My Lord Highwayman

by Valerie King

  She saw that he did not want to discuss the matter further and so asked, “What is your name?”

  “Juan Miguel. But tell me, Miss Abigail, do you like being governess to Senorita Lavant?”

  “I do, very much, though I do not know how successful I am.”

  “Why do you say so?”

  She sighed, her thoughts dwelling on her pupil for a moment. “Because I cannot seem to reach her no matter how hard I try.”

  “You will succeed,” he stated. “I know you will.”

  “How you give me confidence,” she said, smiling. “There are some who are not so hopeful of my abilities.”

  “Such persons would be simpletons, or how you say, gudgeons, to not believe in you.”

  She laughed. “Perhaps.” She thought of Treyford’s dislike of her profession and could not help but ask, “What do you think of governesses? Generally, I mean.”

  “Governesses have a very difficult job, I think, but a noble one, no?”

  “I begin to like you,” she said.

  She could not be certain, but she thought she heard him choke a little, after which he cleared his throat several times.

  She looked up at him, uncertain even what to say. He was, after all, a stranger to her.

  “Are you content to be in England?” she asked at last.

  He glanced down at her and covered her hand with his own. “In this moment, walking with you beneath so many stars, I am happy beyond words, yet how do I explain this, I do not even know.”

  “I was thinking something very similar,” she murmured.

  “I have not known much contentment in my life,” he said softly.

  She loved hearing his voice, the accent that drifted over his words like honey. She felt she could listen to him forever. “Tell me of your life,” she prompted.

  He sighed deeply. “My father and my mother died when I was young, just a child. I inherited an estate that is dear to my heart. When I am away from it, I long for the land as though it were part of my soul. Can you understand?”

  She felt extremely sad suddenly. “I suppose I cannot quite comprehend your feelings. I have not had a home since I was fifteen. My father’s estate was entailed, and when he died, the whole of it went to a distant cousin who took no interest in me.”

  “I am sorry to hear it. The world can be a harsh place for a woman.”

  “Yes, but not less so for a man, I think. I know a great many second and third sons who are resigned to never taking a wife because their prospects are so dim. But tell me, do you not long to return to Spain?”

  “Every day that I am here.”

  “Then, why do you not book passage on a ship? I vow if I had a home waiting for me, I should leave on the instant.”

  He shook his head. “I would like to, but at present, my business is here—in Plymouth. You know well that my job, it is not finished. I made a promise to Mr. Clark. Besides, the thought of leaving makes me as sad as staying.”

  “Why? I should think nothing would give you greater pleasure.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Part of me does desire to be reunited with all that I love. But another part desires only to remain here . . . with you.”

  Abigail turned to look at him. “Because of me you desire to stay?”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Lord Treyford paused in his steps and possessed himself once more of both her hands. He looked down at her, letting his gaze drift from one beautiful feature to the next. Her face was only partially visible in the twilight, yet she was still so wonderfully exquisite. He did not understand why he was saying all that he was, nor was it that he meant to lie, precisely. Indeed, there seemed to be some strange part of him that meant all he had said to Miss Chailey. He had, indeed, been separated, if not from his lands, then from society, and he desired nothing more of the moment than to be with her. So, there was some essential truth in his speeches.

  She smiled in return, though he could see that she was perplexed by him, by what he had said to her. He squeezed her hands. “Do you not believe me, my beautiful Abigail?”

  “I do, which makes it all the more curious, I think, since I know so little of you.”

  “And why do you believe me, do you think?” He wondered what she would say to him. He was delighting in this conversation, so different from any he might have had with her at Oak Hill. He thought it an extraordinary opportunity to know her in this way, apart from her occupation at Oak Hill and his association with Lavant.

  She answered his question. “Because instinctively, I have a feeling about you, that I could trust you with my life.”

  These were powerful words and worked in Treyford like a fire. “This bonnet will not do,” he murmured. She did not move, nor protest in the slightest, when he began to tug on the ribbons tied beneath her ear. He wanted to see her hair dangling about her shoulders, to see her face more clearly, to tilt her head just so that he might kiss her again.

  Would she oblige him, he wondered as he carefully lifted the bonnet from her head.

  “You are trembling,” he whispered against her cheek, letting the bonnet dangle by the ribbons, then releasing them on the mossy turf below. “Do I frighten you?”

  “A little, but not as you might suppose,” she responded softly, her breath sweet on his cheek, for he had remained close to her. She settled a hand on his shoulder. “I am frightened by what I feel for you when I do not even know you. I fear I am overcome by your presence, by the poetry you sent me, by the memories of the last time I was with you.”

  “What do these things tell you?” he asked boldly, sliding a kiss across her cheek. He drew back and looked at her, waiting for her response. He was caught by her, by the expression of wonder on her face, by her beauty as well as her innocence.

  “That I am perhaps beginning to love you,” she whispered.

  His breath caught. He felt fiercely hungry as he looked down at her, as he spoke what he felt to be the truth of his own sentiments, careful to keep his ridiculous accent. “How happy I am that you came to me tonight. I feel changed when I am with you.” He leaned down and placed another kiss on her cheek. “Ah, but your hair, it will not do. Do I ask too much that you unloosen it for me?”

