She sat across from him, and it felt far too intimate. He’d never eaten with any of his mistresses, and though he’d been placed next to women at London parties and expected to converse with them, he’d always had the advantage of having other people beside him.
The barmaid set towering tankards of ale down, and foam sloshed on the wooden table. He grinned when she put the food down. Definitely no need to leave yet.
He eyed his companion. “So what is it like being a highwaywoman?”
She leaned toward him, and her voice lowered to an almost seductive tone. “Wild.”
He shivered and then took a long slurp of the ale. “And how did you get into that career?”
Her red lips extended upward. “Complete chance.”
“Oh.”
“It could happen to you.” The woman tossed her hair, and scarlet curls resettled into a new, alluring pattern. The strands were bright sparks of color in the grim tavern, and Percival forced his gaze away.
No way would he let her see him eyeing them. Any curiosity might be taken for admiration, and he did not admire highwaywomen. His Majesty’s Army would not condone it, even if there might be some merit in the curve of her cheeks.
He’d been too long without a woman. War would do that to a man, at least one who’d had no desire to fulfill his urges at a brothel, and who was under strict instructions from the dowager to rectify his rakish reputation before he got betrothed.
Perhaps he was using the dowager as an excuse to avoid making a love-match. Perhaps he was worried his injury would hamper any attempts to find true affection anyway. He shook his head. “Tell me about yourself.”
“Me?” The Scarlet Demon’s gaze flickered to his torso, and she tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. Her voice seemed more high-pitched than it had before, a breathless tone, no less appealing, that made him scrutinize her.
A pink tint spread over her cheeks, and she dipped her head down. The gesture only made more of her mane of hair topple forward, and for a strange moment Percival pondered what it would feel like to move his fingers through her thick curls.
He’d traveled through France, Spain, Russia, and the Hapsburg Empire, but by Zeus, he’d never met any woman like her.
The Scarlet Demon inhaled, and though that dreadful cloak covered her completely, he would be lying if he said he hadn’t noticed the way her chest moved, and considered whether underneath all the wool there was a bosom he could grasp. The woman was rounder than he was used to. The chit had apple cheeks he wanted to stroke, and full lips that the warm tavern must have turned red, because they were the most enticing color.
He tightened his fists together. Clearly he’d simply gone far too long without a woman. That was it. Naturally. He concentrated on cutting his food and savoring the rich meat taste.
“What is this?” She poked the thick tan crust, and dark liquid oozed from it.
“Steak and ale pie.” He tilted his head. “How have you managed to avoid eating those? The only people I know who haven’t eaten them are members of the ton.”
She shrugged. “We highwaywomen are frightfully refined.”
“Clearly.” He concentrated on his food. Much less confusing than continuing to make conversation with his captor.
Before long he stumbled to his feet. A few of the men glanced at his wooden leg, and he stiffened. He’d been accustomed to drawing people’s glances because of his Carmichael features; now it was his tendency to totter and sway that attracted attention. “I’ll pay.”
She lurched up, and her chair scraped against the wooden floor. “I’ll come with you.”
Percival nodded; he’d anticipated her action.
They strode toward the counter, though Percival’s steps were rather less elegant than the highwaywoman’s. Her gaze swept over the room, and she appeared fascinated by the space and the long bar with the many men sipping ale. He almost wanted to laugh.
He grabbed hold of his purse and dipped out some of his gold coins. He handed her his still heavy bag. “This is yours.”
“I—”
In the next moment he knocked two tankards from the table. Then he was off, dragging his bad leg behind him, and gripping his cane as if everything depended on it, as murmurs broke out.
There was no way she was going to start flinging her knife at him now.
He increased his speed, grateful for the clusters of men. She’d have trouble coming after him.
He smiled. He wouldn’t need to worry about her anymore. The highwaywoman was in the past. He’d even left her some coins. To distract her. Not because he was worried what would happen to her, now that she was stuck in a strange place by herself.
