The Rogue's Revenge

by Lucy E. Zahnle

  Silence again. At last, Robin bent a penetrating gaze upon her. "You said Rochedale demanded five thousand for the letter. You didn't take that much from me. How were you able to raise the rest?"

  "Gaming! At a place called Randall's that I had heard you and Bellefield mention. None of our acquaintance saw me there, save for Lord Malkent and Lord Norworth, and I don't think they recognized me. I was dressed as a man, then, too, and people see what they expect to see, as my father used to say."

  Robin sat very still, fighting the panicky, sick horror that threatened to engulf him. Terrible images flashed into his mind of Lucia pummeled by robbers in the streets or forced into a duel with some drunken rake and dying in a pool of blood. He closed his eyes, willing those awful visions away.

  When he opened them again, Lucia looked pale and weary. He decided to end the audience, mindful of the old gypsy's warning. "You must promise me, Lucia, that you will not go off on your own like this again. I know -- " his voice rose as she uttered a protest. "I know that you have spent most of your life in such pursuits, but now you are under my protection. You no longer need to steal or gamble to live...and certainly not to prove my innocence. I would have you safe at all costs, ma chérie."

  "I am sorry if I worried you, Robin. I know how much you want your legacy and I apologize for jeopardizing it," she said.

  Robin stiffened, his eyes darkening. "Devil take my legacy, Lucia. I feared for you and the child, not some damned bank balance! How mercenary and unfeeling do you think I am?" She lowered her eyes and said nothing. "You have not yet promised, Lucia," he reminded her sternly. "You must never put yourself in such danger again."

  She nodded compliance, staring at her blanket. "Rest now," he said, rising.

  Suddenly her head sprung up and, with sheer terror in her eyes, she tried to clasp his hands in her bandaged ones. "Don't leave me, Robin! If Gaston should find me...!"

  He covered her white-swathed hands with his. "You need no longer fear that devil. He is dead."

  "Dead!"

  "His mortal remains lie at an inn a few miles from here. I saw them. A robbery, it seems."

  "A robbery! Oh, but..."

  "Do you know otherwise, Lucia?" he said, sinking to his knees beside her.

  "I shot him, Robin! We struggled and...I shot him!" The tale of her nightmare journey as Rochedale's captive tumbled from her trembling lips. "The last thing I remember before waking up at Brackenwell Hall in Mountheathe's company is fleeing into the forest with Gaston's coachman shouting after me."

  Robin's mind reeled at the horrendous dangers through which Lucia had passed. He could have lost her a hundred times over, he thought with a shudder. "They found no trace of a coachman," he said, getting his shock under control. "Perhaps the man got scared and ran away. The incident has been declared a robbery and I think we would be wisest to leave it at that. Now, what is this about Giles?"

  "After I escaped from Gaston, I...I must have fainted. When I woke up, Giles was standing over me in the Green Salon at Brackenwell Hall." She told him of Mountheathe's arson and her struggle to escape, but elected not to mention her parents' presence in the fire. They had come to her when she had needed them most and she would always treasure that memory in her heart, holding it there, safe from the jeers of a contemptuous world.

  "You must rest now, ma chérie," Robin said, his eyes dark with concern. "I shall visit you in the morning."

  "Good night, Robin," she said, ignoring an absurd desire to beg him to stay.

  He smiled down at her, reaching out to caress one pale cheek. Then suddenly remembering last night's quarrel, he dropped his hand. With a formal bow, he left of the caravan.

  Chapter 28:

  In Which Both Mountheathe and Lynkellyn Are Delayed

  The next morning, at an inn some miles from Brackenwell, a smug, satisfied Giles attacked a hearty breakfast, exulting as he bit into a scone. At this moment, he gloated, Amberley's strumpet was no more than a charred bit of meat lying in the rubble of Brackenwell Hall and Concordia lay upstairs in a drugged sleep, her finger ripe for his wedding band. How he loved to win!

  After breakfast, Giles loaded his 'sick sister' into his carriage and headed north. An hour into the journey, the sun disappeared behind dark clouds and the heavens opened up without warning to deluge the earth. Giles ordered Madden to ignore the storm and press on. Filled with misgivings and already soaked, the coachman turned up his collar against the driving rain and urged the team to greater speed.

