No Other Love

by Candace Camp

  “So you’ve never seen his face? Has anyone?”

  “Not me, miss. Some of the girls in the village say that he’s handsome, but they’re just silly romantic chits. I dare swear they’ve never seen him even in a mask, let alone without it. He stays to himself, he does. I don’t know anyone who knows anything about him—not even where he comes from.”

  Nicola was sure that if Mrs. Hinton didn’t know anything, then no one did. “I wonder if he is really a gentleman,” she mused. “He certainly sounded it.”

  “His hands aren’t those of a gentleman,” Lydia said decisively, shaking her head. “I saw ’em when he pulled off his gloves to take his drink. They’re big and callused and scarred—the hands of a man who’s worked all his life. Not even a gentleman who rides without his gloves has hands like that.”

  “Then how did he learn to speak like that?”

  The other woman shrugged. “He’s a mystery, Miss Falcourt, and that’s a fact. Personally, I think he likes it that way. He don’t want people to know about him.”

  “Mmm. I suppose that the less anyone knows about him, the less likely anyone would be able to turn him in.”

  “Oh, won’t no one turn him in, miss, I’ll tell you that. He’s a hero here.”

  “Even if Exmoor offers a reward?” Nicola asked. “There is always someone in a town willing to talk then. I’ll venture that it won’t be long before Richard turns to that. He is determined to capture him. He takes the man’s acts as a personal affront.”

  “Well, be that as it may, he’ll have a hard time catchin’ that one. And anyone who does turn him in better watch his backside around here.”

  “I hope you’re right. I should hate for any of the locals who ride with him to be caught. It would mean hanging for them, you know.”

  “Aye, I know.” Mrs. Hinton looked somber for a moment, but then her ready smile was back. “But they won’t get caught. I’m tellin’ you, he’s canny.”

  Having exhausted Mrs. Hinton’s store of knowledge on the subject of the mysterious highwayman, Nicola turned their conversation to other matters. Finally, Mrs. Hinton rose, saying that she’d taken up enough of Nicola’s time.

  “But, if you don’t mind, miss,” she asked, knowing the answer as well as Nicola did, “some of the girls complain about their ‘time of the month,’ and Granny Rose used to give them something that fixed them right up. Would you be knowing the recipe?”

  “I do indeed. I brought some with me, if you’ll have someone fetch my bag from my horse.”

  “Of course, miss. You’re a good woman, if you don’t mind my bein’ so bold as to say that. Granny Rose would be proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Hinton. That makes me very pleased.”

  So for the rest of the afternoon Nicola stayed in the private parlor of the inn, listening to the ills of first the servants, then various other townspeople who had heard that she was there and dropped in to seek her help. She dispensed advice and remedies, and when she did not have the decoction that she thought would best cure an ill, she made a note of it and promised to send something to them the next day. Several people came for loved ones who were ill at home, and these Nicola accompanied back to their houses to see the patients and take note of their symptoms herself.

  The afternoon lengthened, then died away, and it was growing dark when she turned away from Tom Jeffers’s house, where she had gone to see his mother, who lay frail and shriveled in her bed, slowly drifting away from life. Nicola had known at once that there was nothing she could do for the woman except give her a tonic to ease the pain the old woman was suffering.

  She walked back down the street toward the inn to retrieve her horse, but before she reached it, she saw a man’s figure hurrying down a side street toward her, and instinctively she knew that he came for her.

  “Miss! Miss!” he gasped, short of breath. “Wait! Don’t go.”

  She stopped, letting him catch up to her. “Why, Frank.” She smiled at the man, whom she recognized now as the husband of one of the former housemaids at Buckminster. The couple had been married five years now and had four children. “How are you?”

  “Not good, Miss Falcourt, not good.” He stopped, breathing heavily. “I’m sorry, miss. We just heard you was here. It’s the baby—he’s sick. He don’t sound good, like he can hardly breathe. Lucy was up all night with him, but he just keeps getting worse. Can you come? Lucy fair brightened up when she heard you was here. ‘The young lady can fix him,’ she says. Can you, miss?”

