A Hazard of Hearts

by Barbara Cartland

  Again his hand, soft and caressing, touched her throat and then slipped lower to the delicate laces at her shoulders.

  Serena twisted and writhed to be free, but she heard the lace tear, and now as the lantern light revealed the full beauty of her white skin, Lord Wrotham’s voice took on a thicker note.

  “You are lovely, Serena,” he said hoarsely. “Lud, but you are lovely.”

  It was then that Serena screamed, screamed despairingly, and even as she did so there was a sudden jerk.

  The coach pulled up and there was the sound of voices raised in altercation.

  “Dammit, what has happened?” Lord Wrotham exclaimed.

  But even as he asked the question the door was flung open. A masked face came into view and a voice, strong and resonant, called out,

  “Get out of there, and be swift about it!”

  Quickly Lord Wrotham bent forward towards the place under the seat where his pistols were concealed, but the highwayman anticipated him.

  “Do as you are bid,” he said gruffly, “or I will blow a hole through you.”

  There was nothing for it but for Lord Wrotham to alight, cursing beneath his breath. He stepped from the coach to see that his coachman on the box had his hands above his head and his two footmen behind were in a like position.

  “I have little money on me, fellow,” he said furiously, “but take my purse and be gone.”

  “So the gentleman is in a hurry,” the highwayman said mockingly. “Well, I am often pressed for time myself. Hand over your purse, your ring, your watch, and that gaudy pin in your cravat. Now for the lady.”

  He shot a sharp glance towards Serena, who had just descended.

  “She has no jewellery,” Lord Wrotham said abruptly.

  “Odd’s truth, but my luck is out tonight. A fancy mort like that ought to be stiff with gems. Are you too mean-pocketed to buy her a trinket or have you concealed the ware under the seat?”

  “I have told you, thief, that the Lady has no jewellery.”

  “Is the old gudgeon telling me a cock and bull?”

  The highwayman spoke to Serena. She was standing in the moonlight concerned only with the arrangement of her torn gown.

  Her arms were marked from Lord Wrotham’s fingers and there was a long red scratch low on her chest where in her struggles she had caught against one of the diamond buttons on his cuff.

  “It is the truth,” she answered quietly. “I have no jewels.”

  The highwayman stowed Lord Wrotham’s purse and his personal jewellery away in the deep pocket of his black coat.

  “No peck or blooze,” he jested. “I’ll hope for better luck next time.”

  “I hope I see you hanged by the neck for this, fellow,” Lord Wrotham said savagely. “And have we now your permission to proceed?”

  “At your convenience, my fine gentleman,” the highwayman said with mocking politeness.

  He stepped back a pace or two, still pointing his pistol.

  “Keep your arms raised,” he said to the coachman, “’til I am out of sight.”

  He swung himself onto his horse, which stood patiently waiting for him beneath a tree, and then, just as he was about to move off, Serena spoke.

  “Oh, wait,” she cried, “please wait.”

  He looked down at her in surprise.

  “Well, lady, what is it?” he asked.

  “Would you help me?” Serena asked. “This man – is abducting me. If you could only give me – the chance, I can escape him now.”

  Lord Wrotham moved forward and put a hand on Serena’s arm.

  “Good Lord, Serena, are you mad?' You cannot ask favours from a fellow like that.”

  “Better a thief,” Serena replied, “than a beast such as you, my Lord.”

  The highwayman looked from one to the other of them and then he laughed.

  “Here’s a queer rig!” he said. “Now what is it all about? Is it a fact, lady, that this swell mort is carrying you off against your will?”

  “Quite true,” Serena answered. “This gentleman,” and there was scorn in her voice, “has brought me away from Mandrake. You know the house – it cannot be far from here.”

  “Aye, I know Mandrake,” the highwayman answered. “Do I take it you wish to return there?”

  “Yes, if you please. I will walk there if you would be so obliging as to point me the direction and give me the chance to get away without the coach following me and – this gentleman capturing me again.”

