“And now you have married another man with the same sense of duty and honor,” she said under her breath while she finished dressing. She brushed her hair back into a loose bun.
When she stepped around the screen, Neville had already left. She had not heard the door open, but she had assumed he would go out into the passage to ask Mr. Cross more about the murder of his friend. She quickly drew on her gloves, then picked up her bonnet and cloak, pulling both on with haste because she did not want to delay the men further. Every minute that passed could mean the murderer slipping farther away.
As she left the room, she glanced along the darkened hall. The men stood near the back stairs, almost lost in the shadows. At that thought, she recalled that her bonnet had bright flowers sewn to one side, so she pulled the hood of the black cloak up over it. She must not risk allowing someone to catch sight of those jaunty flowers.
A board creaked beneath her feet, and both men spun to face her. Even in the dim light, she saw the thief’s eyes narrow with fury. He still held the brandy bottle as if it were his most precious possession. She doubted there was much brandy left in it.
“Wot is she doin’ here?” Mr. Cross asked.
“She is coming with us.” Neville’s reply suggested the question had been absurd.
“Why?”
“Because she has a discriminating eye for the facts.” He held out his arm, and she put her fingers on it, glad for his strength beside her. “Without her help, it would have been impossible to solve those puzzling murders among the ton.”
Mr. Cross snorted a laugh. “Is that wot she tells ye? Ye watch yerself, Hathaway. Yer wife is pot valiant.”
“You do not know her, Cross. If you did, you would know that her courage is her own, not something out of a liquor bottle.”
“Then she is a fool!”
“Enough. I will stand for no insults to my wife. If you want my help, then you should be grateful for hers as well. Do not be shortsighted, Cross.”
Priscilla thought the thief might retort, but Mr. Cross wisely closed his mouth.
“As well,” Neville went on, “do you think I would leave my wife alone in this inn that can be infiltrated with such ease?”
“It was not easy!” He laughed icily. “Too many lights and too many eyes.”
“But you managed it.”
“I did.” He puffed his chest out with pride.
“Then someone else could. Shall we go?”
“Aye.” The man drained the bottle, then wiped his hand against his mouth as he stared at her. She wanted to step behind Neville, putting him between her and this coarse brigand. She reminded herself that any show of fear would put her at a definite disadvantage with Mr. Cross.
The thief set the empty bottle at the top of the stairs as they descended. Through the thin walls, Priscilla heard muffled voices, both men and women speaking. She guessed they were near the innkeeper’s private rooms where his family might be gathered before bed. When she heard the protest of a lad close to her son’s age, she could not keep from smiling. She recognized that tone. The boy had been asked to do something he did not want to do. That whining protest cut across all classes and households.
“What is so amusing?” Neville murmured as they reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Lads.”
He arched a single brow. “I trust you will explain later.”
“Much later.” She traced the planes of his cheek with a single fingertip.
He caught her wrist and tilted her hand up to place a feverish kiss against her glove. A soft gasp burst from her lips. She pulled away when Mr. Cross glanced over his shoulder and waved them to silence before he pushed through the door.
The night air swirled around Priscilla as she stepped out into what appeared to be a kitchen garden. Weeds tangled near the low stone wall, but had been banished from the vegetable and herb beds. A twisting path of stones led toward a gate, and she followed Neville closely. Light pushed around the draperies closed over the small window.
Something darted across the garden, and she choked back a scream. It was only a cat or a rabbit or a small fox. The motion was so quick that she barely had time to notice it before the animal was gone.
“How are you doing?” whispered Neville, and she realized he must have felt her shudder.
“I have done better.”
“And worse.”
“Much worse.” She smiled, despite the fact that he could not see her in the darkness.
The inn’s tavern room was bright with candles and lamps, and deep voices poured out into the night. Priscilla paused when Neville and Mr. Cross froze. She understood why when a man reeled out the inn’s front door and lurched between the hedgerows, following the road to the right. Lucky for them, because the stable was to the inn’s left.
The stable leaned so far that on one side, its roof almost touched the ground. On the opposite side, the eaves pointed skyward. The broad door was at an angle, and a well-worn path marked how horses were led in so their heads would not bump the top. She wondered how the building remained upright.
Inside, despite the slanted walls, the floor was even. Dirt and hay covered the stones, but the stalls were clean. Horses peered over the doors with dull-eyed curiosity.
The stable was not silent, even in the thickening dusk. From one corner came enthusiastic snores, and horses rustled. Shadows danced beneath the windows with the motion of tree branches, each leaf a separate finger waving in the moonlight. A cat pounced in a corner, and the squeak of a mouse came faintly.
“No carriage, Hathaway,” said Mr. Cross.
“I am aware of that.” Neville scowled at the thief. “I may have put this part of my life behind me, but I recall its rules as well as my own name. We will ride.”
