The Highwayman (Rakes and Rogues of the Restoration Book 3) (11 page)

‘On this part of the river I have seen 100 saile of shipps pass by in a morning which is one of the finest sights that is. By turning about I could view at least 20 mile. This is esteemed as a noted robbing place.’

Arabella purchased a pretty bay mare with perfect conformation and began exploring more of the city and taking the air every day in Hyde Park. She nodded at passersby, and sometimes she stopped to watch the parade of coaches, circling in opposite directions on railed and graveled paths. On cooler days she wore a duster coat, a suitable replacement for the greatcoat Jack had given her on their midnight ride. Her dress and comportment proclaimed her a lady and her spirited mount suggested wealth. Too modest in her dress for courtesan or mistress and unaccompanied except by a fierce-looking man at arms, she presented something of a mystery—yet she was unmistakably gentry, and she clearly belonged.

Though the thought of encountering Robert still left a knot in her chest, she felt braver and more daring every day. It was worrisome that her enquiries as to his whereabouts had born no fruit, but she carried a cunning, brass-inlayed, pocket-sized pistol on her person of which she was very proud. The weapon, imported from Spain, was a fine one according to Mr. Butcher. She had him show her how to load and fire it until she was comfortable doing it on her own, and she practiced with it every day.

Journal keeping had been a habit since she’d first learned how to write. Fortunately, she’d started a new one just before her abduction and had barely filled half a page. If anyone had it or found it they would see notes about crop rotations, the price of wool and grain yields, and nothing more. It was time to start another, to jot down her thoughts and describe those things that caught her interest.
Should I write about highwaymen...stolen necklaces and stolen kisses
. Perhaps not. Such information could be dangerous in the wrong hands. Instead, she began to write about her exploration of the city, and as she took an interest in London, London began taking an interest in her.

~

Caroline was delighted with her new mistress’s social success when within three short weeks of her rescue by the Tullys, she was invited on a coach tour to view the city from on high. “We must find you something elegant and eye-catching, my lady. Something to set off your figure and your beautiful hair.”

“Whatever is wrong with the brown silk? It’s perfectly acceptable.”

“But you are a countess, my lady.”

“I see no reason to beat anyone over the head with it.”

“But this one makes you look like somebody’s maiden aunt,” the girl almost wailed.

“Just so,” Arabella said with an emphatic nod, before reaching for her brown duster. That was exactly how she wanted to appear. A well-bred unassuming country mouse. As a tourist from the country, she was an amusement. Someone other ladies could shepherd about and impress with their superior knowledge. Interesting as a diversion, but no temptation to their suitors or husbands.

Today she had been welcomed into a small circle of jaded but respectable ladies. Rather like an exotic pet, she thought with a wry smile. They thought her journal writing quaint and her desire to see the sights amusing, but proud of their city, they were eager to take her to Shooter’s Hill. It was one of the highest points in London, they promised, with an astounding view.

Elizabeth, Lady Ferrar, whose coach it was, was their unspoken leader. An elegant black-haired beauty with pouting lips and an insouciant air, she had married an earl and claimed the first seat by the door. Lady Mary Grantham and Miss Caroline Buckhurst, with a bit of shoving, chose their places according to rank. Arabella took the spot that remained. Her new friends regaled her with stories of London’s many dangers as the horses, breathing heavily, labored up the hill. As her companions talked breathlessly of highwaymen, Arabella wondered what they’d say if they knew what adventures had happened to her.

By the time they reached the top it was late afternoon. The air was hot and still. Crickets called to one another, a pair of hawks circled overhead, and London lay below her like some magical city, burnished gold and gleaming in the late-day sun. Arabella could see for miles––gardens, orchards, pastures and fields, and tiny looking villages that nestled along the Thames. The river itself was a twisting silver ribbon, dotted with hundreds of snowy-white sails and floating fortress-like men-of-war. Arabella wrote in her journal as the others settled in to enjoy some gossip and a picnic laid out on the grass by Lady Farrar’s footman.