  “I’ll come, of course.” She smiled, hiding the sinking sensation in her stomach. She didn’t have Lucy’s touching faith in her skills. She knew that illness in children was worse; they were so small, so fragile. A fever that an adult might endure could carry a child off.

  She followed the man to his cottage, where he ushered her into the low-ceilinged room. It was dim inside, lit only by a guttering tallow candle and the fire, which provided heat for the house, as well. A woman sat on a stool before the fire, a small child about two years old wrapped in a blanket in her arms. She rocked back and forth, crooning tunelessly. When she saw Nicola enter the door, she jumped to her feet, a smile spreading tremulously across her face. “Miss Nicola! Oh, thank you!”

  Tears began to fall from her eyes, and she hurried forward, holding the child up for Nicola to see. “You’ll help him, won’t you, miss? You won’t let him die!”

  “I will do my best. Now, what’s the matter with him?” Her question was almost unnecessary, for it was easy to see the flush of fever on his cheeks, and as Lucy handed him over to Nicola, he coughed, a harsh, deep, barking sound.

  “It sounds like the croup, Lucy. I think he will be all right. We just need to keep that little throat from closing up on him. Put some water on to boil, will you?”

  Lucy nodded wordlessly and went right to work. Nicola sent the father for a small blanket, while she paced up and down, holding the child and murmuring soothing noises as he continued to cough. When the water was steaming, she had Lucy pour it into a bowl and put it on the table. Then, forming a small tent with the blanket, she sat down and held the child so that his head was under the tent. As the child breathed in the steamy air, his cough began to quiet, then subsided.

  Lucy began to cry again, mopping away her tears with the corner of her apron. “Oh, miss, I knew you could help him.”

  Nicola smiled. “Just do this when he gets an attack. The steam opens up his throat so he can breathe better. Put warm poultices on his feet tonight. I’ll give you a bag of wild plum bark for you to make him tea. Give it to him several times a day.”

  Lucy nodded fervently, repeating “yes, miss, oh, yes, miss” like a magic incantation. When the baby’s cough had died away, she took the child and put him tenderly to bed, then returned to Nicola so she could demonstrate how to make the hot poultices for his feet. Lastly, Nicola dipped out a small amount of dried bark into a sack and handed it to her.

  “I shall send you more if you need it. I have given out all the rest of it this afternoon, but I can get more when I get back to Tidings. So let me know. Any time he has another coughing fit, you be sure to put him under the tent with steam.”

  “Oh, I will, miss, I will. Lord love you, miss.” She grabbed Nicola’s hand and would have kissed it had Nicola not pulled her hand away and given Lucy a hug instead.

  “Send for me if something happens,” Nicola told her. “Promise me.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  After several more protracted thank-yous from Lucy and her husband, Nicola managed to leave. Frank insisted on walking her back to the inn’s stable, just to make sure she was safe, for it was late in the evening by the time Nicola finished.

  The ostler at the inn seemed equally troubled at the idea of a lady riding back to Tidings in the dark evening, but Nicola brushed aside his offer of an escort. She knew that no one who lived around here would do her harm, nor was she afraid of the legends of fire-breathing hounds and ghostly carriages that
kept most local people firmly inside their houses after dark. There was the highwayman, of course. The thought of him sent a strange chill down her spine. But, she reasoned, he would not bother with such paltry game as a lone female rider. It was a trifle chilly, but her cloak would keep her warm.

  She left the village, letting her mare pick her way, for the sliver of new moon provided little light. It was a cloudless evening, and the stars were already shining brightly in the sky. Nicola rode along, letting her thoughts drift as she contemplated the dark velvet sky. She felt tired, but satisfied. It was always rewarding to be able to help someone, especially when it was a child’s life at stake. Lucy’s baby, she thought, would recover, though it might take a while for the illness to run its course.

