Henriette sighed. She did not like to admit it, but having Constance with her in her room was cramping her style. Had she been alone, she might have found a gentleman to while away the time. Still, she liked Constance and thoroughly sympathized with her desire to put as much distance between herself and Hugh as possible.
And so the big coach that left York next day lurched along, its driver little dreaming that he carried one more passenger than he had bargained for.
Her last day on the coach was in many ways the worst. They were two days out of Lincoln, riding south on the Great North Road, when they had a day such as coach drivers dreaded. Everything went wrong. First a wheel came loose and had to be repaired in a tiny hamlet.
Henriette, who had pretended ill health throughout the journey, promptly demanded a room at the only inn “to rest,” and insisted her wicker trunk of “necessaries” be brought up.
Constance, glad of the respite, crawled out of the wicker basket and threw herself across the hard mattress to rest until someone knocked on the door to tell them the coach was ready to leave. Tired to her bones from this difficult journey, she listened dimly to Henriette’s steady tide of conversation.
“There is a tax collector on the coach,” Henriette tittered. “A dried-up old goat! I asked him if he carried much gold and he looked shocked. But I think he fancies me!” She twirled her fan.
“Who else is on the coach?” mumbled Constance. “I thought I heard women’s voices.”
“Oh, a mother and daughter on their way to London to receive an inheritance. Their noses twitch like rabbits and they are very lofty with me because I am a mere governess! And an old gentleman from Leeds who will leave the coach at Peterborough, he tells me. He sits slumped over, rather like a large gander—and waddles when he walks. I think he is well past it! They are not the best of companions.” She sighed gustily.
“Perhaps you will do better when we reach Peterborough,” Constance consoled her.
The wheel fixed, the coach rolled on—only to have trouble again and with the same wheel. They stopped again, this time for supper, and the fuming driver informed them that to make his schedule they’d have to be on the road later than he liked.
It was growing dark when they left the roadside tavern that had supplied them with supper, and to the driver’s immense relief, the moon came up and shed a clear white light over the road ahead. He drove cautiously, trying to miss the deeper ruts, lest the wheel come loose again—for he had no faith in the competence of the last man who had fixed it.
Stowed in her wicker basket atop the coach, trying to brace herself against sickening jolts that threatened to wrench her bones from their sockets, Constance had lost interest in where they were. All she knew was that they were lumbering south and that it was night, for through the chinks in the basket top that gave her air to breathe she could see stars winking from a dark sky.
She was wondering what a woman without money or a trade and bruised black and blue would do in London, when the coach came to a sudden violent halt and Constance, almost knocked senseless, heard Henriette scream.
It came to her dimly that something terrible had happened down there on the road, for there were shouts and curses and horses neighing. She thought they must have struck something—collided with another vehicle perhaps—when piercingly, carrying to her through the wicker even in her dazed condition, she heard Henriette cry, “No, for the love of heaven, do not throw the wicker basket down—there is a woman in it!”
After that things happened very fast.
She was aware of the basket being lifted down and set upon the road, she felt the blast of cool night air as the top was jerked open and then Henriette herself, babbling now in French, pulled her out to stand shakily upon her feet.
The scene before her was not a promising one.
The coach had come to a sliding halt and the horses were hopelessly entangled in the reins. The passengers were huddled together while the driver and his helper stood helplessly with their hands up regarding a man on a horse who held a pistol pointed very levelly at their heads.
Wavering on her feet, Constance stared at him. He wore a broad-brimmed black hat that shadowed his eyes, and a black silk scarf was tied around his face so that all that showed was a gleam where his eyes must be. Below that he was clad in an enveloping black cloak through which an arm stuck out holding the pistol. He was riding a rather nondescript horse that looked to be brown and he had an equally hard-to-identify horse attached on a lead to his saddle. She suspected he carried a knife to cut that lead quickly should the occasion arise.
It was the first time she had ever seen a highwayman and she regarded him with some awe.
“Now the rest of those boxes—down on the road with them.” The voice came from behind her and her head swung round to see what must be the “old gentleman from Leeds” that Henriette thought was “past it” suddenly detach himself from among the passengers. He seemed to have grown younger for he now leaped about very nimbly, giving orders. And to enforce those orders he had pulled out a pistol almost as wicked-looking as the mounted man’s.
They had been ambushed, she realized. Tricked! A little thrill of fear went through her—there must be a gang of them!
The driver and his helper were of that opinion too. They were quick to obey and soon the contents of everybody’s boxes were spilled out on the dusty road, Henriette’s among them. The tax collector groaned as one of his boxes was found to contain a false bottom and a horde of gold coins spilled out. Constance, standing motionless in her faded lavender kirtle and bodice, thought she saw a gleam light up the eyes of the black-cloaked highwayman who sat so impassively in the saddle.
She had not heard him speak until the “man from Leeds” advanced upon the ladies.
“No,” he said in a voice of cold authority, somewhat muffled by the scarf. “They’ll keep their baubles. The gold is enough.”
The “man from Leeds” hesitated, then shrugged.
“You.” The barrel of the mounted highwayman’s pistol swung suddenly toward her. “Up behind me.”
