Too Wicked to Love

by Debra Mullins

  “Yes, Mama.” Annabelle’s stunned expression gave Genny the impression that Dolly hardly ever spoke harshly to her daughter. Annabelle’s ensuing silence spoke louder than any words about her feelings on the matter.

  The silence in the coach was broken only by the rasp of the wheels on the road and the occasional soft snore from Virgil, who had drifted off to sleep.

  And the comforting sound of horses’ hooves outside the window.

  John was out there, riding his gelding Veritas, watching over them. She admired his diligence. With John Ready riding guard, no brigand would dare attack them.

  While she did wish he was inside the coach with them—the better to continue her flirtation—she would not let the separate modes of transportation stop her. Twice, she had managed to catch his eye and send him a smile, and twice he had urged his mount to a faster pace.

  A thump reached their ears, coming from the back of the carriage.

  “What!” Virgil jerked awake. “What was that?”

  Scrabbling came from above them, then a much bigger whack followed by a human cry of alarm.

  The coach shot down the road for a few more minutes, then jolted to a halt.

  Genny peered out the window. The moonlit night looked peaceful enough.

  “Why have we stopped?” Virgil asked.

  “I don’t like this,” Dolly whispered.

  Annabelle reached across and squeezed her mother’s hand. “Don’t fret, Mama. John is right outside.”

  They sat for long moments in total silence.

  “Everyone, please get out of the carriage,” John called from outside.

  “I can’t get out,” Dolly protested. “My leg!”

  There was a pause, followed by the low murmur of voices. Then John opened the door to the carriage. “Everyone except Mrs. Bailey, please step out.”

  “What is this nonsense?” Virgil demanded. “Did we break a wheel?”

  “Something like that. Miss Wallington-Willis, please take my hand.”

  Genny took John’s hand, hearing the strain in his tone. Something was very wrong. He helped her down from the carriage, and once she moved away from the vehicle, she saw the problem.

  “Do not look so dismayed, Miss Wallington-Willis” said the masked man seated on top of the collapsible roof of their landau. Moonlight gleamed off two pistols in his hand. “I just want to talk.”

  “Who was that?” Annabelle asked as John helped her down. She looked around and gasped as she saw the outlaw.

  “It is only I,” said the brigand. “Good evening, Miss Bailey. You do look stunning this evening.”

  “Black Bill,” she murmured, as her father disembarked.

  “Black Bill? Where?” Virgil looked around, then spotted the highwayman.

  “Right here,” the thief said in his ever-cheerful tone. “I am so flattered you remember me, Miss Bailey.”

  “How could I not?” she said. “You saved me from being forced into marriage with Richard. You saved my life.”

  “Well, he shot me, in case no one else recalls.” John folded his arms, his entire body stiff with what Genny knew had to be fury. How could he remain so calm? Her own hands were shaking, and she twisted them into her shawl, edging closer to John. She refused to show fear to this villain.

  “Now, do not be so cross, Mr. Ready. Or shall I call you John? After all, once blood has been shed between men, formality seems rather silly, do you not agree? Besides, you lent me this wonderful pistol.” The thief held it up to the moonlight, turning it this way and that.

  “How did he steal your pistol?” Genny whispered.

  John gave her a tight look of frustration, then called out, “I could shed some of your blood, Billy Boy. Return the favor.”

  Black Bill laughed, and Dolly cried, “What’s happening out there? Are we being robbed?”

  “My mother is frightened,” Annabelle said, her words ringing with rebuke.

  “I apologize,” the bandit said, raising his voice. Was that sincerity in his tone? “I am not here to threaten you, Mrs. Bailey, but to have a discussion with my friend John.”

  “About what?” Virgil demanded. “About how you tried to kidnap my daughter for that no-good Raventhorpe?”

  “Pa, no,” Annabelle said, taking her father’s arm.

  Black Bill aimed the pistol at Virgil with a grace both practiced and deadly. “Do not ever associate me with that piece of filth.”

  Virgil shook off Annabelle’s hand. “Stand aside, Annabelle. This varmint isn’t getting you without a fight.”

