword seeming to flash fire as she fought him off. In her frightened eyes he looked like a madman with his scarred face and blazing eyes. Sabrina couldn't hold him off any longer. Her arm ached from the effort and felt like lead as she struggled to keep up her guard and protect herself from each mighty thrust of his sword.

  With a suddenness of movement the Duke twisted adroitly and slipped his sword point in beneath Sabrina's wavering sword, driving his point deep into her shoulder. Sabrina felt a searing pain like red-hot coals and giving a muffled cry dropped her sword as she staggered against a chair for support, momentarily stunned. She felt a wave of blackness engulf her as she fell to her knees, feeling an ache not of the body, but of the soul as she realized she was near death and in her mind's eye saw her family for the last time.

  The Duke stared down at the fallen highwayman, a dis­gusted look on his face. "Not much of a fight in you, eh?" He flicked the tartan sash contemptuously, cutting it in two and drawing a small splurt of blood. A dark patch was beginning to stain the highwayman's coat as his blood from the wounded shoulder seeped through the velvet.

  "Let's have a look at that roguish face of yours, Bonnie Charlie. It's about time we unveiled the mysterious high­wayman, and I'm curious about who I'm delivering to the soldiers to be hanged," the Duke said with a cruel smile curving his lips as he
carelessly slashed the highwayman's hand that had been reaching for a knife at his waist, leav­ing a long red scratch across the back of his gloved hand.

  "Still have a little fight left in you?" He sneered as he reached out and ruthlessly tore the concealing mask from the highwayman's face. "Well now, what have we here? You're certainly a pretty little fellow, what—" He stopped abruptly.

  The Duke's smile faded as he stared more closely at the highwayman's revealed face. A look of amazement spread across his features as he took in the heart-shaped face, the large violet eyes made brilliant by tears of fright and pain, the small, cupid's-bow mouth that trembled slightly and the creamy smooth skin of her cheeks.

  "My God!" the Duke ejaculated as he dropped his sword and reached for the crumpled figure that now fell forward in unconsciousness.

  He lifted the highwayman easily in his arms and kicking open the partially closed door made his way to the stair­case, noting the jammed servants' door as he climbed the stairs with the unconscious girl high in his arms, a grim tightness about his mouth.

  Entering the bedchamber that had been cleaned and aired for his use, he carefully lay the highwayman down on the big bed. He stared bemusedly down at the small face for an instant, then removed the cocked hat and tossed it across the room. He lifted the powdered wig from the highwayman's head and revealed long black hair. It tumbled about the pillow as he uncoiled it and it sprung up softly beneath his fingers, soft as a child's, he thought suddenly, as he smoothed a thick curl back from a vulner­able temple.

  Carefully he removed the heavy coat from the highway­man, frowning as he saw the blood-stained shoulder and scratch he'd made beneath the tartan sash. Then taking the highwayman's knife he cut the shirt from the unconscious form, his face pale as he stared down at the body before him, his worst doubts confirmed.

  "A woman," he whispered, still unable to believe the positive proof before his astonished eyes.

  Small breasts rose and fell rapidly beneath his hand as he dabbed at the blood with a clean handkerchief, leaving it on the wound to staunch the flow. He pulled off her boots and covering her left the room. Belowstairs he sent his servants hurriedly about boiling water and making ban­dages, his grim face stalling any curious questions they might have had.

  "Where's the other highwayman?" the Duke demanded.

  "Safely locked up in the cellar and nursing quite a headache and sore jaw I should imagine," his valet an­swered calmly, a smug look on his face as he thought of the surprised grunt from the giant as they'd sneaked up behind him and walloped him good before he could swing those ham fists of his—although even then he'd taken a right to the jaw before finally toppling over. Sanders glanced curiously at the Duke, wondering about the order for bandages. "Is there anything I can do, Your Grace?" he asked. "I assume you dealt with the other bandit suc­cessfully."

  The Duke hesitated a moment, then drew Sanders aside as he confided, "I'm afraid we've a small difficulty. Our highwayman happens to be female."

  Sanders' eyes grew enormous and he choked back an exclamation as the Duke shook his head for silence.

  "I want no one to know of this, do you understand?" the Duke told him coldly. "You bring the medicine and bandages when ready, I'll be up with our guest."

  Sanders returned to the business at hand as the Duke left, but half of his thoughts were following the Duke up­stairs.

  Sabrina opened her eyes through a haze of pain. Her body felt like it was on fire and she gasped as a sharp, searing pain went through her shoulder as she tried to sit up. She lay back panting, her thoughts confused as she tried to remember what had happened. The vagueness be­gan to sharpen in her mind and suddenly in a flash she knew. The scar-faced gentleman! He had tried to kill her, and nearly succeeded, she grimaced, as she struggled to sit up, a faint feeling spreading through her at the effort.

  She glanced about the room fearfully for her attacker, but it was empty. Sabrina shivered, feeling a draught of cool air caress her bare shoulders, and pulled the coverlet closer about her.

  A strained look entered her eyes as she realized the im­plications of that. The person who had removed her mask and wig, and bared her shoulders, must have had a sur­prising discovery. She put her trembling fingers to her temples and tried to think. She couldn't seem to gather her wits and act. First, she must escape. She must get away from this scar-faced man who had caught her. What had he thought, she wondered, when he'd found out he'd du­eled with a woman?