  The horses picked their way gingerly over the muddy road while Mountheathe shouted at Madden every few minutes to use the whip. The rain pelted harder and their progress slowed to inches. A sudden streak of lightning slashed an angry scar across the sky and a ringing clash of thunder followed. The sidling horses, nervous and miserable, tossed their heads and neighed. Their eyes rolling, their nostrils snorting, they broke into a wild gallop.

  Madden frantically pulled at the reins as the horses tore down the road, dragging the carriage like a misused toy. Ignoring a curve, they charged straight on, narrowly missing rocks and trees as they plunged through the tall, slippery grass. Screaming, Madden dropped the reins and clung to the box.

  Giles cowered inside the coach, kneeling on the floor with his arms thrown over his head. Oblivious to her impending doom, Concordia lay soundly asleep on the opposite seat.

  The horses sped toward a pair of trees that stood just far enough apart for the animals to pass through together. Madden crossed his arms over his face, screeching, as the horses ran between the trees. Giles's coach, a little wider than the animals, followed, willy-nilly.

  A horrendous cracking of wood and crashing of metal rent the air. Mountheathe shrieked and threw himself flat on the floor of the coach. Concordia, inanimate, rolled off her seat, landing, bodily, on top of him.

  As suddenly as disaster struck, it ended. Steady rain battered the roof of the wrecked carriage as wind and water blew in through the jagged openings where the side panels had once been.

  Giles tried to move, but found himself hampered by the dead weight of Concordia's body on top of his. He struggled out from under her, pondering, as he cast her slim, white hand out of his face, how such a small woman could be so heavy.

  He clambered out of the carriage to assess the damage. The horses were gone. The coach's side panels and the front wheels had been sheared away. The back wheels had buckled.

  Having been thrown from the box, Madden was climbing out of a shrub. "Damn you, Madden!" Giles shouted, rain streaming down his face. ."Can't you drive anything more sophisticated than a pony cart? You could have killed us all!"

  His feet at last on firm, if sodden, ground, the coachman quite forgot his place. "It was you what wanted me to spring 'em in the midst o' a deluge, my fine lord! I was all for layin' low 'til the sun came out!"

  "I merely wanted you to travel at a decent rate of speed, Madden, instead of that snail's pace you had adopted. I didn't expect you to start allowing the horses to make all your decisions for you! It's a wonder I don't sack you right here and now!" Giles suddenly halted in the midst of his diatribe to scan his surroundings. "Where the devil are the horses, anyway?"

  "Broke 'arness an' run!" Madden spat disgustedly as rain dripped from his nose.

  "Well, there's nothing for it, but you'll have to go find them."

  "Me-? You want me to go out there all alone in the pourin' rain to find a team o' 'orses what could be miles away by now?!"

  "We shall need to ride those horses to the nearest inn for help. While you search, I will stay with the lady."

  "It'd be easier to walk to the inn!" Madden muttered, trudging off in the direction he had seen the horses take just before his fall.

  Mountheathe climbed back into the relative warmth of the carriage and doffed his soaked traveling cloak. Turning Concordia, still unconscious, onto her back, he removed her comparatively dry cloak and put it around his shoulders, covering her with his wet one. Contorting his face against the
intruding elements, he clutched the cloak tight around him and settled down to wait.

  ***

  After slogging several miles through the mud and rain, Madden, chilled to the bone, chanced upon a tidy little farm. When he knocked on the cottage door, intending to inquire after the horses, a pretty young woman invited him in for a cup of tea. He told her his tale of woe and she confided that her husband had gone away for a week to buy livestock. She hinted provocatively at her loneliness without her spouse and then, somehow, he found her on his lap, kissing him. Being a proper gentleman and not one to refuse a lady's wishes, he happily gratified her whim.

  The next morning the sun smiled as Madden, pleasantly sated, kissed his newfound love farewell and walked back to the wrecked coach. Discovering his master, cold, wet and in a miserable temper, huddled inside the derelict vehicle, he blithely informed Giles that the horses had vanished.