Henriette gave a shriek and clasped Constance around the middle. “Oh, do not take her, Monsieur,” she pleaded.
Nearby the mother and daughter began to wail.
The “man from Leeds” looked astonished. “But we can’t take her with us!” he protested.
“Up!” cried the highwayman, brandishing his pistol fiercely at Constance.
Constance extricated herself from Henriette’s arms. “He will shoot us down here on the road,” she muttered. “I’d best go with him.”
Henriette fell back. She looked as if she might faint—which was entirely in keeping with the delicate state of health she had projected on the journey. “God keep you, ma chère,” she whispered, and sank to her knees on the road, muttering, “A young girl—ah, sauvage, sauvage...”
Moving slowly, and feeling as if she were in some nightmare from which she soon must wake, Constance walked toward the mounted black-clad figure.
Growling, “There’ll be the devil to pay for this,” the “man from Leeds” boosted her up and of a sudden the highwayman changed his mind and took her up in front of him, throwing an arm around her slim waist.
Constance vaguely considered trying to knock that pistol from his hand, but there would still be the “man from Leeds” and anyway both passengers and driver were scared out of their wits.
“Good-by, Henriette,” she called, and then the highwayman muttered something to his horse which, for all its lackluster looks, seemed to be remarkably well trained, and a moment later he and his henchman were galloping away to the north.
Constance felt the wind on her face, felt it blow back her hair, saw the dark trees rush by in the moonlight and wondered what would be her fate. She had no money, so he could be taking her along for only one reason.
She had gone from Hugh’s clutches to—this.
They were out of sight of the coach now, thundering down a road whitened by moonl
ight. The highwayman stuck his pistol into his belt and yanked the black scarf from his face and Constance swung her head around to view the face of her captor.
It was a daunting face that she looked into. Hard and young and resolute. On it now a wicked half smile that would have chilled most men, Green eyes as brilliant as emeralds—and as cold.
But to Constance no face had ever been more welcome.
“Dev!” she breathed, and her heart gave a lurch.
In his dreams the young highwayman had pulled this girl out of many a coach in which she had been riding in her jewels and her furs, had carried her away protesting to his lair, had taunted her, made love to her, scorned her as she had once scorned him—and ravaged with fierce delight her perfumed softness. In his dreams he had made her pay for preferring the world’s gifts to those he could give her, made her pay for his broken heart. He had imagined her gone far above him, dressed in silk and lace and jewels, languidly waving an ivory fan—not frightened and bruised and disheveled and being scooped out of a trunk! And now here she was, bedraggled and tired and overjoyed to see him—his own Constance, back in his arms again!
His hard green eyes softened, grew deep as the endless sea, and the arms that gathered her to him were tender arms, the arms of love.
“Is it really you?” she whispered. “I can’t believe it!”
For answer his lips crushed down upon her own and Constance, spinning out of a harrowing night, felt that she had somehow risen from hell into a special heaven. She was galloping beneath the stars with Deverell, and no matter what happened now, she would always feel that God had been looking out for her this night.
Part Three
The Wild Reunion
She knows he's out on the road tonight
With danger ever near,
And she loves him so that her eyes are bright
With many an unshed tear,
And she prays that the dawn will find him safe
And fast hooves bring him here!
The Great North Road,
Spring 1683
Chapter 12
Those rapturous first kisses after their long separation seemed to have no end. They clung together, unable to get enough of each other. Not a question did either ask—it was enough that they were back in each other’s arms in a world made suddenly for love.
His henchman galloped up beside him, said “Johnny” on a disapproving note.
Dev lifted his head. “What is it, Gibb?”
“We’re almost there. Got to turn just ahead.” Gibb snorted. “The way you and the wench are goin’ at it, I thought you might miss the turn!”
“No chance,” said Dev laconically and eased Constance’s warm body fractionally away from him.
“He called you ‘Johnny,’ ” she whispered.
“I’ve taken the name John York. On the road I’m known as ‘Gentleman Johnny.’ Only Gibb knows my real name—and I trust Gibb.”
She digested that slowly as they turned down a dark lane, shadowed by tall unkempt hedges. They crossed a brook and paused to water the horses—and Dev swung her down and they cupped their hands and drank the cool rushing water.
“Nell, this is Gibb,” said Dev in a matter-of-fact voice. “She’s an old friend of mine.” And Constance managed to hide a start that she’d been rechristened. A name for the road!
“I figured as much,” said Gibb. “Once I got over the initial shock—‘Gentleman Johnny’ abductin’ women from the highway!” He chuckled and turned to Constance. “Smart of you, Nell, not to let on as you know’d who Johnny was.”
“Yes,” said Constance in a small voice. “Wasn’t it?” As they remounted, she asked, “Where are we staying?”
“You’ll see,” grinned Gibb. “Not anywhere’s as ye’d expect!”
Dev smiled at her and when his arm went round her again she found she didn’t really care where she was going—so long as she rode with Dev! Soon they were working their way down a narrow path that wound through a thorn thicket. When they broke out of that she saw ahead on the crest of a low hill the towering remains of an old windmill. It was a forlorn structure with its tattered sail and she was astonished when Dev urged his horse forward.
