My Lord Highwayman

by Valerie King

  “Tell me,” he whispered again. “I promise I shan’t quarrel with you.”

  She met his gaze and found that her knees were trembling. She still could barely breathe as she glanced at Frederick, who appeared to be arguing heatedly with a quite composed Henry Ditchling. “If you must know, I believe that is the reason,” she said in an undertone. She inclined her head slightly toward her former beau.

  Treyford glanced in the direction of the two men. “Ah, a tendency to argue his point into the ground.”

  “Not precisely, though I believe that is also one of his flaws. More at his inability to perceive that Mr. Ditchling would make an excellent friend were he of a mind to court a friendship now and then.” Mr. Ditchling said a few quiet words, bowed politely, and strolled away in the direction of Treyford’s sister.

  “I wonder why Mr. Pomeroy looks like a veritable crosspatch? Oh, no, he is coming this way.” She sighed again. “I suppose now I must speak with him privately.”

  “I shall be nearby if you need me, as you did last time.”

  She glanced at him, a little surprised that he would refer to her encounter with Laurence, in which her former beau would not release her from a rather impassioned embrace. Treyford’s eyes danced with suppressed laughter.

  She replied in a like playfulness, “Since you have been so unkind as to have mentioned the matter, then, my lord, I do depend upon your standing ready.”

  At that, he laughed and took up a nearby fishing rod. “Romeo approaches,” he murmured.

  “Hush,” she returned.

  Abigail’s concern proved correct. Frederick did indeed wish to have a little private conversation with her. Taking her arm, he guided her down the path that led away from the party and into a nearby wood.

  “Frederick, I wish you had not come to Devonshire,” she began immediately.

  “These are not hopeful words,” he returned, trying for a light tone.

  “I feel I should speak plainly. I do not wish you to be misled. When I broke our engagement, I did not mean for you to conclude that were you to change, I would be interested in resuming our relationship.”

  “I am not misled in this fashion. I made some changes because it pleased me. Your words still sting a little, that I consider myself above the average Englishman, which is not in the least true.”

  “Let me ask you something. How did you enjoy conversing with Mr. Ditchling? Did you not think him an agreeable man?”

  At that, Frederick stopped midstride and turned toward her. “I must confess that I do not see what this has to do with you and me.”

  “A great deal, I think, if you will but humor me. Tell me your impressions of Mr. Ditchling.”

  Frederick seemed bemused. “He was rather opinionated, I thought, and certainly had no grasp whatsoever on the importance of Leigh Hunt’s work.”

  She waited for him to continue, but evidently this was all he had to say on the subject. “Nothing more?”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “How very odd,” she mused. “Because my reaction to him has been so very different. I have come to think of him as one of the finest gentlemen I have ever known. I am hoping we will form a lasting friendship.” She knew she was challenging him, but she found herself irritated by Frederick’s high tone. He seemed completely unaware of his general arrogance.

  “I see what it is. You are viewing him from a woman’s perspective. You cannot possibly expect me to perceive another man as you might.”

  “Frederick, that is precisely the point. You and I think so differently.”

  “You are greatly mistaken, Abigail. You have simply never known your own mind. But I know it. I have known it these three years and more. Why do you think you could not wed Carter or Ferrers—because you cannot forget me. But I am here now.” An odd light entered his eye. He glanced up and down the path somewhat furtively. Taking a step closer, he said, “You have always put a fire in me, Abigail. How I have missed you. How I have longed for this moment, to see you again and to make your mind clear to you at last. You will come back to Lincolnshire with me tonight, even this very day.”

  “Frederick!” she cried, dumbfounded. She did not understand in the least how he could believe anything he had just said.

  “I have my answer!”

  She was trapped in his arms before she knew what he was about. He covered her face with kisses, all the while professing how much he loved her, how much he needed her, how he would not leave Devonshire without her.

  “Frederick,” she complained between assaults.

  “Yes, dearest. How I love to hear my name on your lips.”