  “It will take you some time on your trotters,” the highwayman said.

  “Enough of this nonsense,” Lord Wrotham interrupted angrily. “Serena, I command you to get back into the coach and not to bandy words with this common fellow. You will land yourself into far worse trouble if you throw yourself on the mercy of a road thief, a highwayman.”

  “Nothing could be worse than to be in your power, my Lord,” Serena retorted and, going up to the highwayman, she put her hand on his horse’s neck.

  “Please help me, sir,” she said.

  The moonlight was full on her face and she looked very young and childlike with her fair hair disarranged, one hand holding her torn white gown over her breasts. The highwayman stared and then threw back his head and laughed again.

  “’Tis the strangest request I’ve ever had from a lady, strike me if it isn’t. But who’ll dare say in future that a gentleman of the road can’t help a damsel in distress? I believe your story, lady, or at any rate I’ll take a chance on it. Can you ride pillion?”

  “Of course I can,” Serena answered.

  “Serena, you foolish chit,” Lord Wrotham cried. “Are you bereft of all your wits? This cursed fellow will never take you to Mandrake.”

  He stepped forward, but the highwayman’s pistol was pointing straight at his stomach and he stopped uncertainly.

  “The Devil take you then,” he swore.

  “You keep your break-teeth words to yourself,” the highwayman remarked, “or I’ll make you bleed freely of them. Stand back, gabster.”

  He dismounted and, still holding his pistol in his hand, lifted Serena and set her on his horse’s back. Then he sprang into the saddle again and Serena, reaching out her arms, placed them round his waist.

  The highwayman gathered up the reins, slipped his pistol into its bolster and took off his hat with a courtly bow.

  “A very goodnight to you, my Lord,” he said to the figure standing glowering beside the coach.

  “You will be deuced sorry for this madness, Serena,” Lord Wrotham called out furiously.

  Serena did not deign to make a reply.

  The highwayman spurred his horse and in a moment or two they were out of sight.

  Chapter Twelve

  It was extremely uncomfortable balancing herself somewhat precariously on the horse’s back, but Serena thought of nothing save escaping from Lord Wrotham and, when finally they were out of sight of the coach and the highwayman turned his horse away from the road to a grass path leading across some fields, she gave a deep sigh of relief.

  As if he heard her, the highwayman pulled at the reins and his horse dropped from a trot into a steady walk.

  “Has that knocked you, lady?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “No, I am all right,” Serena replied, “and I am vastly obliged to you, sir, for coming to my rescue.”

  “’Tis a bully jest,” he said, “for I had no thought till now of being of service to a lady such as yourself.”

  “Of great service, sir,” Serena answered.

  Even as she said the words she shuddered to think of what had befallen her when the highwayman stopped the coach.

  Her arms were badly bruised from the fierceness of Lord Wrotham’s hold, but worse than any pain she had been forced to endure had been the feeling of his fingers caressingly sensuous against her bare skin. Involuntarily at the memory she glanced over her shoulder.

  “They cannot catch us?” she questioned.

  “Nay, you are safe,” the
highwayman answered, “at least from that particular devil. But tell me, lady, are you not afeared of being with me? Those who pursue my trade have, I am told, none too savoury a reputation.”

  “I have nothing that you can steal,” Serena answered innocently.

  The highwayman laughed.

  “Methinks the gentleman in the coach was not after money, fair lady.”

  Serena felt her muscles grow tense.

  “I am prepared to – trust you, sir,” she said in a low voice.

  The highwayman was silent for a moment before he put up his hand and pulled the black handkerchief from the lower part of his face.

  “If you can trust me, lady,” he said, “I can trust you and this kerchief is making haste to stifle me.”

  He turned his head as he spoke, and Serena had a glimpse of coarse but not unkindly features. She saw too that he was a man nearing middle age, that there were streaks of grey in his hair and deep lines running from nose to mouth. His voice was rough and uncultured, but it had a humorous, rather pleasant note in it.