  “He doesn’t want me,” Annabelle said, moving between her father and Black Bill’s gun.

  John tensed, and Genny curled her fingers around his arm. “What is she doing?” she whispered so only John could hear. “She is going to get killed!”

  John silently patted her fingers, as if trying to reassure her. He did not take his gaze from the bandit at any time.

  Annabelle stared her father down. “I told you, it wasn’t him.”

  “Don’t let him take our baby, Virgil!” Dolly cried from inside the carriage.

  Annabelle turned back to the highwayman and crossed her arms. “And you, Mr. Black Bill. You claim you want to talk, yet you have held up our carriage, scared my mother half to death—”

  “Got rid of the coachman and the footman,” John said. “Jumped on the roof from a tree, punched the footman so he fell off the back, then knocked the coachman on the head and shoved him off the seat.”

  “And where were you, John Ready?” Virgil demanded. “You’re supposed to be protecting my daughter!”

  “I was trying to get a bead on him, but he moves like a snake,” John protested.

  Black Bill laughed. “Snake, is it? Not complimentary, are you, John?”

  John ignored him. “Then he got on top of the landau and threatened to shoot through that soft top if I did not hand over my pistol. What was I supposed to do?”

  “Shoot the son of a bitch!”

  “Virgil!” Dolly cried from the carriage. “Your language!”

  “Would you have him shoot into the landau and hit one of the ladies?” John demanded.

  “Stop it, the both of you!” Annabelle commanded, surprising both men into silence. She glared up at the bandit. “Say what you need to say. It’s far too chilly tonight to stay outside too long.”

  The highwayman smiled, his teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “Well then, since I have no desire to keep the ladies out in the cold, here is what I came to tell you. I did not try and abduct the lovely Miss Bailey.”

  “So you claim,” John said.

  “So I claim,” the bandit repeated. “I did not do it, but I know who did.”

  John narrowed his eyes at the highwayman. “Who?” he challenged.

  “His name is Peter Green. Raventhorpe uses him for this type of thing when the pig earl is unavailable to do it himself.”

  “Why should we trust you?” Virgil demanded. “What’s to stop you from robbing us blind and leaving us for dead?”

  “Why, nothing,” Black Bill replied. “Except my honor.”

  “Hardly a comfort,” John said. “Prove your words. Tell me where I can find this Peter Green.”

  “He rents a room in a boardinghouse near Nevarton, owned by a widow, Mrs. Tansey.”

  “I went to Nevarton. Based on Miss Bailey’s description, no one had seen him or knew who he was.”

  “He is a bit of a bully, that one. Not the sharpest sword in the armory,” the thief said. “Tends to incapacitate the people who talk about him. Quite a deterrent, don’t you agree?”

  “Wonderful,” John muttered, frowning. Sharpest sword in the armory? Where had he heard that before?

  “Do not fear, dear friend John,” the highwayman said. “I will find him and point you in the proper direction.”

  “Why are you helping us?” Virgil demanded.

  “To clear my name, of course,” the thief replied. “I do hate when other people claim to be me, espe
cially amidst such distasteful business. I have standards, you know. What I do is very specific.”

  “You only rob those on Raventhorpe lands,” John said. “I remember you saying that the first time our paths crossed. Right before you shot me.”

  “Very good, Mr. Ready! Yes, I do try to make that swine’s life as difficult as possible. I have a bone to pick with him if he ever returns from his self-imposed exile in France.”

  “The earl had no choice but to leave England,” Genny said. “The gossip about what he did to Annabelle was quite damaging.”

  “Lovely to hear,” the highwayman said.

  “Besides,” Annabelle said, “John shot Raventhorpe in his ar—”

  “Annabelle Bailey!” Dolly called. “Watch your language!”

  “—seat,” Annabelle finished.

  “I had heard that,” Black Bill said. “Excellent shooting, John old man. Perhaps we are in alliance after all!”

  John regarded the thief for a long moment. “You did not kill our footman.”

  “That would be correct,” Bill said.