Priscilla wondered why he had not mentioned that before. Her gown was not appropriate for riding. She almost laughed at the thought. They were not bound for Hyde Park for an outing. At their destination would be people who cared nothing about the canons of propriety. Neither could she while amongst them. That was one of the first lessons she had learned from Neville. Blending in meant putting aside many assumptions of what she considered commonplace.
She waited while the men selected two horses. When she did not recognize the markings on any of the black and dark brown mounts, she was not surprised that Neville whispered he would reimburse the innkeeper in the morning for their use. Their carriage horses were too exhausted.
The horses were saddled and led out the back to where a deep gray horse waited. Mr. Cross swung up into its saddle with the ease of a man accustomed to riding under any conditions. A highwayman had to depend on his horse and his own skills.
Neville cupped his hands. She put her foot on them, and he tossed her up into the saddle. She was amazed it was a lady’s saddle. She had guessed she would have to ride astride, but the innkeeper must have kept a saddle on the off-chance that a lady might need it.
“Hathaway,” Mr. Cross said in the low grumble he seemed to prefer, “you are forgetting something.”
“What?”
“Have you forgotten about visitors to the Order?”
With a frown, Neville reached up and plucked Priscilla out of the saddle. She started to ask why, but all words vanished from her mind when he lowered her so her eyes were even with his. Not even the darkness could conceal the love within them. She wanted to lean into him and taste his lips, but was aware of Mr. Cross watching every move they made.
“Later,” Neville murmured as he set her on her feet.
“Later,” she repeated as if it were her most solemn oath.
He cleared his throat, and she knew he was as conscious as she was of Mr. Cross’s cool gaze. “For now, there is a preparation we must make before we begin on our way.”
“I did not ask where we are go
ing.”
“To the headquarters of the Fraternal Order of Outlaws.”
She laughed, then realized neither Neville nor the highwayman was. “Are you serious? I thought you were jesting about this Order. Does such a group truly exist?”
“Yes.” Mr. Cross glanced at Neville. “Ye know the rules, Hathaway. She must be blindfolded.”
“I know,” he replied. “I will hold the leading rein on your horse, Pris. If you remain low in the saddle, you will be fine.”
“What about you? Don’t you need to be blindfolded, too?”
He gave her that sheepish grin he always wore when his less-than-legal past intersected with his present life. “The blindfold is necessary only for those who don’t know the way.”
“And you do?”
“I do.” His smile warmed as he spoke the words he had during their wedding ceremony. “Pris, if you wish to, you can stay here, and I will return as fast as I can. I promise.”
“I know you do, but do you think I am going to let my new husband ride off into danger alone?”
He drew a handkerchief from beneath his coat and rolled it into a length of cloth to cover her eyes, then stepped behind her. As he bent to tie it behind her head, taking care not to ruin her bonnet, he whispered, “Maybe we will keep this for later.”
Her soft gasp at his enticing suggestion brought a low chuckle from him. The brush of his breath against her nape raised her ardor a few more degrees. She hoped the visit to the highwaymen’s lair would be quick, because she was unsure how much longer she could wait to consummate their marriage.
“Can you see anything?” Neville asked.
She tested the blindfold by shifting her eyes. She could see the tips of her toes, but nothing else. The cloth was tight around her head, and she did not want to make it more uncomfortable by owning to the truth that she could see downward. She shook her head.
“Good,” he said. “Pris, I am going to toss you into the saddle again, and I will not release you until you are steady.”
“But how will I maneuver the horse?”
“As I told you, I will have a leading rein on your horse. All you need to do is stay low and hold on tightly.”
“All?”
His fingers stroked her cheek. “And trust me, Pris.”
Before she had a chance to answer, he grasped her by the waist and set her into the saddle. She adjusted herself until comfortable. He placed the reins in her hand, but she would use them only to remain on the horse.
Leather creaked as he mounted his own horse. Hers moved forward slowly, and she hoped they would not go much faster. The motions that seemed so natural when she could see, felt strange and awkward now.
A glint of light reached under her blindfold, and Priscilla guessed they were passing the inn’s lanterns. That astonished her. She had not expected the highwayman to lead them along a well-traveled road. She had thought he would cling to the shadows.
The light vanished, and she was surrounded by darkness once more. They did not go far before the horse was turned to the right and off the road. The ground beneath its hooves was uneven, and she had to clutch onto the reins to keep her seat.
No one spoke, but she heard sounds of the night. The distant hoot of an owl; the stirring of some creature close to the ground; the rubbing of tree branches in the breeze. That sound vanished quickly, and she guessed they no longer rode through a wood.
Tilting her head slightly, she was able to sneak a glance beneath the blindfold. The ground was frosted by moonlight, and she saw low brush and the high grasses of a marsh. Where were they bound? Mr. Cross was no Robin Hood, living in Sherwood Forest and helping the helpless. The only one he wished to help was himself. Even his concern for Mr. Watson had more to do with keeping himself alive than avenging the dead highwayman.
The ride became an exercise in trust. She did trust Neville. She could not have married him if she did not trust him. That was easy to say. It was even easy to believe until she hunched over the horse’s back and heard branches swishing over her head, inches from the top of her bonnet.
