He turned his attention back to the coach and her parents, who had finally subsided on the side of the road in a heap of finery and dire mutterings. Time to focus on what he was here to do.
“If ye’ll pardon me, my lady,” he said.
It took him only moments to locate the hollow space beneath the carriage’s bench where Lord Dawsey had stashed part of his once considerable fortune. He pulled out four leather sacks, each about the size of a loaf of bread, from the depths beneath the bench. Elizabet’s eyes grew wide.
“I’ll wager ye werena aware of yer father’s penchant for traveling with a large portion of his wealth?”
She shook her head and stepped closer. She frowned. “Seems a foolish thing to do,” she muttered.
John snorted again. “Aye, it is. And too much of a temptation for a man of such low morals as myself. Though describing the money as his isna completely accurate.”
Her frown deepened. “What do you mean by that?”
“Have ye never considered where yer wealth originated?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “No…of course not.”
Anger mixed with the confusion on the girl’s face. “According to my father, we have no wealth.”
He snorted again. “As ye can see, that isna quite the truth. Though I reckon it’s a far bit less than it once was.”
“I didn’t realize…”
“I meant no insult, my lady,” he assured her. “It is hardly something ye’d need to worry about, after all.”
She ignored that comment. “Explain what you meant.”
John took a deep breath. He had neither the time nor the desire to enlighten Elizabet as to the nature of her odious father and his many misdeeds.
“Explain,” she demanded again. “Is this…is this all from his tenants?”
His eyes widened behind his mask. Imperious little thing, wasn’t she? Though not so little, really. She was unfashionably tall for a woman, her head reaching to just beneath his chin. Most women were no taller than his chest. Her long willowy limbs looked strong, though, and the amply rounded breasts barely contained by her gown promised sweet, soft curves beneath the many layers of fabric she wore. Curves he’d had only a mere taste of and couldn’t erase from his mind.
She folded her arms across her richly embroidered bodice, the jewelry on her wrists and fingers glinting in the moonlight. She waited for his answer with barely restrained impatience.
John gathered the bags and motioned for her to follow.
“Some of it, aye. But much of it is from those he had no legal right to take from. As despicable a landlord as yer father is, he unfortunately has the right to tax his tenants as he sees fit. However, much of his wealth yer father gained during Cromwell’s ill-gotten reign, bleeding his royalist neighbors dry. And, ever the opportunist, he switched sides in time for His Majesty King Charles’s triumphant return.”
She shook her head, her eyes wide with horror. John pitied her, but pressed on.
“Before His Majesty’s return, however, yer father seems to have tried his hand at smuggling. Now, I could look past that. Cromwell denied the people a great many things, and I’ve no grudge against a man making a bit of coin providing goods that canna be gotten any other way. But under yer father’s operation, men got hurt. Innocent men. And that I willna abide.”
He stopped and cleared his throat, the memory of his once laughing, adventurous brother lying dead in the dust too much to bear. He didn’t know why he felt it so important to make her understand that what he did had purpose. But he pressed on anyway.
“Since His Majesty’s return, yer father has taken to inflating his coffers the good old-fashioned way…by leeching it from tenants who can ill afford to pay and are forced to do so, anyway. Whether he still does the odd night of smuggling remains to be seen. And, of course, the bribes and blackmailed funds from his old cronies from Cromwell’s days who didna have the foresight to change allegiance before the king returned—and who are willing to pay handsomely to keep their shortcomings from the king’s attention.”
“He wouldn’t,” she murmured.
“I’m sorry to inform ye, lass, he has. This money doesna belong to him.”
She glared at him. “Neither does it belong to you. You, it seems, are no better than he.”
“On the contrary, my lady. I’m a great deal better.”
He left it at that. Yes, he kept a decent portion for himself and his men. His clan had suffered terribly, not only under Cromwell but under many English kings, until Charles had retaken the throne. So John had few qualms about exacting a little retribution from those he knew had made his kinsmen’s lot worse. But he shared the majority of the wealth he stole. Whether by anonymously settling accounts or leaving a few coins in the chicken coop, he did what he could to ease the way of those villagers and merchants who’d suffered before the king had regained his throne.