Not at all.
He rubbed his hand through his hair and pressed the door to the outside. Cold wind slammed against him. The snow that he’d predicted had started to fall. He swore. Why on earth did he have to be so bloody right about everything?
He stepped over the icy cobblestones. Snow clung to his clothes, and the ground grew ever whiter. The groom helped him onto the mail coach, changed with fresh horses, and Percival took the reins quickly before the man might ask him any questions about why he was not wearing a uniform.
He pressed the horses forward, leaving the light of the tavern as he sauntered into the darkness toward freedom. And Lady Cordelia. He sighed, trying to summon thoughts of his future bride.
Chapter Eight
He was gone.
She’d pressed after him, but the thick cluster of men swarming the broken tankards had impeded her path. When she’d reached the door, he’d already vanished with the coach.
Just like that her hope for the future that would satisfy Grandmother’s dreams for her was extinguished.
She scrunched her fists together.
“What’s wrong, love?” A burly man with a bushy beard not quite masking a rosy face called from a table.
“I—” Fiona swallowed hard.
This establishment was not a place she ever should have found herself in. The throngs of workers and scent of alcohol embodied everything Grandmother’s manor house was not, and she stepped away. She bumped into something—someone, she realized, and the man’s eyes narrowed.
“Forgive me, sir.”
“You’re not lost, are you? Want to have a drink? We’ve got mulled wine.” The man turned to someone else. “My wife always likes a bit of mulled wine. The cinnamon and sugar go well with the hot liquid.”
Fiona groaned. She was not going to sit in some establishment, listening as thickset men discussed Christmas drinks. “I need your help. The gentleman you saw—well, I need to find him. I fear he ran away.”
“Hobbled away,” the man corrected, and Fiona frowned.
The man sighed. “Look, love—why ever would he do that?”
His voice boomed, and more heads swiveled in their direction. Fiona shifted her legs, and the wooden beams of the floor croaked beneath her. A fire leaped and swirled in a great stone hearth beside her, the flames merrily devouring the mound of logs and kindling. The twigs snapped and sparked, and the smoke stung Fiona’s eyes.
Her chest constricted, and she moved her hand to her neck, fiddling with her mother’s brooch. The sharp swerves of the flower-shaped design provided little comfort now.
Fiona sucked in a deep breath of air, conscious of the inquiring gazes fixed on her, and patted her stomach.
“Lord.” The man stared at her abdomen. “He’s done a runner, has he?”
She nodded, her heart pounding wildly.
“My daughter went out with a man who did a runner, and I’ve vowed to murder him. Strangle him. Or shoot him with one of those fancy rifles the former soldiers are always going on about.” The burly man rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to the bottom of the world to track down the man who ruined my precious daughter. I reckon this one hasn’t gotten quite so far away.”
“Probably not in New Holland,” one man shouted and the others hooted.
“Well—” Fio
na faltered. “Could you help me find this one?”
“Sure will.” The man leaned toward her conspiringly and whispered, “And I’ll kill him for you too.”
“That’s—that’s not necessary,” she squeaked.
“After the man deflowered a pretty duck like you?” The man’s eyes roamed her body, and she shivered. “Got you pregnant? And then abandoned you before Christmas? I would consider it my Christmas gift to you.”
“I—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll let you think of a gift you can give me.” He winked and dropped his gaze to her chest again.
Fiona tightened her cloak around her. “I just want him back. That’s all. I don’t want you to harm him! He’s, he’s—”
“Yes, love?” A more grandfatherly type prodded her, and she searched for something she could say that might lessen some of the tension roiling through the room. Her heartbeat hammered against her ribs. The men shouldn’t do anything drastic. “He’s my husband.”
“Oh.” The burly man’s mouth parted, and he stepped away. “Pardon, Mrs. . . . er . . .”
Her cheeks heated. “Mrs. Percival.”
“I’m Bill Potter.” The burly man directed a thick thumb toward the grandfatherly man. “And this ‘ere is Mr. Nicholas.”