The shadows lengthened quickly, and the night was coming in cool as they piled back in the coach. The coachman lit the lanterns, and a sense of urgency seemed to grip both horses and passengers. Arabella’s breath quickened and her senses stirred and heightened as her body attuned to the diminishing light. She could taste and smell the coming night. Her hearing was sharper and she could feel the damp of the distant river brushing her skin. She felt a thrill of anticipation, a pang of yearning, as she remembered what it had felt like to ride with Jack in the dark.

“Hurry now, my lady, if you please. ’Tis for the best we be past yon trees before it grows full dark.” The coachman practically lifted her into the compartment, eager to be on his way.

Arabella peered out the door before he shut it. The woods loomed to the south, just below the summit. Their shadow had already claimed the road, as if daring them to pass. She shivered and sat back in her corner.
When I am out there, I am what Jack called me. Belle du Nuit. I come alive in the dark. But when I hide, I am frightened. Just like everyone else.

A whip cracked, leather creaked, and with a low rumble the coach lurched forward

~

Jack Nevison waited patiently, his attention on the road, his hands in his pockets and his back resting against an obliging tree. A full moon was already rising against a darkening purple sky. It was a perfect night for adventure and his prize should be along soon. The black mare nickered beside him.

“Hush now, Bess,” he admonished gently. “You know better than that. It won’t be long now.” He took a quick swallow from the wineskin that hung from her saddle, his eyes never leaving the road. He was taking a bigger risk than usual coming here tonight and as the shadows deepened his anticipation grew. Part of that was something old and familiar, and part of it was something new. He wasn’t used to being anxious about how a woman might receive him, and had no cause to expect that she’d be pleased. He had a good reason for seeing her, though. He
needed
to see her. No…. his lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. He
wanted
to see her. And he’d wanted to see her since the night he’d said farewell.

The mare’s ears flicked forward. After carefully adjusting his cuffs and cravat, Jack covered his features with a scarf, pulled up his collar, and pulled his hat brim down over his eyes. A low whistle came from over the rise and he was on Bess’s back and galloping down the road.

The coachman came over the rise to find a shadowy figure on horseback, armed with a brace of pistols, waiting square in the center of the road and blocking the way down the hill.

Jack didn’t flinch as the coach came straight for him, and neither did Bess. Faced with an imminent collision the coachman lay back on the reins. Amidst a jingle of harness bells, screams from within the carriage and an alarmed snorting and stamping of feet, the coach lumbered to a halt with the terrified footman clinging to the back for dear life.

Jack drew his pistols and gave the command famed and feared throughout Britain. “Stand and deliver!”

“’Tis highwayman! The excited cry came from inside the coach, with what almost sounded like enthusiasm. It precipitated another shriek, then a babble of excited voices followed by a hiss and a command for silence as the blinds were quickly pulled shut.

Jacks eyes were fixed on the driver. “You! Coachman! Down off the box and keep your hands where I can see them.”

The initial commotion from the passengers subsided to excited squeaks and an exchange of urgent whispers.

The coachman, a lanky, sharp-eyed fellow with a weather-beaten face, climbed down off the box and looked Jack up and down carefully, noting his height, the snow-white fall of lace at throat and wrist, and the dark, silk-lined coat he wore with its silver buttons on the pockets, front and cuffs. He spat on the ground and then nodded his head toward the weapon in Jack’s hand. “If you be who I think you be, you’ll not be using that pistol.”

“What is your name, sir?” Jack inquired politely.

“Name be Thomas Pilgrim.”

“Well, Thomas Pilgrim, you’re a cheeky bastard, aren’t you? I might or might not shoot you, but my friend, standing right behind you, would be more than happy to put a bullet in your arse. Isn’t that right, Will?”`

A cloaked and hooded broad-shouldered fellow stepped out from the shadows and cocked his pistol. “Aye, Jack. So I would. He can have a hole for shitting, one for pissing and an extra to use as he pleases.”

“Here now! There’s no cause to be making threats,” the coachman grumbled.

“You’re quite right, sir,” Jack said smoothly. “The proceedings always go better when everyone tries to be civil. Please have a seat now, Mr. Pilgrim. And allow my associate to make you more comfortable.”

