The Highwayman's Bite

by Brooklyn Ann

  Then Vivian’s musing ceased as she thought of another implication within her companion’s statement. “He is indeed strong. Did you see that he doesn’t have his own horse?”

  Madame Renarde nodded. “I’d wondered how he was able to rob carriages and get away without one. And how he took those trunks.” She muttered something in French too low for Vivian to hear and then suppressed another cough with her handkerchief. “Perhaps he steals the horses from all of the people he robs and just releases them when they’ve served their purpose.”

  “That must be the explanation,” Vivian said, and rose from her cot to fill the tea kettle with one of the jugs of water Rhys kept. Nothing else would make any sense. Yes, she did picture the highwayman running with heavy trunks on his shoulders as easily as if they were loaves of bread, but that had to be because she was going mad from being imprisoned by an outlaw. A handsome, charming outlaw, but a criminal all the same. Just because they were his prisoners and under his control did not mean she needed to give him more power in her imagination. “Do you suppose we should look for a way to escape while he is gone?”

  Madame Renarde shook her head. “I’ve already looked. The cave has no other exit and the door is impenetrable. He has this cave sealed better than some prisons I’ve seen.”

  At any other time, Vivian would have asked her to elaborate on said prisons, but current circumstances captivated her attention. She set the kettle on the grate above the fire. “Then where does that occasional breeze come from?”

  “I’ll show you.” Madame Renarde took one of the lanterns and led her to the back of the cave. She then turned a corner into a space Vivian hadn’t noticed when she’d been in this section looking at newspapers.

  “My goodness,” Vivian breathed as they walked into a narrow shaft. Unlike the slate gray rock of what she’d been referring to as the “living area,” this part of the cave was infused with veins of quartz and some other glittering crystal. Long pointed columns of rock hung from the ceiling like deadly icicles. Despite the danger, the sight was beautiful.

  Madame Renarde lifted the lantern and pointed. “There is an opening in the top of the cave. Can you see the stars? That’s why the cave doesn’t fill with smoke from the fire.”

  Vivian nodded. The hole was too high up for them to climb, and even then, it appeared to be too narrow for a person to fit through. She rubbed the back of her neck. It had gotten sore from craning it. She saw that cunning little shelves had been carved into the walls of this part of the cave as well. Little wooden figures lined the stone surfaces, gathering dust.

  “Look at these,” she said and lifted a wooden cat that was so expertly carved that it looked like it could nuzzle her and purr at any moment. “Do you think he carved these?”

  Madame Renarde inspected an owl, humming in appreciation. “He should sell them.”

  “He truly should.” Vivian agreed. “Since we can’t escape, perhaps we should persuade him to turn to honest work.”

  “That’s a lovely thought, but this man is too stubborn to see reason.” The companion smiled sadly. “He is hell-bent on coercing that money from your uncle.”

  “I cannot believe that Uncle refused to pay him.” A fresh hurt pierced her heart. “Do you suppose he does not care for me?”

  Madame Renarde shook her head. “No, Cherie. He adores you. It is only that he suffers from the same unyielding pride as Rhys. He is used to having his way and thinks that this highwayman is a feeble enemy, easily defeated.”

  The tea kettle whistled, and they returned to the living area of the cave. While the tea steeped, Vivian cursed this male pride that caused her to be held like a bone before slavering hounds. “And do you think Uncle will find us?”

  Madame Renarde frowned as she poured their tea into heavy clay mugs that were more fitting for ale. “No, Cherie, I do not. This Rhys is as clever as he is determined. From the look of these shelves and figures he’s carved, and the door he built for this cave, I can see that he has been here for a long time and survived in comfort while countless authorities are already doubtless hunting for him. Your uncle is cunning, but he is still an aristocrat, accustomed to a life of comfort and ease. That hinders his imagination.”

  Vivian blew on her tea to cool it. “I have a feeling we shall be here a long while then.”

  “As do I.” Madame Renarde said. “We may as well make the best of it. At least he has sugar.”