  Ahead of her a copse of trees lay beside the road, and as she neared it, a man on horseback rode out from the shadows beneath the trees. Nicola sucked in her breath, her heart beginning to pound, and pulled back automatically on her reins, stopping her horse.

  The man rode toward her without haste, and Nicola watched him, her mouth dry. He was dressed all in black, and under his hat his face was unnaturally dark. She knew without a doubt that it was the highwayman. So she had been wrong. He would stoop to accost a lone woman. Her hands tightened on the reins as she debated whether to turn and flee toward the village, but she could not bear to play the coward in front of this man. Besides, she reminded herself practically, his horse looked powerful, and she suspected that he would catch up with her if she did run. Better to stand and face the danger. That had always been her way.

  She waited, chin lifting unconsciously. The man stopped a few feet from her and swept off his hat, bowing to her. A smile played on his lips. “Well, my lady. A bit dangerous for you to be out this late, isn’t it? Alone? In the dark?”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NICOLA KEPT HER VOICE EVEN AS SHE replied, “I haven’t been afraid of the dark since I was a child.”

  “Nevertheless, I think I should escort you home. We would not want any harm to befall you while you were out playing Lady Bountiful, now would we?”

  “Since you are the only person around here who would harm me, I see little point in your escort.”

  “I? Wish you harm? You wound me.” His teeth flashed white in the dimness.

  “What else would you call stopping my carriage and robbing me at gunpoint?” Nicola responded tartly.

  “But I offered no harm to your person. Surely you realize that.”

  Nicola shot him a hard look. “You forced yourself upon me.”

  “Forced myself!” He began to laugh. “My dear lady, stealing one little kiss is hardly ‘forcing myself upon you.’ Besides, I believe you paid me back well enough for that.” He rubbed his cheek ruefully. “You pack quite a wallop.”

  “What nonsense. I didn’t hurt you.”

  “Oh, but you did. Imagine my wounded pride after you gave me such a setdown—and in front of all my men, too.”

  “Is that why you are here? To exact revenge on me? To salve your pride?”

  “You are an exceedingly suspicious woman. I thought I had established that I was not here to harm you but to make sure that you get home safely.”

  “Oh, yes. Silly of me to think otherwise.”

  Nicola glanced sideways at him. He looked the personification of wickedness and danger, masked and dressed all in black, yet the way her pulse quickened was not entirely due to fear—there was a strange sort of excitement coursing through her, as well, a tingling, eager feeling that unnerved Nicola even as she relished it. She felt quite sure that this was not the kind of reaction she should have to a man like this. His height and the breadth of his shoulders, even the husky rumble of his voice, should inspire fear, not this unfamiliar heat deep in her loins.

  As if he could sense the direction of her thoughts, the highwayman turned toward her and smiled—a slow, almost taunting smile.

  “Who are you?” Nicola asked abruptly, seeking a subject, any subject, that would break the thrum of sensual tension his smile set off.

  “Do you really expect me to tell you that?”

  “It seems absurd to call you nothing. It would be better to have a name to put to your face—or, I should say, your lack thereof.”

  A brief dip of his head and a wry smile acknowledged her thrust. “God help us, a clever woman.”

  “No doubt you prefer a foolish one.”

  “Oh, no, my lady, not a foolish one. Indeed, you are to my liking, wit, temper and all. I am a man who likes to live on the edge, you see.” He paused, then added, “One could say the same for you.”

  “Nonsense. I am sure the edge would be much too uncomfortable for me.”

  “Ah, yes, you are such a conventional—one might even say timid—sort. Running about the countryside alone on horseback after dark.”

  “Being in a carriage with a driver and groom did not exactly help me last night, did it? I would say I am as well off on my own. And no one around here would harm me, anyway—present company excepted, of course.”

  “I believe that most women would have elected to stay indoors today—and especially this evening—if they had had such a harrowing experience as being stopped by a highwayman last night.”