“Pleased to meet you.” She gave an automatic curtsy, and the men guffawed. Warmth seared the back of her neck, but Mr. Nicholas merely shook his head.
“I’ve been waiting seventy-four years for someone to treat me like a proper aristocrat. I think we got to help the lady now.”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure it’s best...”
“Nonsense.” Mr. Nicholas shook his head. “Now tell us what happened.”
“Her bastardly husband left after she told him she was with child,” Mr. Potter interjected.
She inhaled. “You all saw him. The handsome—”
“I don’t want you to be describing him in that manner.” Mr. Nicholas shook his head gently. “That’s where all the problems start, or at least that’s what keeps them from ending.”
“Just help me.” She gave a nervous glance to Mr. Potter. “But please no shooting. Or strangling.”
The man nodded solemnly. “Though you shouldn’t trust a man flouncing around in all those silks with all those airs.”
Mr. Nicholas smiled. “We’ll bring him back. Don’t you worry.”
Fiona sighed. “Thank you.”
“Let’s get going,” Mr. Nicholas said.
The men strode from the tavern, and Fiona scurried after them.
Right now she wasn’t Fiona, the woman who had refused to go to London. Right now she was a completely different woman, one who frequented taverns and chatted with the people inside.
She wasn’t sure which one felt more like her.
The stars had disappeared, replaced with thick clouds. Snow thundered down, burying the cobblestones.
“Now who would have thought it would start snowing?” Mr. Nicholas peered at the sky.
The other men murmured bewilderment, and Fiona bit her tongue to keep from declaring her husband had it figured out all along. It was no good acting love sick for a man who’d never been and never would be her lover.
“We shan’t catch up with him now,” one of the younger men said apologetically. “But don’t you worry. If it’s a home for the baby you need, me mam runs a farm for ladies in particular situations.”
“Thank you,” Fiona croaked. She fiddled with her cloak, wondering whether she might be fortunate enough to evade being recognized. “But I would appreciate if you could keep my situation a secret.”
The men nodded. “That we can do.”
“This ‘ere lad isn’t sure how babies are made anyway,” Mr. Potter said.
The men guffawed, prodding each other, and the face of the man in question reddened, matching Grandmother’s Christmas decor.
“Please. Gentlemen. Sirs.” A few of the men raised their eyebrows, but she carried on. She had to remember that tonight she was one of them. Just a girl who could be any of their daughters. “Please just help me find the man I was with.”
“He went South. Toward London,” the groom said. “He took off with one of the horses.”
“Then South we go.”
“It will be hard going in this weather. The wheels aren’t suited for it and the next inn is far away.”
Fiona stared at the snow storming down and pulled her cloak more tightly around her.
Of course it would all be for naught. Of course.
The man didn’t want to be found. And even though she’d gotten so close to finding him again, even though she’d enjoyed his company, she would never see him again.
She sighed. There had to be something they could do. Something that could keep this opportunity from sliding away. Something that . . . She tilted her head. “Do you have a sleigh?”
“Oy! We do. We never use it—haven’t seen snow like this in years, and it will be melted by the end of the week.”
Fiona smiled, and the groom led the way to the sleigh. It was black and glossy with dark black wedges. She smiled. “It’s perfect.”
“Jump inside, darling!” Mr. Potter bellowed.
The others piled in and the groom hooked four horses to the sleigh. They were big and strong looking, stomping their hooves in the snow and tasting on occasion the snowflakes that toppled downward.
With a jolt the horses moved. Their pace was steady, faster than Fiona expected, and hope grew within her when the sleigh left the road, moving to where the snow was thicker, and headed in the direction of the flickering lights of the next village.
“We haven’t had so much excitement since we had a Frenchman hiding in one of the barns!” Mr. Potter declared. “He came all the way from Dover, rounding the coast as if he were some sort of holiday goer.”
The men shook their heads, heaving deep sighs.
