The Highwayman Came Riding

by Qeturah Edeli

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  “I don’t suppose you could do that blind man’s trick again?” Augustus asked a few minutes later. Elias knew he meant navigating in the dark.

  “It’s not a trick,” Elias snapped. “And on a horse?”

  “Yes.”

  “There’s a reason I can’t ride on my own, and that’s because no one in his right mind lets a man like me near a horse!”

  “Fine. We’ll have to steal, then.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” Bess added.

  Without dismounting or slowing their pace, Augustus snatched the lantern from the doorstep of the Prissy Peacock on the way out of town. A low roar, angry voices interspersed with clanking, rose from behind them.

  “What’s that sound?” Elias asked, alarmed.

  “I’ll be damned,” Bess murmured. “I think it’s a riot.”

  “A riot? In Kitwick?” It was a night of surprises.

  “All our booze has been destroyed, I can’t imagine anyone’s pleased about that.”

  A quarter of an hour later, they were on a narrow path in the thick of the woods north of Kitwick. “It’s snowing,” Bess said. She held the lantern aloft so Augustus could direct his horse safely. Elias had felt the cool flakes against his face for some minutes now. “God, it’s so thick and beautiful.”

  “I know a few things like that,” Augustus began.

  “Augustus Vivien Ephraim Westwood!” a voice barked from somewhere in front of them. It was Mr. Sweeton.

  “Good lord, is that your full name?” Elias asked, trying not to lose his head over the idea Mr. Sweeton had gotten loose. Bess snickered.

  What was Mr. Sweeton doing here, in the woods? Had the men who had departed in search of Augustus found and freed him? Were there others?

  “Didn’t I tell you my father was a pompous cu—” Augustus started to say. There was the crack of pistol fire, and then Elias’s left arm erupted in pain. He leaned heavily into Augustus’s chest, Mr. Sweeton’s stolen hat toppling to the ground as their horse reared.

  “Missed!” Augustus cried gaily, regaining control of the horse, and sending them cantering uphill. The confounded cries of Mr. Sweeton echoed through the forest behind them. “Git,” he said softly, “didn’t even have a horse.” Then, panicked, “Eli?”

  “What!” Bess grabbed Elias’s hand with her free one. He barely felt it. “Are you hit?”

  The pain was so intense Elias could not answer. He felt as though he was going to throw up. His face was numb.

  “Jesus Christ! He shot him! Elias! He shot him!” she screamed. “There’s blood everywhere! Augustus, hold the horse!”

  “We need to get away, or he’ll shoot us all. At the very least, I need to get you safe. It’s what he wants.” Augustus’s voice was tight. “I’ll hold him. You take the reins.”

  Elias was cradled in Augustus’s arms, his hair rustling in the icy winter wind as the dim moonlight squealed above him and the woods whooshed past. The rocking of the horse did nothing to soothe his suffering.

  “Don’t you die, don’t you dare fucking die,” Bess yelled at him over her shoulder as she urged the spooked and overburdened horse onward.

  “Oh God no, oh God no,” Augustus kept repeating. He was pressing tightly against the source of Elias’s pain as though he could hold Elias’s blood in his body. Elias wanted to scream. “Oh God please no. Eli…”

  “I never told you,” Elias said past his clenched teeth. Now or never. He might not have another chance. He might die soon, on this horse, in this forest. He had no idea how bad his wound was, but Bess was sobbing and Augustus was trembling. Could one die from being shot in the arm?

  “Told me what?” Augustus whispered, wiping snow from where it piled on Elias’s cold cheeks and the hollows of his eyes.

  “I forgive you. And…I love you,” Elias said.

  “I know,” Augustus said as though from a great distance, and laughed once. He stroked Elias’s cheek shakily. “I know.”

  “That’s all you have to say?” Elias whispered, trying to muster some sass, and failing.

  “No. I love you too. But you know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  Elias heard and felt nothing more.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  When Elias awoke, he was in London. He knew this because he could hear Bow Bells tolling exactly as Augustus had once described them to him. The hour was six.

  “Mother’s tits, I’m in London,” Elias said, sitting upright in what felt like a bed. A stabbing pain shot through his arm.