  “Oh, do stop. I . . . ” Her words died as he covered her mouth with his. She struggled against him, trying to push him away. “Oh.”

  “What the devil,” he shouted, as he was pulled backward.

  Abigail found herself released from the prison of his arms quite abruptly. “Oh. Treyford. No.”

  Before she could protest further, Frederick lay on the wooded path, blood seeping from his nose.

  “You have drawn his cork,” she stated.

  Frederick drew a kerchief from the pocket of his coat and pressed it against his nose. He sat up, eyeing Treyford with hostility. “What the deuce do you mean, interfering like that?”

  “The lady did not seem to be enjoying your attentions, sir.”

  At that, Frederick turned to look up at Abigail. “Tell him the truth. Apprise him of the foolishness he has committed. Inform him of our present betrothal.”

  Abigail felt there was nothing for it but to range herself alongside Treyford, as she had done with Laurence. She even possessed herself quite firmly of his arm. “You were not heeding me properly, Mr. Pomeroy, and though I am reluctant to say so, I beg you will leave this instant and not return. You have mortified me to no small degree, and I vow I shall never forgive you for this insult. I think you an arrogant, ridiculous man. Go now, before Mr. Lavant learns of your conduct and summons the constable.” She had no idea if such a course of action was within the scope of the law, but it seemed to have the impact she desired.

  Mr. Pomeroy paled. “Are these truly your sentiments? You wish me to leave? You think me ridiculous?”

  Abigail felt it useless to attempt either tact or compassion with him, so she spoke plainly. “Generally, yes, I do. And particularly in this moment, absolutely ridiculous.”

  Mr. Pomeroy stared at her from his sitting position for a moment. He dabbed at his swelling nose several times and finally rose to his feet. What dignity he possessed, he summoned, holding himself erect. He begged her pardon quite formally, bowed to Lord Treyford, and began a brisk if unsteady walk back up the path toward the stream. His coat was strewn with dead leaves and twigs.

  Abigail was shaken by the whole experience, especially because Treyford had actually planted her would-be beau a facer. She did not wish to return to the party just yet.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She nodded. “Yes, but if you would remain here with me for a time, I would be most grateful.”

  “Of course.”

  She released his arm and moved away. “I suppose I must thank you, again, for aiding me with yet another hapless suitor. I cannot imagine what you must think of me now. I had not seen Mr. Pomeroy in over three years. I still cannot credit that he sought me out as he did.”

  He smiled faintly. “You certainly are able to arouse strong sentiments in the hearts of your admirers.”

  She turned toward him, meeting his gaze boldly. “Are you mocking me?” she queried, searching his green eyes.

  “On no account,” he returned, a curious frown between his brows. He took a step toward her, his gaze scanning her face. “In fact, I find myself intrigued. Perhaps it is your beauty that affects your suitors so deeply.”

  “What an odd thing to say,” she murmured. She took a small step backward. Still, he came toward her.

  “You are also intelligent. Beauty and intelligence combined. That is a
heady combination for any man.”

  She felt caught by his words and by the expression on his face. “Th-thank you,” she responded, feeling suddenly breathless. When he took another step toward her, she again moved backward.

  “I am curious, Miss Chailey,” he said, his voice low.

  “About what?” she queried, her heart racing. She knew what he intended. She had been kissed many times, and this man wished to kiss her. Should she let him, though? That was the question.

  “How do you make so many men tumble in love with you?”

  She shook her head. “Now you are being absurd.” She took another step backward and felt the trunk of a tree touch her heel, then her back. She was trapped, but this time in the nicest way.

  He drew very close so that he was but a breath away. She should slip away from him, for she knew what he wanted of her, but still she did not move. Oh, dear, it would appear she desired Treyford to kiss her. She could not account for her unwillingness to leave otherwise.

  In a burst of clarity, she understood she had been wishing for this moment ever since the first night she played backgammon with him in Lavant’s drawing room. From that time, her admiration of him had grown in quick stages, so much so that save for his unhappy relationship with Lady Waldron, she had come to respect him deeply.