  “I presumed a highwayman would not bother with a solitary horseback rider, particularly one who is not on the main road…if anything hereabouts could be considered a main road. You know, it strikes me as a little odd that an accomplished thief such as yourself would be roaming about the wilds of Dartmoor. One would think that the London area would be a much more profitable place—Blackheath Moor, for instance.”

  “Ah, but the days of Dick Turpin are dead now. Blackheath Moor is no longer a healthy place for those of my profession.”

  “Still…Dartmoor? How many carriages do you stop a week?”

  “You are concerned for my welfare. I am touched. However, you need not worry. We manage to get by.”

  Nicola grimaced. “You persist in misunderstanding me. I have no concern for your welfare. I merely wonder why you would choose such an out-of-the-way place as this for your thievery.”

  “Less opportunity, perhaps, but also less chance of getting caught. And the mines provide a steady stream of cash and goods being transported.”

  “One might almost think that you have a personal vendetta against the Earl of Exmoor.”

  “I? How could anyone carry a grudge against such a pleasant man as the Earl of Exmoor? So kind to his workers, so understanding with his tenants.”

  “I realize that he is an easy target. It is difficult to feel sympathy for the usurer when he is robbed, too. Still, it is theft, pure and simple. And when you are caught, you will hang just as readily as if you had stolen from a saint. Nor, I think, will you be quite such a hero to the local inhabitants when some of their own men are hanged with you.”

  “Ah, but that makes the assumption that we shall be caught. I do not intend for that to happen.”

  “I am sure few criminals do,” Nicola retorted. “But they are nabbed, anyway. You will be, too.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “How can you be so full of yourself as to think anything else? You delight in tweaking Richard’s nose. You think he will not come after you? He is a very powerful and wealthy man.”

  “Let him come after me,” her companion said, his voice rich with satisfaction. “I would delight in meeting him.”

  “You think he will come after you personally? Don’t be absurd. Men like Richard hire other men to do their dirty work. It is they who will hunt you and your men down like dogs. But he has hired them. He doesn’t mind the cost. You have insulted him, practically dared him to stop you. It is infuriating enough to him that you have been stealing his money. Last night, when you stopped his own carriage, it was like rubbing his nose in it. He won’t rest until you are swinging from a gibbet. He has already hired a Bow Street Runner.”

  “Has he indeed?” His voice was thoughtful.

  “Yes. I met him this
morning. His name is Stone, and he looks to be a man to live up to his name.”

  “Well. That makes the game more interesting. Still, I think I can hold my own against a Bow Street Runner.”

  “Don’t you understand? Richard will not stop. Maybe you can handle this Runner—elude him, kill him, whatever you plan to do. But it will not end with Stone. If he fails, Richard will hire more. He will put out rewards for your capture. Someone, sometime, will betray you for the money, no matter how highly the people around here regard you. He will put guards on his wagons.”

  “He already has.” The highwayman’s teeth flashed whitely in the dark. “Yet still I have come away with the strongboxes.”

  “Then he will hire more—and ones who are not terribly concerned about killing a man over a strongbox. Why won’t you see? Richard Montford is not a man to cross! He is willing to do anything to protect his possessions.”

  “I am sure he is. No doubt you are one of his prize possessions.”

  “I?” Nicola swiveled sharply to glare at him. “How dare you! I am no man’s possession.”

  “No? I dare swear your husband would look at it differently.”

  “He would not,” Nicola retorted sharply. “If he did, he would not be my husband, I can assure you.”

  “I would not have thought the sort of man you would marry would be so…advanced in his views.”

  “The sort of man I would marry? How would you know anything about the sort of man I would marry? You don’t know me at all.”

  “I know you are the sister of the Countess of Exmoor,” he replied. “The cousin of Lord Buckminster. A woman firmly entrenched in the aristocracy. A woman of name and beauty…therefore one who doubtless made an excellent marriage. I had thought you were the Countess of Exmoor.”

  “I? Married to Richard? Hardly. That is my sister.”