  He was well shaved and his coat, against which she was forced to lean when the horse trotted, smelt of tobacco and the fresh fragrance of the countryside. His linen was clean and there was nothing repulsive in being in such close proximity to him.

  Yes, she trusted him!

  Why, she could not be sure, but it was as instinctive as had been her loathing and distaste of Lord Wrotham, which had now been amply justified.

  They moved steadily forward, the bridle path ascending a sharp incline so that to Serena’s satisfaction the highwayman made his horse take its time and move slowly.

  It was not a cold night, but Serena, with nothing over her bare shoulders save her gauzy scarf and with her torn dress slipping a little with every movement, felt the light wind turn chilly and she shivered.

  “’Tis not over more than another two miles to Mandrake this way,” the highwayman said, as if he guessed her thoughts. “You will soon be home, lady.”

  Home! The word seemed to echo itself in her heart. Never had she believed that she would look on Mandrake as home or crave for the sight of the house because it stood for safety and security.

  Yet now she longed for it, but even as she thought of its massive solidity as a refuge, she remembered with an almost startling sense of dismay the way that Lord Wrotham had been able to abduct her.

  It was of the Marchioness’s contriving.

  That was clear enough, but bemused by the horror of Lord Wrotham’s advances and the disgust she had experienced at the feel of his hands, it was only now that she remembered she had been enticed from the drawing room by a false message given her by the footman on the Marchioness’s instructions. She had been guided to the coach by the Marchioness’s own personal servant.

  Clearly, as though someone had rung a bell in her ears, the pattern of the intrigue fell into place and Serena beheld the whole plot.

  Lord Wrotham, desiring her, had promised the Marchioness in payment for her, ten thousand guineas! Yes, that was the sum and she had been ‘the goods’ that Isabel had overheard spoken of in such a strange accent that the intonation had made her remember that she was eavesdropping. Ten thousand guineas, payable, of course, when she was in Lord Wrotham’s power and when, having forced her by such circumstances into marriage with him, he became possessed of her fortune as well as herself.

  It was a clever plan, clever indeed if it had succeeded, and there was no reason to think that it would not have been successful had not the unexpected intervention of the highwayman set all Lord Wrotham’s scheming awry.

  The Marchioness wanted the money. She had also wanted to be rid of a girl who threatened her son’s independence. It had indeed been an admirable scheme, killing two birds with one stone. Unfortunately, as far as the Marchioness was concerned, it had been unsuccessful. What would she say? What would she do when confronted by failure?

  Serena gave a little gasp at the thought. Here was a situation in which she could not expect the merciful intervention of a stranger.

  “Are you cold, lady?” the highwayman’s voice broke in on her thoughts.

  “A trifle,” Serena admitted, “but methinks it is likely to be caused more by fright than by the temperature of the air.”

  “Strap me not to have thought of it afore!” he exclaimed. “I have a medicine with me which will cure that ill. Steady, for I am going to dismount.”

  He drew up his horse and then, as Serena transferred her hands from his waist to the saddle, he swung himself to the ground. They had reached the summit of the small hill they had been climbing and now to the South of them Serena could see the silver line of the sea.

  “Mandrake is over there,” the highwayman said, pointing to the left where a thick wood of trees sheltered the house from view.

  “It is not far,” Serena said eagerly.

  “Not across the fields,” the highwayman answered. “Rufus and I usually know the shortest cuts.” He put out his hand and patted his horse, and then he drew a flask from its place in the saddle. “Step down, lady,” he said. “I am going to proffer you something to warm the cockles of your heart.”

  “I assure you that there is no need, sir, for such drastic measures,” Serena answered, but, as she shivered again, she changed her mind and let him assist her to the ground.

  The flask was a long one of thick glass. The highwayman drew the cork and passed the bottle to Serena.

  “Take a sip of this,” he said. “’Twill not harm you.”

  She took a sip. The flask was filled with a fiery spirit that seemed to scorch her throat, but instantly she felt the warmth within her body reviving her, driving away both her coldness and the sense of shock.

  “Again,” he commanded.