  Pulling the coverlet over her shoulder, wincing with pain as she moved her arm, Sabrina struggled from the bed, biting her lip to keep from crying out. She felt the warm blood from her shoulder trickle down her arm, feeling sticky between her fingers. Stumbling to the win­dow she pressed her hot face against the cool pane and rubbed a spot clean of grime to peer out, but only darkness met her eyes. The simple task of opening the window became a tiring struggle in her weakened condi­tion until she finally succeeded, and cool air rushed in to bathe her flushed face.

  She saw her coat crumpled on the floor across the room and slowly made her way to it. She was standing dumbly in front of it when the door was opened and the Duke en­tered, coming to an astonished halt midstride as he saw his wounded prisoner swaying before the coat.

  Two dark, violet pools of pain stared up into his eyes as he came to stand before her. His mouth tightened omi­nously as he noticed the blood dripping from her fingers.

  "Are you trying to kill yourself?" he demanded angrily.

  Sabrina continued to stare mutely up at him. The scar on his cheek fascinated her. She lifted a bloody finger to touch it, unaware of the glazed, feverish look in her eyes raised to his.

  The Duke felt the chill from the opened window and looked over at it in puzzlement until the truth dawned on him, his eyes narrowing as he returned his stare to the blanketed form before him.

  "Trying to escape, are you?" He laughed harshly, the sound ringing in Sabrina's ears like a death knell as she fell into his outstretched arms, his face swimming demoni­acally in her eyes.

  Let those love now who never loved before;

  Let those who always loved, now love the more.

  Thomas Parnell

  Chapter 5

  MARY wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, her small lace handkerchief already soaked from her crying. Where was Sabrina? What had she al­lowed Sabrina to walk into with her damned premoni­tions? Oh, how she cursed the day she was blessed with second sight. If only she hadn't reassured Sabrina that all would be fine. She had given her a false sense of security because of it. How could it have happened? She hadn't seen anything terrible happening to her. Although she had foreseen some trouble, she hadn't believed it to be seri­ous—and yet, Sabrina was missing. She'd been gone now for over five days. Not a sign of her, or Will Taylor.

  Mary threw back her head and gave a watery, near-hys­terical laugh with no amusement in it. What could she do? Go to the authorities and tell them that her sister, Lady Sabrina Verrick, who was actually the notorious Bonnie Charlie who had robbed them all at one time or another, was missing? That she had disappeared on one of her mid­night forays with one of her armed associates in crime?

  Six days now. Mary's nails bit into her palms. She had to do something. She couldn't stand this fearful uncer­tainty much longer. Something deep within told her that Sabrina wasn't dead—but that didn't set her mind at rest. John Taylor had scoured the countryside, but had found nothing. They seemed to have been swallowed up from the face of the earth.

  Mary walked over to the window and stared hopelessly out at the trees and hills in the distance. They were shrouded by a fine mist from the rain shower and looked ghostly to her worried eyes. How many times had she stood at the window staring out? And yet she saw nothing. Each time it was the same never-ending question—where was Sabrina?

  "A gentleman to see you, Lady Mary," the butler an­nounced from the doorway.

  Mary composed her face and tried to erase any trace of tears as she turn
ed from the window. "Who is it?"

  "A Colonel Terence Fletcher, Your Ladyship."

  "Show him in, Sims," Mary told him, her voice shaking. A colonel? What could he possibly want with her—unless they had captured Sabrina?

  She twisted her damp handkerchief nervously between her fingers as the colonel was shown in. Mary stared up into his penetrating gray eyes as if magnetized. His stern face and military bearing intimidated her and she took an instinctive step away from his awesome figure. His jack­boots shone spotlessly and his scarlet coat was impeccably cut. A long sword hung from his waist and as he came forward his silver spurs jingled a warning.

  "Colonel Fletcher," Mary greeted him weakly.

  "My pleasure, Your Ladyship." He spoke quietly, his voice oddly soothing to Mary's frayed nerves. "I hope you will forgive me this intrusion upon your privacy, but I am just recently arrived from London, and acquainting myself with the neighborhood," he said, explaining his uninvited presence.

  "Please sit down, Colonel," Mary invited him, her gray eyes showing a distressed look. "And what brings you to our county, Colonel Fletcher?"

  "I have been assigned the task of tracking down and bringing to justice the highwayman who calls himself Bon­nie Charlie."

  Mary let her eyes slide away from his direct gaze as she studied a floral arrangement. "I see."

  Colonel Fletcher watched her curiously as she continued to twist her handkerchief unconsciously. Something was worry-ing the lady, but it was no concern of his, unless what he'd said had alarmed her; however, she'd seemed distracted before he'd been introduced.

  "I hope what I've said hasn't caused you distress? The fact that you live with your sister and young brother, and only an aunt to chaperone you, led me to make this call and make myself known to you. Lord Malton, upon whom I've recently called, told me of your circumstances, and I must admit I am quite concerned lest you and your family be molested by this outlaw. Going unprotected invites dan­ger. I thought of posting a few sentries about your property to insure your safety, if it meets with your ap­proval?"