“Though who knows!” Mr. Potter shrugged. “Maybe that’s the French idea of a holiday. What with Bonaparte as a leader and all.”
“We’ll catch up with him soon, love,” Mr. Nicholas said gently. “Don’t you worry.”
The horses dragged the sleigh swiftly and expediently through the thick snow. The men sang Christmas songs, clapping their hands and stomping their feet.
More wassailers appeared through the midst of snow.
“Oy!” Mr. Potter stood on the sleigh and waved at the wassailers. “Oy!”
The wassailers stopped.
“We’re pursuing justice!” Mr. Potter’s voice thundered through the wind. “We’re going to find a rascal. We’ve got a lady who’s with child and we’re off to get her fleeing husband to make sure he stays to care for it.”
Fiona cringed and wrapped her arms together.
The wassailers’ faces darkened. “We’ll help you. No lady should be in trouble on Christmas. This is supposed to be a joyful period. A time for families.”
“Aye, aye!” Mr. Potter added emphatic nods to his declaration. “A pretty young woman shouldn’t be experiencing Christmas in distress. That just won’t do. Not in this ‘ere village. We’ll bring ‘im back. Dead or alive, that’s what I always say.”
“Alive!” Fiona squeaked. “He mustn’t be harmed! I mean—I’ve no use for him dead.”
“There, there, don’t you worry,” Mr. Nicholas murmured in a tone likely meant to soothe her, but it did nothing to quell Fiona’s surety that she’d never needed to worry more.
SNOW FELL WITH INCREASED rapidity, and the horses’ pace slowed. The snowflakes blurred together, and a sheet of white replaced the flurry of delicate shapes with pointed edges and intricate patterns.
“Blast.” Percival gripped onto the reins. Wind struck his face, and white flecks clung to his attire.
This would not have happened in Sussex. Snow there was a rarity, just as it should be. An inch there would be deemed a disaster.
Percival surveyed the landscape before him. Definitely far more than an inch, and the snow showed no sign of
ceasing its downward plummet. He tightened his fists. The coach wouldn’t be able to make it through the snow for much longer.
The snow stung his skin, and he pulled his scarf more tightly around him. He’d been through worse in Russia.
Except then he didn’t have a throbbing leg to contend with and wasn’t stuck on a carriage that might collapse at any moment. Mail coaches were built sturdily, but this weather was battering this one.
At least he had the package. Percival patted the fold in his great coat.
He’d escaped. That was the important thing.
The woman, no matter how effective she’d been at capturing him by herself earlier, didn’t have the benefit of her backup ruffians now. He’d left behind some coins, and she’d realize she should just keep the money, even if she did know exactly who he was.
The horses stumbled and stepped into a snow drift. They lurched, panicking, and it was all Percival could do to calm them. He tried to edge them back onto the road, but it was dark, the horses were scared, and his wooden leg wasn’t helping matters. The last thing he needed was for the horses to gallop off without him once he inelegantly disembarked.
Lights flickered beside him, moving through the snow, and he swore and tried to urge the horses to the main road. Finally—finally he succeeded, and his heart slowed to a steadier, calmer beat, until—
“Sir!” A man’s voice shouted, and a chill descended on Percival. “Halt.”
Percival gritted his teeth. This was Yorkshire, and he didn’t know a soul. No way in Hades would he stop.
“Sir!” The voice rivaled the sound of a cannon ball’s roar, except now no firing muskets or storming cavalry competed with it.
Percival directed his gaze toward the ferocious man.
A group of men on a wide sled and a few on horseback gazed back at him, waving their arms.
A hefty man with a bushy beard rose and pointed a pistol at him. “If you don’t halt now, you bloody bastard, we’ll come over there and tear your bloody limbs apart!”
A woman shrieked, and a few men wrestled the weapon from the crazed man. Thick-accented curses soared through the wind.
Lords, Snow and Mistletoe: A Regency Christmas Collection Page 36