  “And you did not kill our coachman.”

  “Right again.”

  “And you did not shoot me, though you had the opportunity from that branch where you were perched. I saw you jump.”

  “Is this a test?” Bill asked with a laugh. “I know what I did and did not do, friend John.”

  “I am just pointing out what the others might not have noticed. You have not killed anyone to have this conversation.”

  “I am feeling compassionate this evening,” Bill said with a shrug.

  “You honestly do want to help us.”

  “I would not say that. I simply do not like others infringing upon my territory.”

  “You know a lot about what is going on in this area,” John said.

  “Of course I do.”

  “Perhaps I could pay you to gather information for us.”

  “Do I look like I work for Scotland Yard? Do not be preposterous. I make my living by relieving others of their wealth.”

  “You said you wanted to talk,” Annabelle challenged. “Are you a liar as well as a thief?”

  The highwayman stiffened. “I am no liar. I have every intention of robbing you this evening.” He stood and tucked one revolver away, then leaped lightly to the driver’s seat and from there, vaulted down to the ground, never losing his grip on the second weapon. The horses shuffled in their traces, but otherwise appeared little disturbed by the stunts as Black Bill approached the group. “Come here, Miss Bailey.”

  Annabelle took a step toward him, but her father grabbed her arm. “Annabelle, are you crazy? Stay away from him!”

  “You come to me, Miss Bailey, or else I will have to shoot someone to prove my point. Your father, perhaps? A bullet in the thigh or the knee might have him in a wheeled chair beside your mother.”

  No,” Annabelle whispered. “Don’t.”

  “Or perhaps the stalwart John Ready?” He swung the weapon toward John.

  “Once was enough,” John said.

  “That leaves Miss Wallington-Willis, though I should hate to mar such natural beauty.” He shifted the pistol again.

  Genny stared at the gleaming barrel of the revolver, her stomach churning. She swallowed past the hard lump in her throat. Was this how her life would end, snuffed out by a brigand in the middle of the road?

  Then suddenly John stepped in front of her, shoving her behind him with one arm. He said nothing, just stared in challenge at the highwayman.

  “How chivalrous, friend John!” Black Bill grinned. “But the choice is Miss Bailey’s, not yours.”

  “I don’t want you to shoot anyone. Rob me if you must,” Annabelle said, “but not the others. I beg you.”

  Virgil stepped forward. “Now hold on there . . .”

  “Pa, stay back,” Annabelle said, then slowly approached the highwayman.

  “Annabelle, no,” John said.

  “You come back here, Annabelle May!” her father commanded. He started forward, but the sudden shift of Black Bill’s aim from John to him stopped him cold. “Don’t you hurt my girl, you bastard!”

  From inside the coach, they could hear Dolly sobbing.

  Genny trailed her hand down the barrier of John’s arm until she found his hand. Slowly she twined her fingers with his. After a moment, he squeezed hers, as if reassuring her.

  Annabelle came to a stop just beyond arm’s reach of the bandit. “I’m here. Go ahead. Rob me.”

  “Do you think I will not?” He gave her a half smile, never breaking eye contact with her. “Open your purse.”

  Annabelle slid her beaded reticule off her wrist, then opened it so he could see inside. He shook his head. “Not exactly what I am looking for. Unfasten your cape.”

  “Stop right there, you—”

  Black Bill turned and fired, knocking Virgil’s hat right off his head. “Stop right there, Mr. Bailey.”

  “Virgil!” Dolly screamed.

  “I’m all right, sugarplum!” Keeping his gaze on Black Bill, Virgil slowly bent down and picked up his hat. “Don’t you hurt her, you son of a bitch, or I’ll hunt you down and feed your innards to the dogs!”

  The highwayman grinned, then turned back to Annabelle.

  CRACK! She smacked him hard across the face. “Don’t you ever shoot at my pa again, you animal!”

  “Animal?” Something feral swept across his face. “If I were an animal, every one of you would be dead. Except, perhaps, for you, my sweet.” He aimed the pistol at her with one hand and used his other to shove open her ermine-trimmed mantelet. The pale skin of her bosom gleamed in the moonlight.