  They sipped their tea in pensive silence.

  She wanted to hate him, but she couldn’t. His noble reason for abducting them, coupled with the fact that he truly did not want to hurt them wore away at any animosity she could muster. He was like Robin Hood, stealing from the rich to give to the poor, only even more endearing since he stole to keep his own family from being thrown out of their home.

  What was Rhys’s family like? Vivian couldn’t help pondering the question. Did they know he was a highwayman? Did they worry when he was away from them? Was that where he was now?

  As if summoned by her thoughts, the round oak door swung open and Rhys strode in, bearing a large stuffed sack over one shoulder and a bundle of firewood on the other. Heavens, he was strong indeed. Vivian became possessed by a mad urge to grasp his bicep and feel those muscles capable of bearing such weight.

  She looked down at her tea to hide her blush.

  Rhys set down the firewood and sat on the cot opposite her. “I come bearing victuals,” he said merrily and opened the sack.

  As he brought out bread, crocks of butter, cream, cheese, and small barrels of salt meat, fish, honey, and even some sweets, Vivian looked at him in wonder. Villains in novels did not keep their victims in cozy places and provide them every comfort possible. They threw their prisoners in dark, damp dungeons and fed them gruel. Villains did not joke with their captives and take them riding, or teach them how to swear like a dockworker. They did not reveal that they were too soft to be cruel.

  Rhys grinned at her and reached into the sack like someone presenting a gift on Christmas morning. “And finally, I was able to procure the latest issues of the Much Hoole paper, so we can read more ‘Two Hills’ stories.”

  Vivian couldn’t fight an answering smile. Villains were not kind.

  But if Rhys was not a villain, what was he?

  Chapter Twelve

  Only three nights had passed since Aldric sent his fiery retort to the kidnapper’s demands. Now he’d come to regret it.

  He’d scoured all of Blackpool and every surrounding town and borough and hadn’t found a trace of his missing niece or her companion.

  The kidnapper was far cleverer than Aldric had anticipated. None of the farmers had any knowledge of the situation in their minds as he’d crept into their rooms and fed on their blood and memories.

  The Horne widow at Berwyn Farm had given him a stab of remorse, as her thoughts were consumed with how she’d break the news to her children that they were to be evicted. Nightmares taunted Aldric’s day rest. What if the criminal had given up on the chance of ransom money and slit Vivian’s throat and tossed her into the sea?

  Had Aldric’s pride and anger killed his niece?

  Things were not supposed to have gone the way they had. The whistling drunk should have been the kidnapper, but the scent of the man had been all wrong, along with the lack of recognition in his eyes.

  And while Aldric had been occupied questioning the drunk, the man he was after managed to seize the note Aldric had written and flee the area.

  The question was, did the kidnapper arrange for the drunk to wander in and keep Aldric occupied, or had he merely taken advantage of the situation? Aldric should have fed from the man and read his thoughts to see if he’d been complicit, but he’d been so enraged by the fact that the kidnapper had swept right under his nose and back out again that he’d instead chased after the criminal in a fruitless pursuit.

  By the time he returned to the cemetery, the drunk had wandered off.

  Next time—if there was a next time�
��Aldric wouldn’t let himself be taken in like that.

  When the butler delivered his mail, Aldric’s breath caught as his gaze lit on an envelope with no return address.

  Apparently, the next time had arrived.

  Aldric tore open the envelope like a man possessed. Inside was a folded square of foolscap and a lock of Vivian’s hair. Disregarding the note, he seized the severed bit of dark tresses and brought it to his nose. Aside from his niece’s scent, all Aldric could detect was a thick reek of wood smoke, a slight tang of salty sea air, and the vague essence of leather.

  Blast it! The whoreson had worn gloves.

  However, that evidence gave him pause. Had the kidnapper known that he had to conceal his scent, or had he simply been cold? The smoke smell indicated that he was either holding his captives outdoors, or in close quarters, perhaps a small cottage.