  Giles leaped out of the carriage to stomp about and kick at clumps of wet grass, roundly cursing the rain, the coach, the horses, and his driver. His anger finally spent, he glowered at Madden, observing that he looked remarkably clean and dry for a man who had been out in the rain all night.

  "My clothes, do ye mean, my lord? Why, the sun must've dried 'em!" He squinted at the half-hidden sun as a chilly breeze ruffled Mountheathe's damp curls.

  With a derisive snort, Giles gestured toward the highway. "You, Madden, are going to follow this road to the nearest inn and bring back some horses. Furthermore, you are going to be damned quick about it! Here is some money!" Mountheathe handed him a guinea. "Be gone with you and hurry back. As it is, the day will be half gone before you return. Oh! And bring me some food. Bread or cheese or something!"

  It was well past noon when Madden returned with three horses and an hostler from the 'Blue Bull'. In the meantime, Giles had been forced to dose Concordia again. He grimaced as he pocketed the last few vials of his drug. He had not expected so many delays and he was running out of the elixir.

  Giles told the hostler the handy lie about his sick, deluded sister and the men packed everything of value that would fit into three sets of saddlebags. Giles mounted a tired roan and the unconscious girl was hoisted into the saddle in front of him.

  As they rode toward the inn, Giles fumed inwardly. He had already lost two days and would lose yet another, securing a new coach. He consoled himself with the fact that Concordia had spent three solid days alone in his company. No other man could possibly want her under such scandalous circumstances. Her fortune was his for the taking.

  ***

  The Brackenwell blaze and Lucia's narrow escape from death heightened Peter's fears for Concordia. When Robin told him that Mountheathe had intentionally set the Hall afire in an attempt to murder the duchess, something akin to terror invaded his soul.

  He stared impatiently at the sheeting rain from the doorway of a gypsy wagon, aching to be away, aching to find Connie. This affair had become much more than an ugly scandal to be hushed up with a hasty marriage and a bald-faced lie to the world. The very real possibility existed that Bridland might kill Concordia if she did not comply with his wishes and Concordia was just stubborn enough to fight the bastard. Peter wished for the thousandth time that Lucia could remember whether Concordia had been in Giles's coach.

  "No one could possibly travel in this deluge, Peter, not even Giles," Tracy called from the dim recesses of the wagon. "Why don't you sit down and have some of this spiced wine? It's remarkably good. I'll have to ask Ilya how to make it."

  "Spiced wine, Tracy?" Peter turned on him like a wounded animal. "That beast is out there, dragging your niece through the countryside like a bag of turnips...or perhaps 'guineas' would be a more appropriate analogy...while you sit here, prattling of wine! Don't you give a damn, sirrah?" Peter's eyes glittered with fury and frustration.

  "Of course, I do, Norworth! You've no call to snarl at me! I can't stop the damned rain! I'm merely trying to keep my mind off all the horrors that you allow to traipse so merrily through yours. I shall surely go mad with worry, else! And if a pleasant triviality like spiced wine will help to keep my fears at bay, by God, I will use it!" Malkent sulkily pulled a deck of cards from his pocket and untied the ribbon that bound it. "Sit down, will you?" His request was a command, but his temper was calmer. "Perhaps a hand of piquet will provide you with some diversion."

  Peter grudgingly joined him at the table and they concentrated with dogged determination on their game until Robin entered the wagon, his wet hair plastered to his head. He was soaked and bedraggled, but his mouth curved in a wide smile and his eyes glowed. "Lucia walked around the camp with me during that break in the rain awhile ago," he said, "and the bandages come off her hands tomorrow." Then his face darkened. "It will be a long while before she's completely whole, naturellement, but, still, considering all she's been through and her delicate condition, she's doing very well."

  A stony silence hovered over the card table. Norworth glowered at Amberley, his envy almost akin to loathing, and Robin flushed, remembering that Concordia was still in danger.

  Robin removed his dripping tunic and hung it on a wall peg to dry. His back to his audience, he said idly, "You should visit Lucia, Norworth. She has been asking for you."

  The gentlemen's heads jerked up in simultaneous amazement at Robin's casual speech. "Were you addressing me, Your Grace?" Peter asked.

  Amberley lifted a mocking brow. "Is there another Norworth in residence?"