  “Thank you God, thank you, thank you, thank you God.”

  “Augustus?” Elias asked.

  “Oh merciful Jesus, thank you.”

  “What the fuck’s all this praying about?”

  “Oh my God,” Augustus said, laughing and sobbing at the same time. “Oh thank you.” It took some time to console him.

  * * * *

  They lived in a small room above a musty barbershop in Cheapside, for Augustus, though wealthy, did not believe ostentatious displays of affluence were in their best interest as fugitives. The childless barber and his wife provided meals, good company, and wood for the little stove in the corner of the room. This was all they needed. Augustus had, he explained, developed a taste for simple living during his approximate year of poverty, accoutrements excepted. This suited Elias and Bess just fine, though Elias believed part of Augustus’s distaste for obviously extravagant living came from a firm rejection of his pompous father’s example.

  Augustus was very protective of Elias. Elias wanted to get out of bed and go for a stroll in the busy streets, but Augustus insisted Elias remain bedridden for at least a week. Elias missed Lord Nelson even more because, had he been there, Elias could have walked the streets without Augustus’s approval. The bullet wound in his arm had been shallow—Mr. Sweeton had fired from some distance, and Elias had been wearing a thick cloak—but it had hit a large blood vessel in his arm, which, combined with exhaustion, fright, and recently surviving an explosion, was why he had fainted. A surgeon had removed the bullet and some scraps of wool and linen it had carried inside the wound, burned shut the blood vessel, bandaged his arm, and prescribed rest. He anticipated a full recovery, though Elias had to wear a sling for a few weeks. Bess offered to pay him with her gold necklace, for Augustus had needed to leave the room during the procedure, but the surgeon had declined.

  “You lot look like you need it more than me,” the surgeon said on his way out. “Take care, now.”

  Augustus was annoyingly cautious. Any time Elias so much as stirred, he rose from his seat at his bedside and hovered; Elias could feel him by the waves of apprehension rolling off him.

  “No, Eli, you should rest,” Augustus said as Elias sat up on his fourth morning in London.

  “I need the fucking chamber pot.” Elias wished he had Lord Nelson to intimidate Augustus still. His stomach twisted with grief.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Stop apologizing, it’s weird.”

  “Well, I feel bad.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re injured.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “It’s my fault.”

  “Stop this self-pitying nonsense and let me piss in peace.”

  It was a few days more before Augustus let Elias wander around their little room on his elbow. They opened the window and listened to the sounds of traffic below.

  “There are so many people,” Elias said, leaning his head against the window frame. “I’ve never heard so many people at once.” There were carolers in the distance:

  O come, all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant!

  O come ye, O come ye to Bethlehem…

  “What day is it?” Elias asked.

  “The twenty-third of December,” Augustus replied. “Which reminds me, I want to do some shopping. Do you mind if I nip out this afternoon?”

  Elias felt a flush creep over his cheeks.
“Not at all. But you’d better not get me anything.”

  “I would never get you anything,” Augustus said, and Elias knew he was lying.

  While Augustus was out, Bess decided to tackle Elias’s hair.

  “You’ve a royal fucking rat’s nest after a week in bed,” she complained, ripping a comb through his snarls. “I ought to shave this all off.”

  “No!” Elias cried. Augustus liked to stroke his hair, and Elias liked to have his hair stroked.

  “Ugh, fine.”

  It took the better part of an hour, but Bess eventually teased Elias’s curls free.

  “I ought to shave your face, too,” she said. “You’re starting to look like a man now.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Elias demanded.

  “Nothing. Do you think Augustus likes it?” She tickled Elias’s chin, and he squirmed away.

  “Stop that!” he snapped. “He hasn’t said anything against it.”

  “Hmm.”

  Bess laid aside the comb and started plaiting Elias’s hair.

  “He went half-mad when you fainted, you know,” she said in a soft voice as she twisted. “He thought you’d died. He was going to stab himself when we got to Town before I confiscated his rapier. It was very dramatic and romantic.”

  “Are we still talking about Augustus? Augustus Westwood?”

