The Highwayman's Lady Page 10

  “Good. Now, you two.” I train my pistol on the other two women. One of them, the younger, sinks to the ground without my needing to elaborate. The older of the two struggles to obey. I suspect arthritis. “You. Help her,” I bark at the chit who will tie them up for me. Soon they are secured in similar fashion as their menfolk. Only the youngest girl remains.

  “Come here.”

  She remains rooted to the spot, staring at me with eyes as round as saucers. I find it is not an expression I much care for but I do not have time to dispel her fears.

  “Come. Here.” I repeat my command and at last she obeys. She stands before me, her eyes downcast, her slender shoulders quivering as she contemplates God only knows what evil about to be perpetrated upon her. “Turn around, love.” My tone is deliberately gentle now. She has done as I asked.

  She turns and I produce another short length of rope from my belt. I bind her wrists in the small of her back, then help her to sit on the cold ground alongside her family. She looks surprised to have escaped so lightly so I wonder if I might steal a kiss. She does appear to expect at least that much from me in the way of molestation and I hate to disappoint.

  I might have done so, but it is at that precise moment that the sound of galloping hooves pierces the still, cool night. I discern at least four horses and they are approaching fast. It is beyond time for me to take my leave.

  I vault onto Nero’s back and we are in motion almost before I am in the saddle. I direct my mount away from York in order to put distance between myself and whoever is coming. I can hear shouts now, echoing above the pounding of the hoof beats—cries of “After him!” and, “He’s getting away.”

  I am indeed getting away if I have anything to do with it. I snatch a quick glance over my shoulder. Five riders are gaining on me. The man in the lead on a pale grey stallion wears the unmistakable red coat and tricorn hat of the British military. My heart sinks. If his majesty’s army have taken an interest in my activities, this bodes ill for my continued good fortune, such as it is. Digging my heels into his flanks hard, I turn Nero from the road. We clear a stream and a ditch in one graceful leap, then streak across the adjacent meadow in the direction of the open countryside beyond.

  It is a landscape I know well. I can find my way as fast in the dark as I might in broad daylight, but I must trust that my pursuers are less familiar with the terrain. They will be slowed down, unable to maintain the chase.

  My ploy works well. In just a few minutes the sounds of other riders in my wake dwindle then die away entirely. I am at last alone, free still to enjoy the fruits of my unorthodox lifestyle. But for how long?

  I spend the next two hours traversing the landscape, back and forth, determined to leave no trail that could be readily followed. I cross the River Ouse no less than five times, always avoiding villages or settlements. I have no wish to leave tracks, nor to create a trail of witnesses ready to testify to my presence here this night. At last, satisfied I have done all I could, I head for Knaresborough and the safety of Thomas’ hostelry.

  I crest the hill behind the village shortly before dawn, to be greeted by the sight of flames and acrid scent of smoke. I kick Nero once more into a gallop and arrive at the rear of The Blue Man in time to see my adversary in red military uniform striding from the burning stables, a lighted torch in his hand.

  Thomas watches, helpless, as he is restrained by three burly constables. The yard at the rear of the inn is a chaotic gaggle of loose and terrified horses, startled villagers brought from their beds by the commotion, and harsh-faced law enforcement officers bent on delivering retribution.

  I slither from my horse and creep closer on foot. There is nothing I can do to prevent the unfolding disaster to Thomas’ livelihood and at least he appears unhurt. Even as I arrive at that conclusion, the redcoat marches up to my friend and punches him in the stomach. Thomas doubles over with a whoosh of expelled air and has the good sense to remain so as his tormentor struts in front of him. I watch from behind a loose handcart, considering my chances of success were I to make an attempt to free Thomas from the tender mercies of King George’s justice. They are slender at best, but I am ready to try.

  The leader turns to address the assembled village population. “Let this be a lesson to all who might think to harbour fugitives from the king’s justice. Lawlessness will not be tolerated and the highways of this county shall be made safe for law-abiding folk to travel about their business in peace.” The soldier turns to Thomas, his next words directed at him. “Your accomplice may have escaped us this time but we shall prevail. He will be apprehended and he will hang for his crimes. You too, if it transpires that he has found shelter here again. Be warned, peasant, we will not be so lenient if we are forced to return to this godforsaken hovel a second time. Our next visit will cost you far more than a stable and a few bales of hay.”

  Thomas crumples to the cobbles as they release him and his knees give way. In seconds, the constables and their leader have remounted and are cantering along the lane leading back in the direction of York, no doubt to report on this night’s achievements to the lord mayor and aldermen of the city.

  I wait a few minutes to be sure they have truly gone, since I have no wish to add to Thomas’ troubles right now. He hauls himself to his feet, still gasping for breath as he glares balefully after the men. The villagers are making an attempt to subdue the flames, but it is to no avail. It is a mercy that the stables do not adjoin the inn itself or the whole structure would be engulfed. As it is, the outbuilding is lost but the damage is contained there. I leave them to it and approach Thomas.

  “My friend, I am sorry.”