But he had no desire to explain that to his young captive. He was out of time. And he’d already spent far too much time explaining who he was, and why he did what he did, to his enemy’s daughter. Not the wisest course of action.
The bags clinked when he passed them to Philip, who stored them quickly in his saddlebags. Lord Dawsey shouted incoherently, his mottled cheeks purple with rage.
“You…you bastard! Brigand! You’ll steal my entire fortune and leave me destitute in the street?”
John kept a tight rein on the fury that rushed through him. He stepped closer to the blustering fool, looming over him. “Come now, my lord. Ye did worse to a great many who trusted ye. And I’m quite certain ye’ve at least one more carriage such as this, full of yer stolen gains. I doubt ye’ll even feel the loss. In fact, I quite hope we meet again one dark night. I’d be happy to relieve ye of more of yer worldly goods.”
His eyes rested on Elizabet once again, roaming from bejeweled head to slippered foot and back again. Her beauty rivaled the moon itself. She sucked in an outraged breath, though whether her anger stemmed from his implication of her status as part of her father’s worldly goods or his frank perusal of her, he didn’t know. Either way, she returned his gaze boldly, drawing herself up to her full stature, as if preparing for battle.
He grinned, speaking while the idea still formed itself in his mind. He addressed the cursing Lord Dawsey again, though he kept his gaze on Elizabet. “In the spirit of fairness, to show ye what a generous man I can be, I’ll return one of these bags to ye.”
“Only one? What of the others? You can’t simply—”
John held up his hand. “I can, and I shall, and if ye insist on being rude, I’ll leave now with all four bags firmly in my possession.”
Dawsey subsided with a huff, his cheeks growing so dark John feared he might expire on the spot. Better hurry this along.
“As I was saying, I will return one bag to ye. In exchange for a kiss,” he said to the bewildered Elizabet who watched him with those glacial eyes.
Her jaw dropped. Her mother resumed her wailing. And her father didn’t even hesitate.
“Done.”
Chapter Four
Lord Dawsey shoved Elizabet at John before she could utter a protest. He caught her easily and held her stiff form in his arms. Anger on her behalf filled him to the brim. Yes, he’d asked for the kiss. But he’d done so on a whim, almost as a jest. To torment the apoplectic old toad. He’d never expected the man to turn over his own daughter so quickly for so little. For all he’d known, John had meant to snatch her and carry her away.
She held herself aloof, unresisting, but the rage permeating her easily eclipsed his own.
“My lady,” he said softly.
She looked into his eyes, unwavering, unafraid. “Your actions suggest you see me as otherwise, sir,” she answered with steel in her voice. “If you have no intention of treating me as a lady, you needn’t continue to address me as such.”
“You are every inch a lady.” He brought her hand to his lips, lingering over the soft skin. He’d have liked nothing more
than to taste those sweet, full lips of hers. But he would not do so under such circumstances. The tension in her body eased slightly and, with a final squeeze of her hand, he released her.
She remained where she was, looking at him with her forehead creased in confusion.
“Sir?” Philip said, his voice level, though John knew him well enough to detect a note of caution and concern. They’d already tarried far too long.
“The rope,” John said.
Will dismounted and grasped Lord Dawsey, binding his hands behind his rather ample back. The driver was similarly trussed. Will glanced at the women, but John shook his head. They were no threat to him. Well, Elizabet would shove a dagger down his gullet, if given enough provocation, no doubt. But he had yet to leave a lady tied and helpless in the middle of the road, and he had no intention of starting with her.
He removed one of the sacks of gold from Philip’s saddlebag and handed it to Elizabet.
She frowned. “But you’ve received no kiss, sir.”
“Be quiet, you insolent little fool!” her father shouted.