  Aldric inhaled the lock of hair once more, straining his preternatural senses for more clues. There was a decided lack of fear sweat, which at least reassured him that Vivian and her companion were unharmed. He also thought he detected something unidentifiable, yet familiar, but that was likely wishful thinking.

  With a sigh of disappointment, Aldric unfolded the letter.

  Bury the money beneath the stone angel in the Wigleigh Priory cemetery in Mythop at noon on Saturday. Or next time, I’ll send you her finger.

  “You’ll do no such thing,” Aldric muttered. If Vivian’s captor had any inclinations to violence, the scent of terror would be soaked in both her hair and the paper. He sniffed the foolscap and detected the same permeating smoke, cheap ink, leather, and again something familiar that he wished he could place.

  Of course, there was no way for Aldric to do what the kidnapper wished anyway. The noon sunlight would scorch him to a crisp. It was the one advantage that humans had over Aldric’s kind. But why cemeteries in isolated villages? At first Aldric had assumed Vivian was being held somewhere near Wrea Green, the first place he’d been directed to go with the money. But he’d scoured the area and found no scent of Vivian.

  Aldric rose from his desk with a sigh and left his study. He’d wanted to keep this disastrous mess quiet, but it was now maddeningly apparent that this was a problem he could not resolve on his own. He descended the stairs and went out the front door with a quick nod to his butler, who regarded his departure with indifference. His servants were quite accustomed to the viscount’s unusual comings and goings.

  His first stop was the home of his second in command. Alas, Bonnie was not home. He found her at Gordon’s Pub, sipping ale and laughing at a group of sailors telling bawdy jokes. Her mirthful grin vanished the moment she spotted Aldric and she excused herself and took her ale to a table in the corner.

  Aldric sat across from her and spoke low. “My niece has been abducted.”

  Bonnie’s eyes widened. “I thought she was visiting a friend in Manchester.”

  “If the truth gets out, her reputation will be ruined, and no man will marry her.” The explanation sounded so petty when he voiced it aloud.

  “Ah.” Bonnie nodded, though there was a note of disapproval in her tone. “I forget that blue-blooded females have to be sheltered from the world to be worthy of a man’s attention.”

  Aldric rubbed his temples and tried to conceal his irritation. He did not have time to debate society’s treatment of women, even if he did agree with Bonnie’s opinions most of the time. Why else would she be his second in command? But now he needed to devote his attention to finding the cad who held Vivian in his filthy grasp. He reached in his desk and withdrew the first ransom letter from his pocket. “I found this in my carriage five nights ago. The bloody fiend somehow drugged my coachman and stole the horses and my niece and her companion.”

  “That sounds like the operation of more than one man.” Bonnie read the letter with a frown. “Why didn’t you just give him the money?”

  “Because I am not about to let a foolish mortal turn a profit by crossing me.” Aldric hid his surprise at the assumption that he was only dealing with one man. He’d been so blind with rage that the logistics of the actual abduction hadn’t been processed. “If our people hear of it, they’ll lose all respect for me. Besides,” he continued with increasing confidence. “With you and a few other good vampires, we should easily be able to track him down and make him pay.”

  “Would you like me to call a Gathering?” Bonnie asked. “With the whole network on the hunt, we should locate your niece in a trice.”

  “No.” Aldric was not ready to let all his vampires hear that a human had stolen Vivian out from under his nose. “I wish for this matter to remain between us. I will write a writ of passage and I want you to travel the surrounding territories to the south and see if you can sniff her out while I do the same north.” He handed her the lock of Vivian’s hair. “This is her scent.”

  Bonnie took the dark lock of hair and bowed. “Yes, my lord.”

  When she departed, Aldric buried his face in his hands. Was he a fool to leave Vivian and her companion at the mercy of their kidnapper? What if he was wrong and the man or men would resort to violence? Would he truly receive his niece’s severed finger next time?