  He turns to me, his eyes red from the smoke. “Aye, well, ‘tis but stones and a bit of straw. We had time to let the horses out before the blaze took hold.” He bends over, coughing. “Bastards, one and all. I am relieved you did nothing foolhardy, else we might all be dangling from a rope right now.”

  “It was me they came here seeking.”

  “It would seem so.”

  “But why? How did they know? I did not lead them here.”

  “Nay, you did not. They were here a good half hour afore you. Someone must have told them this is one of your haunts.”

  “Did they say anything to suggest they know about us and Culloden? That we were with Charlie back in forty-six?”

  He shakes his head. “Not that I heard. They came looking for Alistair Graham, expecting to find you here. They searched all my rooms. Then when it became apparent their quarry was not to be apprehended indoors, they came out here and…” He gestures in the direction of the ruined stables where flames still lick the blackened walls and he needs to say no more.

  The villagers are drifting away, the excitement over for the time being. I follow Thomas back into The Blue Man. In his main room all the tables are overturned, seats smashed or upended from the search. I help him to put enough to rights for us to sit down.

  “Will you fix it? I have money, I can pay for the damage.”

  He nods. “Aye, I shall, I expect. I shall be glad of a loan, if you have the money to spare, but I do not expect you to pay. It was not your fault.”

  “Who else is to blame? I brought this down on you.”

  “Whoever informed the militia that you might be here is the one I blame. Do you have any idea who that might be?”

  I shake my head. It’s not as though my regular presence here in Knaresborough is a closely guarded secret, most of these who frequent The Blue Man will have at least an inkling. But I am at a loss to know which of them would go to the trouble of travelling all the way to York—a day’s journey by pony and trap, at least double that on foot—to discuss my comings and goings with the city fathers.

  “What about that girl? Miss Bennett, was it? She might have reason to remember you less than fondly.”

  “Imogen?” I peer at him, astonished. “No, I doubt it. Anyway, it has been over three months since she was here, nearer fou
r in fact.”

  “She knew who you were though. And she knew about this place, knew you thought of it as a sanctuary.”

  “She would not be able to find the inn again. She was blindfolded on the way here and left in a closed carriage.”

  “But she knew the name of the inn, knew we were in Knaresborough. She knew my name. It is enough.”

  “She knew your name, but no more than that. I made sure of it.”

  “How can you be certain? From her speech I reckon she was a local lass and could easily have recognised the area. She could have told someone.”

  “Not that stepbrother of hers. I would stake my life on that.” Thomas has sowed sufficient doubt in my mind that I am no longer denying the possibility that she has spoken of her sojourn at The Blue Man, more the likely choice of confidant.

  “What about her kin in Scotland? Might she have shared her adventures with them? Or maybe she was paid for her information?”

  I shake my head, unable to credit what Thomas is suggesting but neither can I refute it entirely.

  “Who else?” he continues. “There has been no one else here in the past few months apart from people from the village. I do not wish to accuse the lass without cause but if not her, who could it have been?” He shrugs. “Ah, well, what does it matter? The damage is done now. And you’ll be needing to find another bolt hole, my friend, at least until all this fuss dies down.”

  He is right on that score, at least. Thomas lumbers across his ruined tavern to seek out a cask of ale we might yet salvage whilst I ponder my dilemma.

  I had thought Imogen and I parted on decent terms, quite affectionate, in fact. Certainly, I was sorry to see the lass go, but I knew she was in danger as long as she remained within the orbit and easy reach of Sidney Smethurst. I would have been more than happy to dispatch the bastard for her, which, I daresay, would have solved that problem, but she was not keen on that notion.

  She appeared grateful enough for my intervention and swore she would not betray my whereabouts. I took pains to ensure she did not know my identity so she is not in a position to have divulged that to anyone. That said, she may have reflected further upon our association and arrived at the conclusion that a highwayman makes a poor bedfellow, in every sense. I recall she expressed such a view, or something along those lines, during the course of the night she spent in my bed. I succeeded in spanking a more agreeable attitude into her, but the effects of my discipline may have worn off by now. Perhaps she requires a reminder.

  I find that notion somewhat to my liking. Imogen Bennett was a most delectable little piece and her response to a spanking was the stuff of dreams. She was delightful before I reddened her bottom, but after—she was divine. I have yet to encounter a hotter, tighter quim gripping my cock as she reached her climax and I believe I have bedded sufficient females to consider myself something of an authority. I recall she made the most exquisite little breathy sounds as her arousal built and was inclined to whisper my name at the most crucial moments.

  Oh, yes, it would be no hardship to meet with Miss Bennett again and seek her view as to the reasons for the sudden interest of his majesty’s militia in a humble tavern in Knaresborough. If I discover she has indeed tattled, I prefer not to dwell on what the likely consequences will be… but I will not leave the matter unresolved.

  I confess I have been curious as to her fate. Was the little chit able to claim the protection of her mother’s family? How might she have been received at Kirkleven? One thing is for certain, Miss Bennett will have received a warmer welcome than I might were I to darken those doors again. Even as I enjoy another mug of Thomas’ finest ale, I know I am about to test that welcome.

  It is high time I went home.