Water splashed beneath the horses’ hooves which clattered against stone. The stream must not be deep nor wide, because the horse soon climbed out on the far side.
She strained her ears, but heard nothing but the chirp of insects and another owl. Something brushed her arm, and she recoiled before realizing it was a branch sticking out of a hedgerow. The horses edged onto the road again. Were they approaching another inn or a village? That seemed odd unless the villagers had offered the thieves a haven amidst them.
Priscilla bit back a scream when her horse jerked to the left. An arm snaked around her waist, pulling her closer to a man’s hard leg. The odor of brandy and something fishy swept over her. A hand clamped over her mouth before she could draw in another breath.
Mr. Cross! Where was Neville? He would not have left her alone with the thief. Nor would he have willingly let the man touch her.
Where is Neville? she wanted to shout. She pushed on the hand over her mouth. It pressed more tightly to her lips.
Then she heard Neville hiss, “Say nothing, Pris. Someone is coming.”
She stopped struggling. Neville was nearby, and the situation must be dire if he let Mr. Cross hold her so. Who was coming? The constable? Or another thief? Or someone else altogether, someone who would be curious why a blindfolded woman rode through the night with two men?
Hoofbeats rushed past. Wheels clattered in their wake. Mud splattered along her gown. Close to her ear, she heard Mr. Cross mutter something about “his blasted lordship.” Actually he did not say blasted, but she changed his curse into a more acceptable word. She wondered which peer drove at top speed in his carriage at such a late hour, but wisely said nothing as Mr. Cross warned her to silence.
He released her at the same moment Neville’s fingers covered hers. Giving them a squeeze, he drew away. Her horse began moving again. No one spoke. When she tried to look past the blindfold, she saw nothing but shadows along a country road. It could have been any road anywhere in England.
“Who was that lame-hand?” asked Neville in little more than a whisper.
“Rossington’s driver.” Mr. Cross snarled a curse, then added, “His lordship has given the order for anyone driving his family to whip up the horses.”
“Why?” Her question popped out before she could halt it.
“Why do you think?” shot back the thief.
“Keep a civil tongue.” Neville’s voice came from closer to her, and she knew he would not be farther from her than Mr. Cross was again. “Pris, Lord Rossington clearly is concerned about the safety of his family, especially when one of the female members travels after dark.”
“One of them?” She wished she could tear away the blindfold. Her eyes ached from straining futilely to see through it. “Why would a woman be traveling alone at this hour?”
Mr. Cross gave a crude laugh and a snort. “Is she that naïve or that stupid, Hathaway?”
“Mum your dubber, Cross.” Neville’s voice took on a threatening tone she had seldom heard.
Even though she did not understand the cant Neville used, he must have been telling the thief to be quiet. Mr. Cross muttered something, then was silent.
“Mayhap,” Neville continued, his voice regaining its normal good humor, “you and I should give the Rossingtons a call, Pris. Rossington has asked me on several occasions to come and view his collection of antique guns. Their house is not far from here, so calling for a few days could be pleasant.”
“It could be.” She understood what he did not say when Mr. Cross could hear. Staying in the area even a few days might allow them to discover the truth about Mr. Watson’s murder.
Priscilla added nothing more, and no one else spoke. She lost track of how long they rode and had to fight to stay aw
ake. After so little sleep while tending to her son the night before, and the darkness of the blindfold, she found it harder and harder not to give into her drowsiness. Even the motion of the horse beneath her lulled her. She kept raising her head as her chin wobbled toward her chest.
But she came instantly awake when the horses stopped. Again leather squeaked, and she knew at least one man had dismounted.
“We are here,” Mr. Cross said.
As soon as Neville lifted her off her horse and onto some grass, she reached up to loosen the blindfold, but his broad hands halted her.
“Leave it, Pris, for a few seconds more. Once we are inside, it should be safe to remove it.”
“But you—we—are trying to help them. Why would they injure us?”
“Don’t ask, Pris. Just do as I do, and everything should be fine.” His voice became grim. “I hope.”
Chapter Four
UNSURE WHAT to expect, Priscilla blinked several times as the blindfold was removed. A stone floor was smooth beneath her feet. Her eyes widened when she realized she did not stand in a barn crowded with beasts or in a cave. The room was pleasant. Not large, and with a single window that looked out over the marsh, it had two comfortable looking chairs set by a quiescent hearth that took up the whole back wall. Or was it the front? She could not be certain.
What was certain was that the eyes of every man in the room were focused on her. There must have been more than a score.
Neville’s hand settled on her shoulder, and she edged back toward him, her footsteps sounding absurdly loud in the stifling silence. Only then did she notice other women in the room. She counted five. Like the men, they stared. Not at her, but at Neville. Glad she was not one to be jealous of her husband being ogled by other women, she shifted her hand enough so they could not fail to notice her wedding ring. Some of the women looked crestfallen, but others continued to gawk at him.
Gentleman's Master Page 4