  “If you want my wrap, take it,” she said, her tone icy. “I understand the fur is valuable.”

  He laughed. “That is not what I want.” He touched her cheek with one gloved hand, then trailed his finger down to rest at the base of her throat. “Are you frightened? Because this says you are.” He traced the pulse point with one finger.

  “Of course I am frightened,” she snapped. “I am not a ninny.”

  “You are not, are you?” He drew his finger down lower, edging towards the exposed tops of her breasts. “What do you have of value that a man might want to steal?”

  She did not flinch. “You tell me.”

  “Very well.” Quick as a blink, he dipped his fingers between her breasts and pulled free a handkerchief. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed. “Mmm. Attar of roses. This will do nicely. Since when does a lady keep her handkerchief in such a spot?”

  “I always have,” she replied stiffly. “Is that all you want? No diamonds or pearls?”

  “No, this is quite enough.” He tucked the handkerchief away in his pocket. “And now that I have robbed you, I will leave you to your evening. Here.” He took John’s pistol and slapped it into Annabelle’s hand. “Be careful not to shoot yourself.”

  “Maybe I’ll just shoot you instead.”

  He turned before the words left her lips and sprinted. His black clothing made him instantly disappear into the darkness of the trees at the side of the road. She lifted the revolver and fired anyway.

  Only his laughter carried back to them.

  Genny sagged against John, closing her eyes as she realized the danger was over for the moment. He turned and wrapped her in a brief embrace. Then he pushed her away.

  “We have to get out of here,” John said, stepping back a pace.

  Genny immediately missed the warmth of his body near hers. “I agree. Thank you for protecting me.”

  He held her gaze. “I would never have let him harm you. Let’s get you back in the carriage.”

  He crooked his arm, and she had no choice but to properly rest her hand there, a poor substitute for the more intimate embrace they had just shared. As they reached the carriage, the shouting between Virgil and Annabelle grew louder.

  “Are you out of your mind, letting him touch you like that?”

  “What was I supposed to do abou
t it, Pa? Attack him?”

  “Maybe you should’ve!”

  “Don’t you care that I was almost killed? That we all were?”

  And then Dolly’s voice sounded above the strident ruckus of her family.

  “Someone had best get in this carriage and tell me what happened, right quick, before I shoot the lot of you myself!”

  Chapter 13

  When they got back to the house, the admiral closeted himself in the study with Mr. Bailey and John, leaving Genny to the maternal fretting of both her mother and her maid, Lottie. By the time the two women finally left her to her rest, she was bathed, dried and tucked between the covers as if she were still in the schoolroom.

  She lay in the dark, listening to the sounds of the others moving about the house. Footsteps in the hallways, low voices, the tapping of servants’ feet as they scurried about their duties. As the hours crept by, the noises dwindled until she could hear herself breathing in the silence.

  She should be asleep. Tonight’s adventure should have worn her out completely. But she could not sleep. Did not want to.

  She might have died tonight. The moment Black Bill had pointed that pistol at her, she thought she might expire from the fear alone. And yet in that moment, every small thing around her had seemed huge and precious and meaningful.

  The warmth of John’s hand in hers. The leathery, male scent of him. The cool breeze gently fluttering the curls at her temples. The rush of her own blood, the way he had instinctively pushed her behind him when Black Bill had turned the revolver her way. The heat of John’s embrace as he had cradled her for one, blissful moment. It all spoke volumes. For in those few seconds, she knew the truth—she was falling in love with him.

  Why had she spent all these months worrying about the betrayal of one foolish man? Clearly Bradley was of no importance, and neither were his words, his actions, nor his attempt to reconcile. There was so much more to life, so much more she wanted. The sheer scope of it awed her, making her relationship with Bradley seem very, very insignificant.

  A smile curved her lips. The idea that she might give herself to a man again no longer seemed so impossible, not if it was John. When she wondered who her future husband might be, it was his face that lingered in her mind. When she imagined her future children, they were his.