  Even then, as she looked into his eyes, she desired nothing more than to share a kiss or two with him. “I would kiss you,” he whispered, his gaze raking her face intensely.

  “I desire it as well,” she responded.

  His lips were suddenly on hers. She closed her eyes and the woods disappeared entirely. In its place were the moors, and it was not day but night.

  She felt as though the highwayman were kissing her again.

  But this was not the highwayman, this was Lord Treyford, the man who had brangled with her, one word out of two, ever since her arrival at Oak Hill. She slid her arm around his neck and gave kiss for kiss. She was in a timeless place where only the feel of his lips against hers made even the smallest sense.

  She slipped her fingers into his hair, and he pulled her more tightly to him. How expertly he gentled his lips over hers in a series of wonderful kisses that suddenly felt very familiar.

  Once more, thoughts of the highwayman intruded, of kissing him, of being alone with him in the darkened folly at the edge of the lake. Was she with the highwayman now? Yes. No. Her thoughts would not order themselves. She must be kissing the highwayman. She felt as she had thrice before when in his arms, as though she had found a place so safe, so warm, and so splendid that she never wanted to leave.

  Her heart began to thrum to the gentle assault of his kiss. Happiness flooded her as she had never known before.

  How odd. She had been kissed so many times before, but never as the highwayman kissed her. What about him seemed to reach so deeply into her soul? She could not fathom the effect he had upon her.

  “Abigail.” Treyford’s voice was barely a whisper, then he kissed her.

  Treyford.

  She kissed him in return.

  Why was Treyford’s voice in her ear?

  She was kissing Treyford.

  No, she was kissing the highwayman.

  No, Treyford.

  Treyford.

  Her mind slipped back to the present. How wonderfully Treyford kissed her, so very much like the highwayman. Her lips parted as a soft oh escaped her throat. His tongue drove into her mouth. Desire flooded her. Something within her mind was trying to rise to the surface, something she already knew yet could not bring herself to know.

  She ignored the flittering warnings of her mind. She leaned into Treyford, suddenly wishing that he might go on kissing her forever.

  “Abigail.” He spoke her name once more, gently against her lips. “I have wanted to kiss you for such a long time.”

  “Yes,” she murmured. “Ever since we played backgammon.”

  “Yes, ever since then.” He pressed her against the tree and she moaned softly. She could feel the strength of his thighs as he kissed her deeply once more.

  “Trey,” she whispered.

  “You spoke my name,” he said, kissing her cheek, her chin, her neck just below her ear.

  She slid her arms around his shoulders and held him fast. “Trey, never let me go,” she whispered. “If I should run from you, you must follow after me.”

  “I will always follow after, make no mistake.” He kissed her very hard.

  A distant voice intruded, “Miss Chailey. Where are you?” Sarah was calling for her.

  She was not Miss Chailey of the moment. She was the daughter of the moon. Treyford did not release her, but pressed his lips against hers once more, the passion of his kiss intensifying. She clung to him wantonly.

  “Abigail,” he whispered, again piercing her mouth with his tongue.

  “Miss Chailey.” Sarah’s voice was nearer now.

  Abigail pushed gently against his chest.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Treyford drew back reluctantly. He felt dazed. He knew Sarah was calling to her governess, but he did not want to stop kissing Abigail. He felt as though he were drowning in the passion of her. Her eyes were still closed and her hands had slid over his lapels. She held them fast. He covered her hands with his. He could not take his gaze from her face. She was so beautiful, especially now, with her features love-drenched as they were.

  “Miss Chailey?”

  Treyford drew back, stepping onto the wooded path. “She is here, Sarah.”

  Abigail heard Treyford’s voice, but she could not seem to awaken from the impassioned trance into which he had put her. Only slowly did she begin to open her eyes. She was leaning against a tree. How did she get there?