  Bess gave a quiet laugh. “He really likes you.”

  “I know, but…” Elias tried to imagine Augustus threatening to kill himself and could not manage it. But then he remembered how Augustus had wept and prayed when Elias had awoken, and perhaps a theatrical suicide attempt was not such a stretch.

  When Augustus returned to the parlor that evening, he had several surprises for Elias and Bess. The first emitted a familiar chirrup and leaped into Elias’s lap.

  “Lord Nelson?” Elias cried, sinking his fingers into a thick pelt. Lord Nelson butted his head against Elias’s shoulder and purred.

  “Found that mad bastard wandering the streets outside the haberdasher’s,” Augustus said over Lord Nelson’s enthusiastic mews, sounding pleased with himself. “He’d picked a fight with half a dozen alley cats. I think he was winning. Anyway, he looked almost happy to see me and chased me here with his claws out. I tried to get him to scram, but he paid my boot no mind.”

  Elias clutched Lord Nelson to his chest and pressed his nose into his fur, his smile a mile wide. “Thank you,” he murmured, wiping his eyes. Lord Nelson kneaded Elias’s lap and continued to purr.

  Augustus also had three new outfits each for Elias and Bess. He included a new cane in Elias’s bundle, for use when his arm was healed. Bess awarded him with a loud kiss, which Augustus protested vehemently.

  “Ugh, Bess!” he yelled, rustling frantically. Elias imagined he must be wiping his lips. “And on the mouth!”

  “These are the nicest gowns I’ve ever owned,” Bess cried. “Oh, you are precious, you sweet, fashionable little lover boy!”

  Elias drew Augustus to him with his good arm and kissed him on the cheek. Lord Nelson gave a snort of disapproval when Elias stopped petting him. “Calm down, you jealous rascal,” Elias said to Lord Nelson. To Augustus, he whispered his thanks. “You needn’t have.”

  “Nonsense, I can’t have you wandering the streets of London in blood-soaked clothes,” Augustus said.

  “Do you mean to say—” Elias began.

  “Get dressed,” Augustus said, squeezing Elias’s hand. “We’re going for a walk.”

  * * * *

  The night was louder than Elias expected, for there were lamps softly screaming on the periphery of every street, but Elias loved the London dusk all the same. The snow crunched under his new thigh-high boots and collected on the brim of his new (real beaver!) felt top hat. Bess had her arm linked through Elias’s right one, while Augustus walked on Elias’s left, careful not to bump Elias’s bound arm. Lord Nelson, who had come into the street with them, seemed to trust Augustus and Bess could lead Elias where he needed to go and bounded off to hunt.

  The barber and his wife were under the impression Augustus was Elias and Bess’s cousin, news that was not well received by Elias at first.

  “This is my cousin, Elias Westwood, Bess’s brother,” Augustus introduced Elias to the Tulks when they returned that evening. They had not seen him conscious in all the time he had roomed in their attic so far, for Augustus and Bess had brought him his meals in bed.

  “Cousin?” Elias whispered angrily after the Tulks retired for the evening.

  “What would you have me say?” Augustus retorted. “This is my beau, Elias Burgess, innkeeper’s son and sometimes raging drunk. Occasionally, we copulate. We want to copulate here. Care to let us a room?”

  “No, but—”

  “What do you think of having my name?” Augustus interrupted, wrapping his arms around Elias and resting his chin on Elias’s shoulder. “I like the sound of it, don’t you? Elias Westwood. Elias Westwood. Elias Westwood. Mr. and Mr. Westwood. The Messrs. Westwood.” Elias forgot why he had been annoyed.

  The clock struck eight, and Elias, exhausted, went to bed. He fatigued easily, which, the surgeon had explained, was because he had lost a fair amount of blood from the initial wound, and then from the bleedings the surgeon had inflicted to purge any bad blood. Bess tucked in beside him, as was the current arrangement, and Augustus retired to the sofa under the window. Lord Nelson, who had been waiting on the doorstep with a mouse’s head that made Augustus scream when they returned from their walk, slept at Elias’s side. Elias, Augustus, and Bess had originally slept in the same bed, Elias in the middle, but Bess had protested when she awoke one morning to Elias and Augustus each with a hand under the other’s shifts.