  He ran his hands through his unfashionably long hair and clenched his jaw. No, he had no choice but to embark on this course. For what he’d told Bonnie was the unvarnished truth.

  If other vampires thought Aldric was weak, someone would move on him soon and try to take over his territory. As it was, he’d heard rumblings of disapproval from some about Aldric allying with the interim Lord Vampire of London and becoming involved in his civil war three years ago.

  But in the end, Aldric felt he’d made the right decision in bringing his pitiful small force to aid England’s most powerful vampire. Blackpool may be a small territory, but hopefully the courage and strength of his people would be remembered.

  Furthermore, the Lord of London had returned the favor in many ways, the least of which being ensuring Vivian’s safety throughout her three failed London Seasons—a feat that Aldric himself had failed.

  On his way home, his imagination tormented him of visions of Vivian’s fear and suffering.

  “My poor dear,” he whispered. “I will bring you home safe and not rush in marrying you off. Instead I will find you a husband that will be kind and gentle to you, for you’ve surely suffered enough.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The past three nights had been a revelation for Rhys. For the first time in decades, being consumed by this mission to save Berwyn Farm while at the same time evading legitimized vampires who hunted rogues for sport did not consume his waking existence. Those things still weighed heavily on his mind, of course, but now he’d also found laughter, companionship, and intellectual stimulation.

  After he hunted in the evenings, Rhys would take Vivian and Madame Renarde outside to the beach to walk or ride. Vivian delighted in collecting seashells and Rhys taught her and her companion to skip rocks.

  They also practiced fencing with sticks they’d snapped off a tree. Rhys later straightened them with his carving knife. He spent many hours leaning against a rock, watching Madame Renarde teach Vivian new steps and maneuvers. Renarde’s knowledge impressed him. Rhys himself had learned in his mortal days as a privateer. The captain was insistent on every member of the crew knowing their way around a blade. That had saved his life and countless others.

  After he’d become a vampire, he’d honed his skill by sparring with other vampires who could fence, his preternatural abilities opening him up to new and innovative techniques. Thinking of transformations, Rhys wondered if Renarde had learned to fence before or after she’d made the decision to live as a woman. Likely before, as most men were against teaching a woman swordplay.

  He’d tried to glean information about the eccentric companion’s past, but Renarde remained close-mouthed and always redirected the conversation back to him. For his safety as well as theirs, Rhys couldn’t talk about his past. He did reveal that he’d onc
e been a privateer, leaving out that it had been back in the late 1600’s.

  “Ah,” Renarde had said, “That’s why you’ve done such efficient work on securing this cave. You’ve designed it like a ship.”

  Vivian had favored him with a heart-stopping smile. “You’re remarkable with carving things. The animals are beautiful. Did you cut all these shelves too?”

  “Yes.” The compliment had warmed him all over. “As a—an outlaw, I am forced to spend long hours in this cave. I had to find something to occupy the long hours. You may choose one, if you like... both of you,” he added at the companion’s sharp look.

  Madame Renarde shook her head. “A lady is not permitted to accept gifts from a gentleman unless she is to marry him.”

  He’d laughed. “I am no gentleman.”

  Vivian had bounded to the shelves where he kept the wooden figures. “I hardly think the rules apply in our circumstances.”

  She’d selected a hawk he’d carved, its wings spread, and its beak open as if to emit a defiant screech.

  “What made you choose that one?” he’d inquired, surprised that she hadn’t preferred the puppy or the hummingbird.

  “It looks so free and fearless,” she’d said with a musing smile as she’d stroked the talons. “No one could keep it locked away.”

  Madame Renarde offered no explanation for the sculpture she chose aside from, “I like owls.”

  Between the walks outside and practice with swordplay, they’d occupied themselves reading through the stories of “Two Hills.” Some supernatural elements had appeared in the serial, with Constable Daleson dreaming of otherworldly beings. Madame Renarde opined that they were only dreams, while Vivian speculated that they were demons, and Rhys was convinced that they were fey creatures from Underhill.