  Oh, yes, Treyford had knocked Frederick down and then he had begun speaking to her and she had walked backward into a tree. Then she had let him kiss her.

  For a moment, especially early on, she had felt as though she had been kissing the highwayman. But it was only Treyford. What an odd sensation.

  He was looking up the path and running a hand through his hair. “Miss Chailey is just here. She was, er, a little overcome by the heat.”

  He turned to look at her, and for the barest moment, she knew the strongest desire to cast herself once more into his arms, to demand he kiss her again. If Sarah were not nearly upon them, she would have done just that. What sort of man was he that he could command her in this way, to make her desire him as she was? Never, among all the numerous gentlemen she had loved, had she ever felt so passionate in just kissing a man.

  “Miss Chailey, there you are. Oh, I say, you are not well. Your color is very high. Have you a fever?”

  She shook her head, feeling very confused. “No, but I think I should sit down and perhaps have a glass of lemonade. The heat of, er, walking as we were, seemed to overtake me.”

  Sarah slipped her arm around her waist. “You must allow me to support you. Papa has been asking for you. He wanted you to know that Mr. Pomeroy left. The poor fellow’s nose had begun to bleed quite badly. He said it was an affliction from which he suffered upon occasion. Papa asked him to return for dinner, but he said he was not staying in Three Rivers Cross, that he was engaged to meet friends in Plymouth and would be leaving shortly. Papa was horrible, though, for he apparently did not believe anything Mr. Pomeroy said to him and laughed at him during the entire time he spoke. Poor Mr. Pomeroy. You do not think Papa frightened him away, do you?”

  “No,” Abigail said. “Of that I am certain.”

  She glanced at Treyford, who also walked beside her. He caught her eye and smiled quite wickedly. In that moment, something very warm and wonderful surrounded her heart, filling her with a sensation she had never experienced before.

  Twelve

  On Tuesday evening, Abigail sat beside Mr. Lavant in the assembly room above the Mermaid Inn. Her gaze was pinned anxiously to the sight of Treyford attempting to ask the neighborhood families once more to help Mr. Clark in completing the orphanage.
His sister was situated beside him in her Bath chair, also appearing concerned. Gathered in the long, rectangular chamber were Three Rivers Cross’s finest families.

  Abigail was not hopeful. Treyford’s arrival had been met with shocked gasps, stares, and murmurings. Very few people had stepped forward to greet him, although several of the matrons politely smiled and bowed to Elizabeth.

  As Treyford began presenting his cause, Abigail saw in not one countenance a happy response to the pressing need he was elaborating with great dignity and eloquence.

  “I do not understand,” she whispered to Mr. Lavant. “Why will no one soften their hearts toward the need for the orphanage?”

  He inclined his head toward Lady Waldron.

  Henrietta Waldron wore an expression on her face so near a scowl that she appeared to be a matron of past sixty rather than in her forties, as Abigail knew her to be. Abigail watched for a long while as the baronet’s wife never let her gaze drift from Treyford. In all her listening, her expression never altered; implacable resentment lived within the lady.

  Abigail was struck by the baroness’s purposeful dislike of Treyford. Even from her own arrival in Three Rivers Cross, Abigail had been apprised of Lady Waldron’s sentiments. For twenty years the lady had set herself against Treyford and had somehow persuaded not just her husband to remain engaged against him but most of the families as well. Twenty years.

  Abigail tilted her head. She recalled something Mr. Lavant had said to her some time ago about Lady Waldron and a possible attachment to Treyford. Stranger things had occurred, only how was she to discover the truth? And even if she knew the truth, of what use would it be to her?

  “In short,” Treyford was saying, “with but modest contributions from each family present, Mr. Clark will have realized his dream and Three Rivers Cross will have its orphanage.”

  Mrs. Marisfield immediately rose to her feet. “I should be happy to contribute fifty pounds, Treyford.”

  He smiled at her. “I cannot accept your offer,” he responded swiftly. “You have given far too much already.”