She blanched and at a nod from John, Philip shoved a handkerchief into the man’s mouth and bundled him back into the carriage. Lady Dawsey followed, taking the sack from Elizabet and casting concerned glances back and forth between her husband and daughter before climbing inside.
John turned back to Elizabet and drew a finger down her cheek. “A kiss from such a lady would be worth more money than I have to give. And I am no’ such a blackguard as to force myself on an unwilling woman. I would be honored to kiss ye. In truth, ’tis taking considerable restraint to refrain from tasting these sweet lips.”
She sucked in a startled breath as his thumb caressed her bottom lip.
He let his hand fall away, cursing his good intentions. “But I willna kiss ye until ye ask me to.”
She gaped at him, her eyes like rippling pools of water in the light of the moon. He half hoped she’d ask him right then. Instead, she took a step back. Not a surprise, though disturbingly disappointing, nonetheless.
“Sir,” Philip prompted again.
John nodded and mounted his horse. “Ye may release the men once we are out of sight,” he said to Elizabet. “Until we meet again, my lady,” he said, tipping his hat to her.
He had no idea why he’d said such a thing to her. He’d certainly never see her again. Not under the same circumstances, in any case. But for the first time in ages, he wished differently.
Elizabet reached for the door of the carriage, but she lingered, pausing to look back at him. Something caught her gaze, and she turned. Her dagger lay near a small bush, gleaming in the moonlight. She bent to retrieve it, straightening with it in her hand.
“Blade!” Will yelled, drawing his pistol.
John and Philip shouted, but Will’s finger had already tightened on the trigger. A shot rang out.
And Elizabet fell.
…
The coach horses reared and bolted, taking with them the carriage containing her parents. They were out of sight within moments. Elizabet lay motionless on the ground, struggling to maintain consciousness. One of the men shouted at the one who’d shot her, jerking the gun from his hand. The bastard didn’t put up a fight. Good. At least she didn’t have to worry about getting shot again. He merely stared at her mumbling, “She had a blade,” over and over.
“Wasn’t going to use it, idiot,” she murmured, though she couldn’t be sure she’d even uttered it aloud, as it didn’t register in her own ears.
The Highland Highwayman ignored him and rushed to her. She wished she knew his actual name. Saying The Highland Highwayman took a bit of effort. Not that she’d be saying it much. Even thinking it took more energy than she had. It occurred to her she might be rambling. Her thoughts, that is. Also, she didn’t feel much pain. She’d been shot. Shouldn’t it hurt?
The highwayman dropped to his knees by her side. He laid his fingers on the pulse at her neck.
That felt nice. Soft and tender.
“Faint, but steady,” he said.
“I like your voice,” she murmured.
He gave her a wry smile and laid his hand on her cheek. “Lie still, lass.”
He pulled aside layers of velvet and lace until he located the wound.
“Am I dying?” she whispered, strangely not all that curious about the answer. Shouldn’t she be? Seemed like something that should matter to her.
“Nay. The bullet pierced yer upper arm. A clean shot. All the way through.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I willna have to dig for it, at least.”
“That’s good,” she said, her voice faint and slurred to her ears.
“That’s verra good.”
“Sir,” one of the men said. The one who hadn’t shot her. “We must go.”
The highwayman nodded. “Aye.” He swept his cloak off his shoulders and wrapped it about her. “Hold tight, love. I’ll try not to jostle ye too much.”
Before she could respond, he scooped her into his arms. She thought the other man protested. But they kept moving so her highwayman must not have agreed. She didn’t remember much after he got her on the horse and climbed up behind her. He kept her tight against his chest. He emanated warmth. His solid arms encircling her offered safety. She’d been shot and now was being carried off to who-knew-where by a highwayman whose henchman was responsible. She should be terrified. Screaming. Calling for help.
Instead, she slumped back against him, sighed when his arm drew her closer, and drifted away.
The next several hours were a blur. The occasional jarring of her shoulder would jerk her awake periodically, sending white-hot pain shooting through her arm. At some point they stopped, and she felt herself being lifted from the horse. Carried inside. Someplace warm.