  She obeyed him and now she felt a sudden flush of colour in both her cheeks. She handed the flask back to him.

  “My most grateful thanks, kind sir.”

  “You are better?”

  “Much better. It is indeed a warming mixture.”

  He raised the flask to his own lips, throwing back his head and taking a deep draught.

  “A ball of fire,” he said, smacking his lips, “distilled in the vineyards of France and never a penny of duty paid on it.”

  He peered at her in the moonlight as if to see the effect of his words and then he laughed.

  “What rogues we be!”

  His laugh was infectious and Serena felt herself smiling in response.

  “Roguery is a dangerous trade, sir,” she said. “Are you never afeared that you will be captured?”

  “Afeared?” he questioned. “There are moments, no doubt, when I am hard pressed, when I wish I had chosen a less hazardous profession, but usually I am in luck’s way.”

  He crossed his fingers superstitiously and spat upon the ground.

  “’Tis never safe to boast,” he muttered, “and now, lady, in case yon amorous cheat has thoughts of revenge, we are wise to be on our way.”

  He set his hands on each side of her waist and swung her up onto the horse’s back.

  “Gawd’s truth, but you’re no weight,” he said and then he stood looking up at her. The moon was full on her face and he gazed at her for some moments. “’Tis no surprise that swell-bleater was overeager to be off with you,” he said. “You’re a pretty wench and a game pullet too.”

  “You are pleased to be complimentary, sir.”

  Serena smiled down at him and, as if he was suddenly aware of her regard, he put his hand up to his face.

  “Taking a hard look at me?” he asked. “Well, forget what you have seen. ’Tis dangerous for me to show my face to anyone, let alone to one of the gentry who have no reason to care for such activities as Rufus and I pursue.”

  “Do you think I would ever betray you after your kindness to me?” Serena asked. “I trusted you, sir, and you have paid me the compliment of trusting me. I shall ever be in your debt – for your kindness to me tonight.”

  The highwayman looked a
t her for a long moment. It seemed to Serena as if he was not only staring at her but looking back into his own past.

  Perhaps he was linking the two together, for there was an expression on his face such as made her think that he was recalling thoughts of something or someone that made his eyes grow tender and his mouth soft.

  Instinctively, because anyone in trouble drew her heart, Serena said softly,

  “You are lonely!”

  The highwayman sighed.

  “You remind me of someone, lady. She had hair the colour of yours. Gold like the wheat when it first ripens.” He sighed again and there was a deep hurt in his eyes.

  “Your wife, sir?” Serena asked.

  “My wife!” he answered. “Aye, Nellie was my wife for nigh on ten years.”

  “Did she – die?”

  “Nay! At times I think I could bear it better had she gone from me by death, but I lost her to another. To a gabster whom I would not soil my hands by throttling, a bagman, the type of cove who is only at his ease in a boozing den.”

  “Oh, but I am sorry for you!” Serena cried.

  “Maybe I was in part to blame,” the highwayman answered gruffly. “Maybe I was too content with my pretty Nellie and with my inn, yes, I was an innkeeper and a good ’un too and with the bag of gold under my mattress that grew fatter month by month. Respected I was and no man found me short or mean-pocketed. Then this mealy-mouthed fellow came snooping around. He had no oof. Why, the very bread he put into his mummer I paid for! And before I guesses what is up, off he lopes with my Nellie. Takes my gold with him too. That was cruel, to think she’d shown him where I hid it.”

  “It was cruel indeed,” Serena said.

  “I tried to catch ’em, lady, but the world is a big place. I was blue-devilled fierce and I’d have plugged him cold as a nail had I caught up on him. Then, as the months dragged on, I knew that Nellie was gone from me forever. I took to boozing, for what else is there ever for a lonely man to do with himself? Fierce I was often when the spirit was in me and one eve a squint-eyed cove got me pucker up. I let fly my fist at him and down he went for the count. Dead as a herring he was when they picked him up and it was out of the back door for me with only Rufus for company.”