“We aren’t staying there?” she asked in astonishment.
“Best hideout in this part of the country,” he smiled, dismounting and handing her down.
With some foreboding she approached the ruined structure. It was a quiet night, but as they went in, one of the battered sails creaked a greeting. Inside, the place was a shambles, but, among the fallen stones at one side, makeshift stalls for the horses had been created. There was grain and hay and Gibb began vigorously currying the horses. “Guess you’d rather I did this tonight?” he grinned, with a meaningful look at Constance.
Constance blushed and Dev said, “We’ll want some privacy tonight, Gibb. Would you take the tower watch?”
Gibb nodded and Dev began heaping up fresh straw for a bed. He pulled out a linen tablecloth and upon it spread bread and cheese, apples and two bottles of wine.
Before he had finished, Gibb slouched through. He was a big man, carelessly dressed. In silence he hacked off some bread and cheese and stuffed them into his shirt. Then he picked up one of the bottles of wine and climbed on a wooden ladder up through a hole in the floor above and disappeared.
“Where is he going?” asked Constance, amazed.
“This is a Dutch-type mill,” Dev told her. “Only the top part, that they call the head, revolves. Through the broken chinks of the dome up there Gibb will be able to see the whole countryside—and give us a head start in case anything’s coming our way. We’ll stay here for a day or two, till things have quieted down.”
“Can’t he see us from up there?”
“Not when I get this canopy set up,” said Dev, propping up the tablecloth with pieces of lumber so that it would form a screen from above and yet let the breeze through.
He turned to look at her when he had finished and Constance felt suddenly shy. She looked down, picking at her skirt and began to tell him all that had happened. She saw that he was beginning to undress and it made her feel suddenly nervous. After the first joy of greeting, he now seemed a stranger, someone she did not know well enough to—to join on that heap of straw.
“Sir John died,” she said, desperately making conversation.
“Did he?” Dev had flung down his pistol and cloak and was tugging off his boots.
“Yes—and Hugh came back.”
Dev removed his last boot with unnecessary force. “What do you mean ‘came back’? I didn’t know he’d left.”
“He said I’d have to go to bed with him.”
Dev’s hot eyes smouldered over her for a moment. About to remove his shirt, his hands suddenly came to a full stop. “And—?”
“That’s when Henriette stuffed me into her wicker trunk and I rode that way until you found me.”
His bunched-up muscles relaxed. “If I’d known that, I’d have given Henriette my share of tonight’s gold.” His shirt came off as he spoke and his naked torso gleamed in the shaft of moonlight that came down through chinks in the half-ruined wall.
She felt rising panic course through her. He was removing his trousers! Quickly she turned her head away. She had been sitting on the straw and now, convulsively, she got to her feet, turned as if to run. Dev was instantly beside her. He took hold of her forearm, felt the slight shiver that went through her at his touch, the flinching away.
“Constance,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I’ve shocked you. This life on the road—one forgets how to behave.” He looked down at her. “Can’t you pretend we’re at Fountains again?”
Here inside this dark frightening windmill with a strange highwayman high above them possibly looking down through a hole in the ceiling at their makeshift canopy which might collapse?
“Fountains was—a long time ago.” Her hurried voice held a quiver. Gently he stroked her forearm. “You have forgotten?” he asked wistfu
lly. “I thought, when I found you—”
“Oh, no. I’ve not forgotten!” she said quickly. “It’s just—”
“Constance, sit down,” he said in a low tone. And when she had sat back down, he left her and went and got something made of leather that was heavy when he placed it in her hands. “This is a pouch of gold,” he said. “It’s from my share of what we got from the tax collector tonight.”
Shocked, she tried to push it back at him. She didn’t want his gold!
“No, keep it,” he said quietly. “Think of it as a dowry.” His voice deepened. “If ever I do anything to displease you, if ever you’re sorry you came away with me, you’re free to take this gold and go wherever you choose. There’s enough to carry you all across England.”
She was touched at the depth, the sincerity of his tone.
“Oh, Dev,” she said. “It’s just that—” That I feel shy. It’s been a long time and I—I feel so awkward about this.
But she didn’t have to tell him. “Hush,” he said. “I understand. It can’t have been easy to be pulled out of a box and find me pointing a gun at you. You haven’t had time to get yourself sorted out. But I haven’t changed, Constance. I’m still the same fellow I was at Fountains.” He drew her to him and began gently to remove her shoes.
“But it’s all changed,” she said. “Now I’m Nell and you’re—”
“John York.” He was pulling off her stockings, she could feel them leaving her legs. “That’s what you’re to call me now—‘Johnny.’ We met in London, which is where we’re both from. Duck any questions you can. Remember, half the people you meet would sell us both for a reward.”
“John York,” she said with a shiver as his hands caressed her bare legs.
He leaned down and kissed her knee. “I took the name York because Yorkshire was where I met you, Constance, where the best part of my life began.”
It was a simple declaration but it broke the bonds that had held her back.
Lovely Lying Lips Page 17