  Would she demur?

  She smiled faintly and lifted her hands to the knot of curls atop her head. She began tugging on the pins one by one, and when each was loose slipped them all into the pocket of her gown.

  He watched her perform this artless task and felt his chest swell with desire to hold her, to kiss her again. He would never have believed a governess would behave so freely. She seemed to surprise him at every turn. Was he falling in love with her as well?

  He recalled how much he had wanted to kiss her the night they played backgammon together. There was no doubt in his mind that for whatever reason, even though it seemed impossible, he was powerfully drawn to Abigail Chailey.

  She began pulling at her hair, and before long her coiffure had been transformed. Her thick auburn locks now dangled prettily upon her shoulders. A breeze swept her hair around her face. A primal feeling descended on him. He could not resist sliding his hands into her hair. Her face was still shadowed, but he knew every feature so well. Before he had formed the thought, he slanted a hard kiss over her lips. The faint moan that escaped her slaughtered any willpower he might have felt to restrain himself.

  He gathered her into his aims, encircling her forcefully. She slid an arm tightly around his neck. He kissed her wildly and had all the pleasure of feeling her impassioned response as she tugged on the hair at the nape of his neck.

  He deepened the kiss as he had the first night, exploring her tender mouth.

  “Juan,” she murmured against his lips.

  This wondrous, delightful creature. Where had she been all his life, and would she kiss him so passionately were he to approach her as mere Lord Treyford?

  She drew back suddenly. “I hear voices,” she whispered urgently. She rested her forehead against his shoulder. From the p
ath, a distant conversation reached him. “Miss Lavant,” she added. “You must hurry away and I must retrieve my bonnet.”

  “Beautiful Abigail,” he said in a hush against her lips. He kissed her one last time, then disappeared into the night.

  Abigail flipped her head forward and wrapped her long curls into a loose knot. With a few pins she secured her locks sufficiently to enclose them in her bonnet. She had just tied the ribbons and adjusted her shawl, when Miss Lavant appeared in the clearing, carrying a lantern.

  “Miss Chailey,” she said. “Are you well? I became frightfully worried when I found your lantern near the top of the path. Tell me you have not suffered injury.”

  “Indeed, I have not,” she answered brightly. “I am perfectly well, as you can see for yourself. Oh, hallo, Stockleigh. I feel wretched that I have disturbed you both.”

  “Papa insisted we fetch you. He reconsidered your walk and desired that we find you and bring you back at once.”

  “Well, I shan’t visit the moors at dusk again if doing so causes this much distress.”

  Miss Lavant hooked arms with her, guiding her back up the path. “I think that might be best. You cannot imagine how frightened I was. I began to fear you might have been devoured by wolves.”

  At that, Abigail chuckled. “Stockleigh, have there been wolves in the vicinity in recent years?”

  The good servant laughed as well. “Not in a century, I believe.”

  Miss Lavant sniffed loudly. “Wolves or not, something might have devoured you.”

  Abigail felt a blush steal up her cheeks. Something had devoured her, something wild, indeed.

  Six

  On the following day, Abigail was walking in the rose garden when Mr. Clark appeared bearing a parcel. He waved and smiled at her, then lifted the package by way of explanation.

  When he drew near, he said, “I have brought something for you, though I will admit to some reluctance, Miss Chailey, if you do not mind my saying so, for our mutual friend is not one recognized in the county as a particularly lawful citizen.”

  “I understand you,” she responded, her voice dropping to a whisper.

  He then extended the parcel to her. “He wished you to have this, though I must say I had some difficulty in thwarting Mr. Lavant’s attempts to discover the nature of the parcel, in particular, who it was from.”

  Abigail could only smile. “Did he torment you very severely?”

  “Only as much as is usual with him.”

  “Then, I must say, I hope he means to offer you a glass of sherry before you depart. If he offers tea, I would reject it immediately, for it is not a sufficient reward for your having been the brunt of his badgering.”

  He chuckled and turned to walk back to the house with her. She did not again refer to the parcel or to their mutual friend, but instead asked after his health, and the condition of his home garden, which she knew to be of paramount interest to him, and whether or not he spent a great many hours in preparing his sermons.

  “Not a great many,” he responded with a smile. “For I have a solemn rule by which I conduct my office as vicar—I deliver only the shortest of sermons.”

  She laughed, liking Mr. Clark very much indeed.

  After having shared a glass of sherry with both Mr. Clark and Mr. Lavant, and after having also ignored successfully all of Mr. Lavant’s provoking comments concerning the secretive parcel, Abigail escorted the vicar to the door.

  He picked up his hat from the nearby table and swept it onto his head, but a large volume of what appeared to be a white powder suddenly puffed down his face, over his hair, and onto his shoulders.

  “What the deuce—?” he said, sputtering as some of the substance shed onto his lips.

  “Oh, no,” Abigail muttered. She heard giggling and glanced up the stairs in time to see Miss Lavant disappearing at a run behind the corner of the hall. “Mr. Clark, I am so very sorry.”