  “Oh no you don’t,” she had howled, bounding from the bed. “Not while I’m in here!”

  Elias always slept well in their spartan abode, sometimes with one of Bess’s curls wrapped around his index finger the way they had used to sleep when they were children, before they had their own beds. If Augustus, who did not have siblings, let alone a twin, thought this strange, he did not comment.

  “Let me shave you,” Augustus said the next morning, Christmas Eve. Bess had already dressed to go down to breakfast with Lord Nelson and the barber and his wife, but Augustus had lingered. Elias thought he might want to join him in bed, and was disappointed when he brought up personal grooming instead.

  “If you must,” Elias muttered. He never understood men’s preoccupation with facial hair, but then, he could not see it. Apparently thick beards sometimes stored food or got stained with tobacco.

  Augustus shaved him, barely speaking as he directed the razor down Elias’s cheeks and jaw. He had just finished wiping away the last of the lather when Bess returned from breakfast.

  “Good lord,” she said, stopping short at the door. “You’ve turned my brother into the devil.”

  “A handsome devil,” Augustus corrected her.

  “What did you do?” Elias demanded, touching his face. He felt bristles still on his chin and upper lip. Bess had never shaved him this way; he was always clean when she finished. “What’s this?”

  “It’s a different fashion,” Augustus replied, “but suitable for London. Fuck, your jawline. You look damn fine. Damn fine,” he repeated, and kissed Elias on the lips.

  Bess gave a snort of irritation. “Shall I go down for a second cup of tea?” she demanded.

  “You know, that’s a good idea,” Augustus said, guiding Elias to his feet and drawing their waists together. Elias, who was still dressed in his sleeping shift, put his good hand on Augustus’s shoulder. He leaned forward until his lips grazed Augustus’s jaw. “Take the cat with you. I’m not interested in a ménage à trois.”

  “Ugh,” Bess said, and slammed the door.

  Augustus laughed, his breath tickling Elias’s ear. “Your sister’s great,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Elias fucked Augustus that morning, the snow pelting the glass and the li
ttle stove in the corner spilling heat as Elias lay on his back and Augustus straddled him, rising and falling on his dick with small moans of appreciation.

  “Oh my God.” Augustus breathed hard, a hand on Elias’s sweaty stomach.

  “How did you get so good at this?” Elias panted, his right hand resting on Augustus’s steadily rotating left hip. Fuck, it felt so good. The pressure, the friction, the wetness.

  “Studied,” Augustus whispered. “The sofa was lonely. But the real thing is so much better.”

  Elias almost came thinking about Augustus fingering himself late at night while he curled on the sofa across the room. “Just wait until my arm’s healed and I can fuck you properly,” Elias murmured. “You won’t be able to sit for a week.”

  “I look forward to it,” Augustus said, grinding down hard.

  Elias gave a tremulous gasp when he came, and Augustus continued to ride him even as Elias twitched and groaned. It felt so good, it almost hurt. “Fuck, that’s—Augustus, it’s too—argh!”

  Augustus fell forward and kissed Elias’s lips as a warm, sticky substance rained across Elias’s abdomen.

  “Did you just—” Elias could not get the words out. Augustus had come just from having Elias’s dick in his ass? That was so damn seductive.

  “Fucking right I did,” Augustus whispered, then bit Elias’s lips. “I was born to do this. Fuck. I love you.” He kissed Elias’s neck, shivering. “I love you,” he repeated.

  “You’re a bugger,” Elias accused, still inside Augustus.

  “Damn right,” Augustus agreed.

  Bess baked a celebratory cake in the Tulks’ kitchen.

  * * * *

  That night, they went to Westminster Abbey for Midnight Mass. Elias did not know whether it was allowed for commoners to attend, but then, he supposed Augustus Westwood was not exactly common. After even a brief period in London, it was apparent to him that Augustus had connections.

  “Do you think we should be worried about you being tracked here?” Elias asked as they filed inside. He had wanted Lord Nelson to join them, but Augustus had put his foot down.