  "You will allow me to be alone with your wife after we came to blows over her?" Peter's jaw sagged.

  "Perhaps I overreacted the other night, mon ami. I can be a fire-breathing fool sometimes. I pray you, go see Her Grace with my blessing. If a visit from you will make Lucia happy and speed her recovery, who am I to refuse her?" Glad of a chance to personally question the duchess about Concordia, Peter thanked Robin and left the wagon.

  "That was prettily done," Tracy said. He gathered up the cards with a detached air as Robin donned dry clothes. "Aren't you afraid Peter and Lucia might..."

  "Don't say it, Tracy! Lucia swears they are nothing more than friends and she needs all her friends right now. If being with Norworth will help to make her well, she shall have Norworth. And I...I will trust them...today."

  "And tomorrow?"

  "I'll deal with tomorrow when it comes, my lord." Robin took Peter's seat, picked up the cards, and shuffled them with practiced fingers, listening impatiently for the slightest break in the deluge.

  ***

  An apologetic sun greeted the gentlemen the next morning, as they prepared to resume the chase. Norworth and Malkent were standing by their horses when Robin joined them, leading his own mount. "Do you ride with us after Mountheathe or do you stay with Her Grace?" Tracy inquired. Robin opened his mouth to reply, but was forestalled.

  "He's going with you and so am I," Lucia said, walking toward them, the gypsy healer trailing after her, urging her back to her sickbed. The duchess wore a white cotton chemise and a colorful skirt pieced together from many different fabrics. With her ebony tresses tumbling about her shoulders, only her bandages and her pale, weary countenance belied the image of a proud gypsy wench.

  "Ma chérie..." Objection pervaded Robin's voice as he approached her.

  "I want to go with you, Robin! I am going with you."

  "Lucia, you are injured, you are with child, and you need time to heal. You should be in bed, not standing here arguing with me. Besides, this business is likely to be dangerous. Mountheathe plainly intends to stop at nothing in his quest to line his pockets with someone's fortune. I want you to remain here where you'll be safe; where our baby will be safe."

  "I can take care of myself, Robin!" she said. "And when you find Concordia, she will need a female chaperone."

  "We will be riding hard and you will not have the stamina to keep up with us, Lucia. Perhaps, if you were whole, it would be different, but, as it is,..."

  "I want to go with you, Robin!" She looked up at him, her blue e
yes pleading.

  "Lucia," he said resolutely, "it is your well-being and that of the child which concerns me. It would be much better if..."

  Lucia tossed her head. "After all Mountheathe has done to me, Robin, seeing him punished would do a great deal for my well-being, I assure you."

  "Now, look you, Lucia! Mountheathe has tried to kill you twice and he'll do it again if given the chance! You are not going!" Ignoring the mutiny in her eyes, he strode away, unwilling to hear further argument.

  Lynkellyn, Malkent, and Norworth thundered out of camp on fresh horses an hour later. Lucia watched them go, a mulish tilt to her chin, her half-healed hands gingerly clenched at her sides. As the riders vanished over the horizon, she stalked back to her wagon, the old woman trailing her anxiously.

  The pair entered the wagon and Lucia collected the few items of clothing the gypsies had given her to replace her ruined clothes. Placing the garments on her bed, she rolled them into a bundle. "Do you have some rope, Mother?"

  "What are you doing, Your Grace?"

  "I'm going after them. Concordia will need my help even if...if nobody else does."

  "But, Your Grace, the duke gave specific instructions..."

  "Hang the duke! I'll do what I like! I really need that rope, Mother."

  The gypsy brought her a length of rope and she tied it around her bundle in such a manner that she could carry the whole on her back. "You're going to wear a pack with your injured shoulder?" The old woman stared, incredulous. "You'll never make it, Your Grace. You already look exhausted from the small effort you've expended today."

  Lucia swung the pack onto her back, flinching at the pain that shot through her shoulder and burned in her still blistered hands. She gritted her teeth, smoothed her face into unconcerned lines and straightened to meet the old woman's eyes.

  "If I am a little tired, it will pass. Where is Ilya? I need to speak to him," Lucia said. Loudly protesting, the old woman followed her out of the wagon.