Something soft beneath her.
She sighed and burrowed deep into pillows beneath her head. And gave in to the darkness that pulled at her.
…
Warm sunlight filtered over Elizabet’s face, and she carefully cracked open an eye. Her whole body ached. She closed her eyes and shifted, trying to find a comfortable spot. The jolt of pain burning through her shoulder had her instantly awake and gasping.
“Lie still,” a deep voice said.
She turned her head, her eyes watering. “Where am I?” Her voice rasped, and a man came into view and handed her a cup.
“Water,” he said. “Drink.”
She frowned at him, recognizing her highwayman. She could hardly help but recognize him. He still wore his mask.
She took a deep drink and handed the cup back to him. “Wear that everywhere, do you?” she asked.
He grinned and reached for a pitcher on the table beside the bed to refill her cup.
“Usually, no.”
She accepted the cup gratefully. “Don’t be shy on my account.”
“I wear the mask for yer protection.”
She drank and handed the cup back to him. “Don’t you mean for yours?”
“Nay.” He placed the cup on the table and grabbed a folded rag. “If you were to know my true identity, I’m afraid I’d have to…make sure the information went no further.”
Elizabet didn’t think he was jesting. She also didn’t think he referred to a stern talking-to. He sat beside her and reached for her chemise. She drew away from him, and he frowned.
“I’m no’ going to hurt ye. I need to check the bandage on yer shoulder,” he said, his forehead creasing, as though he were somehow offended that she might think him a threat.
“Well, you did threaten to kill me if I saw your face. Not to mention it was your man who shot me. You can understand my caution.”
His lips quirked up. “Indeed. It is always wise to be cautious.”
“Where is my gown? I’ll admit I don’t remember much of the past several hours, but I am quite certain I was wearing one earlier this evening.”
He chuckled. “It is over in the armoire, safe and sound. I thought ye’d rest more comfortabl
y without it. And I didna wish to soil it while seeing to your wound.”
He tended her shoulder with surprising gentleness, cleaning the wound and re-bandaging it with skill and speed.
“Bandage many gunshot wounds, do you?” she asked.
“A few.”
He responded without an ounce of humor in his voice, and Elizabet was reminded what this man did for a living.
“Not that I’m not grateful, but why am I here?” she asked.
An eyebrow peeked up above the edge of the mask. “The horses bolted, taking yer carriage and yer parents off into the night, leaving ye quite alone. You’d rather I left ye in the dust to die?”
“No.” She grimaced. “Horses must not like me much. They are always bolting and leaving me in dire straits. I had to be rescued last time, too.”
“Well, perhaps I’m bad luck, as I happened to be in the vicinity both times.”
She gave a delicate snort. “That’s better than blaming my own shortcomings, I suppose.”
“Always happy to be of service, my lady,” he said with a smile.
She shivered and reached for the blanket but the movement sent another bolt of fire down her arm, and she drew in her breath with a hiss. He stood up long enough to pull the thick quilt up to her neck and then sat back beside her.
“Thank you,” she said with a sigh. “No. I’m glad you didn’t leave me to die. I suppose I simply don’t understand why you didn’t. Bringing me to your home seems a dangerous thing to do. What if I were to escape? Unless you don’t plan on letting me live long enough to try.”
Those full lips of his pulled into a smile again. “This isna my home. It’s…a place to go when needed. More importantly, I doubt ye could even get out of this bed right now, let alone try to escape. Ye lost a great deal of blood.” He frowned and straightened the blanket around her.
“But I havena kidnapped ye for any wicked purpose. I simply couldna leave a woman alone on a dangerous country road bleeding her life’s blood into the dirt. Especially since I am responsible. I do have some morals. Not many, mind ye,” he said with a wink that made her smile despite the situation. “But a few. When ye are well, ye’ll have no need of escape. I’ll return ye to yer home. If I was going to kill ye, I wouldna bother healing ye first.”
How to Ensnare a Highlander (The MacGregor Lairds) Page 4