  “I should have checked,” he grumbled, removing his hat. “I should have known better. Why did I think that since she now has a sensible governess she would have entirely curbed her impulses?”

  Abigail withdrew a kerchief from the pocket of her gown and worked to help him remove as much of the flour as possible before leaving the house. When he was gone, she turned toward the stairs, wondering just what she ought to do. She was quite discouraged by this most recent evidence that her charge was little more than a child emotionally. She would have to speak with her, but she felt certain Miss Lavant did not have ears with which to hear her strictures. Surely, there must be some way of reaching the young lady, and that before her come-out ball.

  For the present, however, she meant to ignore Miss Lavant’s absurd behavior. She took the parcel to her bedchamber, settled herself in a chair by the window, and unwrapped it greedily. The brown paper fell away from what proved to be a calfskin-bound volume of Lord Byron’s Corsair along with a pressed rose and a missive. She unfolded the note and quickly read the inscription. For Abigail. A lady whose heart belongs to the moon.

  Abigail felt a little dizzy as she read and reread this simple phrase. She smiled at the notion of her heart belonging to the moon, since she rather thought it was beginning to belong to the highwayman.

  She closed her eyes and sighed, remembering the kiss she had shared with her adventurer. He had invaded her dreams last night again, and she had awakened quivering with a need so deep she did not know how to express it in words. She did not understand what was happening to her or why she was suffering yet again from the pangs of love.

  Without warning, her heart seemed to collapse within her.

  She had spoken her heart truly when she had told the highwayman that she thought she might be tumbling in love with him. Yet, of what use could such a love possibly be, for how would she ever create a life with a highwayman? He was a foreigner and held lands in Spain to which he meant to return one day when his work in England was finished. How could she ever live in Spain? How had she permitted herself to begin tumbling in love with yet another outcast, a man who lived completely outside the King’s Law? When had she become a complete ninnyhammer?

  She slipped the pressed rose and the note into the book. Why was it that the harder she tried to fulfill her desire to become attached to a man who was already part of a community, the further she fell from her object? She simply did not understand the workings of her mind or her heart, which seemed forever at cross-purposes with her own soul.

  Well, there was certainly one very simple remedy for her situation—she did not have to see the highwayman ever again. After all, they had made no further assignation and should he attempt to arrange another, she would simply refuse.

  Three days later, Abigail repressed a deep sigh as she addressed her pupil. She was seated at a large desk at one end of the schoolroom while Miss Lavant stood at the opposite end. She had never known so much belligerence to reside in one creature as that which had taken possession of Sarah Lavant. For the past several minutes, she had been trying to persuade her how important it was to apply herself to her studies. Miss Lavant would have none of it, insisting that she had no use for such things to any meaningful degree. Since her come-out ball was arranged to a nicety, she preferred to spend the remainder of the day riding her horse about the moors.

  With her hands settled firmly on her hips, Miss Lavant argued, “The invitations have long since been sent, received, and responded to, my gown was ordered some time past and will be delivered within the next sennight, Cook and I discussed the menu for that evening, and the orchestra has been arranged, so I do not see your purpose here today, except perhaps to torment me.”

  Abigail knew she was losing this battle, but for the life of her, she could not think what else she might do to bring Miss Lavant around to her own thinking. She had tried every possible approach to motivate her young charge over the past several days. She had read what she believed to be fascinating passages from a variety of books, including Guy Mannering by the author of the Waverley Novel
s, yet nothing appealed to Miss Lavant.

  She had lectured her on how important it was to care for her mind, to develop the natural intelligence that had been given to her, that this was her duty to herself. She had promised to have Cook prepare her special macaroons if she would but practice the pianoforte in a disciplined manner for three days in a row. She had made a wager with her, setting as the stakes her own performance of some ridiculous prank if Miss Lavant would paint one picture with her watercolors and learn one country on the globe.

  So far, every line of attack had failed. Something within her pupil had shrunk and she could not seem to revive it.

  There had been a time when she had come across earlier work of Miss Lavant’s, tucked away in a trunk in the schoolroom. Miss Fursden’s hand had been evident in the fine quality of the papers she had reviewed, only what had been the key to achieving such a high level of accomplishment in the child?

  “I do not understand,” she stated softly, clasping her hands on the desk in front of her. “Can you explain why you dislike making even the smallest effort?”

  Surprising tears suddenly brimmed in Miss Lavant’s eyes as she met her gaze. She shook her head. “I do not know,” she said. “I desire to be different, yet I cannot bring myself to the task. I know you have begun to despise me—”

  “On no account.” she interrupted firmly, rising from her chair. “I could never despise you, Miss Lavant, not for any reason. We shall simply continue on together, and perhaps something will emerge that will fire your mind as it once was, in earlier times, when you were younger.”

  A sound of horses in the drive disrupted the moment. Miss Lavant ran to the window, then gave an unexpected squeal. Sticking her head out the window, she called out, “Uncle Trey. Mr. Ditchling.”

  Abigail could not quite hear the gentlemen’s responses. Indeed, she was scarcely listening, for her eyes were all for Miss Lavant and the extremely animated expression she now wore along with a pretty blush that had brightened her complexion.