Thomas Pilgrim curled his lip to show he was neither impressed nor cowed, but he did as he was told and sat in the grass by the side of the road. The man who had threatened him clapped him on the shoulder and passed him a flask.

“You needn’t fear for your passengers,” Jack said in a voice loud enough to carry to those inside the carriage. “You have my word they shall come to no harm. A trinket, a bauble, a gift for the poor and they’ll soon be on their way. Now who is that fellow stuck like a burr to the back of your coach?”

“That’d be Peters, milady’s footman. About as useful as tits on a bull, he is,” the coachman answered sourly.

“Do come and take a seat, Mr. Peters, if you please. I daresay a stiff drink will do wonders to steady your nerves.”

The coachman snorted in disgust. The footman climbed shakily down from the footboard, his face as white as his powdered wig. He didn’t unclench his fingers until both feet were firmly planted on the ground. He had a vacuous Hereford face that suggested he was not likely to bestir himself to help or defend, though if sufficiently startled he might run away. Jack bit back a grin and motioned with his pistol for him to sit by the coachmen. With both men seated and under guard, Jack left them to his accomplice, and turned his attention to the now silent coach.

It loomed in front of him, silvery in the early moonlight, its ornately gilded door a portal to an unfamiliar land. He found himself a little hesitant to approach. It had been weeks since he’d seen her last, but the night played out in his mind, over and over interrupting every mundane task. That warm beguiling voice that promised fire wrapped in innocence, a spirit that dared ride with him beneath the night sky, a kiss so sweet it melted things inside him long grown cold, all weighed heavy in his thoughts.

He gave a rueful chuckle, his nerves slightly frayed, and slid his thumb back and forth along the smooth translucent stones pooled in his pocket. He wondered how she’d fared. If she thought of him or missed him. He wondered what she’d think to see him now. He wondered if she could possibly be all he had imagined.
I was drunk on adventure and moonlight too
.
I don’t even know what she looks like, really, given her face was so battered and bruised
.
But he knew what she felt like, how she sounded, her taste. It was those, not vision that left the strongest impression in the dark.

The carriage horses shuffled and snorted, still alarmed, and he stopped to calm them, patting their necks, rubbing ears and noses and murmuring in a soothing tone.

“Get on with it, Jack. Or are you waiting for the devil to join us all for tea?”

Bess nudged his back impatiently, as if in agreement.

Taking a deep breath, Jack summoned a grin. “Aye. Let’s take a look at the prize.”

Lifting a lantern from the front of the coach, he hooked it over a tree branch. Then, with his pistol in his left hand, he knocked politely on the door, taking note of the fine French glass windows as he waited patiently for the hurried rustling and soft cursing from inside to subside. No doubt they were busily hiding their jewels. He was about to become more insistent when the door suddenly swung open.

“Good evening, ladies.” Removing his plumed hat with a sweeping gesture, he performed a gentlemanly bow. Upon straightening, he found himself staring straight down the barrel of a flintlock pistol.

‘There I think I may say I had reason to suspect I was Engaged wth some highway men. 2 fellows all on a suddain from ye wood fell into ye Road, they Look'd truss'd up wth great Coates and as it were bundles about them which I believe was ’pistols’

Resting one booted foot on the carriage step, Jack leaned against the doorframe and angled his head to have a look inside. Across from him, in a nest of tissue and taffeta, swathed in gauze and silver-gilt thread, was a pretty chit with tumbling blonde curls, pouting lips, and naughty blue eyes that couldn’t hide a flash of excitement.

He grinned and winked at her. Her seatmate looked more worldly, in a rich velvet gown sugared with diamonds, while the one closest to the door peered around at him, her low-cut bodice coated with satin and jewels. When he was certain no other weapon pointed his way, he dropped his pistol in his pocket and turned at last to look at the party’s lone defender.

“There is no need for that, my lady.” He raised his arms to show his empty hands. “Your presence alone has disarmed me.” He lifted his gaze to meet her challenging stare.