  Chapter Eight

  I lay my hairbrush on the small dresser in the corner of my room at Kirkleven and peruse my reflection in the mirror. To my utter amazement I look exactly as I did yesterday and the day before that. And last week. Last month even. How can this be, for I am changed completely? Nothing is the same, nor ever will be again.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  My courses are late. Very late. Months late, in fact. At first I explained the unusual phenomenon away as the result of the extreme strain I encountered, first in coping with my mother’s death and then my subsequent struggles to escape Sidney. Four months have passed and I am still grieving, but I now have the comfort and support of my newfound family. Sidney poses no immediate threat. Indeed, if he intended to pursue me to Scotland I have no doubt he would have done so by now.

  But now I am unable to continue to lay claim to those excuses to explain away my ‘interesting’ condition and must acknowledge that I was deluded. I have been clutching at flimsy straws. The reason for my current dilemma is plain enough and boils down to a particular highwayman with a most persuasive way about him. A man I do not even know and will never see again.

  I am pregnant and will bear a child in a few short months. A rapid calculation in my head is all that is required to ascertain the likely date of my confinement since I know with absolute certainty when I conceived. My birthday is still four months away, by which time I will be eight months into my pregnancy. By then my condition will be apparent to all who see me. Even if I were minded to attempt to conceal the truth somehow, seek to claim my inheritance, then slip away and give birth in some place far from here where I am not known, it would never work. In any case, Beatrice and Phillip deserve better from me than that.

  I have been welcomed into this family as though I were born here. In the months since I presented myself on the doorstep, I have come to love Kirkleven and all its inhabitants. Even the gruff Masterson does his best to ensure my comfort and happiness. Lady Beatrice and I have become close, more like sisters than distant cousins. She reminds me so much of my mother, a younger version of her and I thrive on the endless, hectic bustle of this family home.

  Sir Phillip, too, is a man of unexpected qualities. A dour Scottish nobleman by reputation, he is certainly strict with his tenants and astute in his business affairs. The earl is respected in this area and perhaps a little feared. Within these walls however, he is a doting husband, an indulgent papa, and a warm host. He and Beatrice are devoted to each other and to their unruly brood of offspring and have somehow assimilated me into their rowdy domestic circle with seamless ease.

  I make myself useful, though I have never felt I was under the slightest pressure to earn my keep. Even so, I help with the children where I can and provide some governess services to the two girls. My appreciation of European literature is extensive and I enjoy sharing my passion with them though I fear much is lost on Lucy. I have also embarked upon a project to classify and reorder Sir Phillip’s library. The collection has become somewhat muddled, in particular the more recent acquisitions and the system is badly in need of an overhaul. He seems appreciative enough of my efforts and for my own part I am enjoying the task immensely.

  But now, all is up in the air again. I cannot possibly expect the earl and countess of Kirkleven, such fine pillars of the upper echelons of polite society, to condone my immodest behaviour and its consequences and I cannot conceal my problem for much longer. Already I can see my waist obviously thickening when I stand before my glass and I have taken to dismissing the services of the upstairs maid before I remove my clothing. It is only a matter of time before my secret is out and I writhe with discomfort at attempting to hide it at all. I have always sought to be an honest person, a woman of integrity. I face my mistakes and I will accept the consequences of my actions. Once I reach my majority, I shall be in a position to provide for myself and my child. I must strive to convince the earl and countess to allow me to remain here until then.

  I have no choice. I must tell them. And I should do so at the earliest opportunity as I have procrastinated far too long. I can already add deceit and cowardice to the catalogue of my misdemeanours and it cannot go on. I sigh and get to my feet. It is time to join the earl an
d countess for our evening meal. I expect to quite put them off their dinner.

  * * *

  The duck is excellent, braised in a sauce of ginger and oranges and served with roast potatoes, turnips, and swede. These are vegetables we rarely ate in the Smethurst household, but they are popular here in the Scottish borders. Mrs. MacBride, the cook at Kirkleven, was trained in France and conjures up a range of exquisite dishes, though I fear her efforts are wasted on me this evening.

  “Imogen, are you not well, dear? You have barely touched your food.” Beatrice peers at me, her brow etched in concern. “Phillip, perhaps we need to summon the physician.”

  “Must we? I am still contemplating the need to sell off several thousand acres in order to meet the bills for his aid when Francis made his unexpected entrance into the world.” Sir Phillip helps himself to another slice of the duck. “It is not that I consider the money other than well invested, but can we not make do with leeches and perhaps a light bloodletting?”

  “Please do not be facetious, my lord. The poor girl looks positively wan. I doubt she can spare any blood.”

  Sir Phillip squints at me across the table. “Yes, I think I must agree with you. Mrs. MacBride might be able to make up a tonic for her.”

  “I shall ask her, directly we finish our meal.” That settled, she regards me anxiously, noting my almost untouched meal. “If the duck is a trifle rich for you, might we tempt you with some soup, my dear, or perhaps a little honey in a mug of warm mead? That is said to work wonders for the digestion.”

  I consider this offer. My digestion has been far from steady for the last several months, especially in the mornings, yet another sign that I cannot delay the inevitable. It is a wonder that the servants have not reported the matter to the countess already and it is only a matter of time before my secret will be out.