The Highwayman's Folly

by Daria Vernon

  She pushed herself through a fog of loathing to do as she was bidden.

  “Tell me where yer pa lives.”

  Beth’s eyes drifted down briefly to the murky surface of ice. She understood what this was. Her heart pounded with violent strokes that made her teeter and sway, even as her alertness blossomed. Where were Rhys and Harry? Gone? Dead?

  “No,” she said.

  “Well then,” said Lionel, “why don’t you make yerself pretty?” He gestured to the trough with his weapon.

  “Let’s clean that stench off of ye,” added Sol.

  A smashing force brought Beth down from behind. Her cheek broke the thin pane of ice, and she inhaled a gulp of sharp, foul water. It froze her from within, and she choked. Somewhere beyond the darkness that her head was submerged in, she felt her limbs lash out against Sol. But underwater, all was still. She was no match for the hand that held her down.

  Then the sky reared up before her eyes as she gasped inwardly on a ball of water and air, unable to spit it out and with no time to take a breath before she was back under.

  Air. Her whole soul concentrated on air, but there was little to be had as Sol’s hand brought her up and down again.

  Her body no longer fought for her, even though she willed it to. Her heels just skidded helplessly for traction in the mud, angling for leverage against the great vise that held her down.

  Her face and senses were numbing when a tremendous blow knocked her to the ground and back to the spinning world. She gasped and gulped on her stomach like a beached fish. Two arms wrapped around her and pumped her body roughly upwards. Ice water gushed from her lips, and her eyes filled with tears as she finally gasped a breath that succeeded in real exhalation. She was gently lowered to the ground to breathe deeply and recover herself. It was Harry’s legs that walked away from her toward a tussle she could hear but not yet make out through her bleary vision.

  The ground held her like a cradle, seducing her to sleep for days, but the shouts nearby grew louder. She pushed herself up onto her hands and saw more clearly.

  “I’ll gut you for what you’ve done!”

  Rhys and Lionel rolled on the ground near the trough, exchanging blows and jockeying for control of the pistol. Solomon lumbered behind Harry as they looked on.

  Rhys got the better of Lionel and stood up, having won the pistol. But Sol’s hands caught Beth’s eye. He was reaching for something—

  “Harry!” she croaked, just loud enough to be heard. Harry spun to attention, but it was too late. He was grabbed roughly by Sol, who pressed the end of a knife into his side.

  An eerie calm fell over the group as they accepted the standoff. Lionel got to his feet, but Rhys didn’t lower his weapon.

  “You’re going to die for all of this,” said Rhys.

  “Look Captain, I’m not so stupid as you take me for. You and dear Harry was plannin’ to take her by yerselves and keep all the coin. You know where she’s from and yer not sharin’. So I thought we’d do the interrogatin’ that you was too soft to do before.”

  “You could have killed her.”

  “Just how would that serve us? She’s better alive after this much trouble.” Lionel looked in her direction and sliced his tongue between his lips. “’Haps I’ll follow the gray man’s lead and just wed the shrew—get the whole estate instead of just a li’l piece.”

  Rhys took a reckless step forward, growling his words through his teeth. “Did you touch her?”

  “Whether I wed her or sell her, she’s better off with her honor intact.” Lionel put a hand to his heart in mock tenderness. “Even I have standards. I wouldn’t take a ruined woman to wife even if I’d been the one to ruin ’er. ’Sides, fathers pay up for their daughters’ reputations, not their daughters’ lives.”

  Honor. Reputation. Ruin. This was too much. A fire was starting within Beth, and the shuddering of laughter began to ripple up through her limp body. She struck a hand to the ground and hefted herself up on it. These bleeding fools.

  Rhys wanted to go to her as she rose up, but even if there’d been no standoff, he recognized the danger of approach. Beth staggered around, hunched and bedraggled. All of the men’s attentions were drawn by it, this marsh creature that pointed at them and laughed.

  Her beautiful face was lit with cold-eyed humor. “You are ransoming me on my reputation? How droll. Oh, you poor, stupid things. You have chosen very badly.”

  She straightened up as if gaining power from her amusement. Rhys hung on her every unhinged word—

  “You think I have a reputation and honor? A boy I grew up with has my honor. I gave it to him freely, lovingly as a teenaged girl. If you want my honor, it’s no longer mine. Go seek him out.”

  She laughed again, but the terrifying sound died out as her eyes met Rhys’.

  “And ruin? I know it very well. Society made certain of that. This—” Beth gestured at all of them, making Rhys acutely aware of their absurdity. “This won’t stain me at all. For what stain can show up on a garment already dyed black?”

  Rhys felt every bit the fool that she was calling him—calling all of them. He’d reminded himself so ardently of their differences—she was a toff, a gentlewoman, a silk-stocking who would sooner spit on him—even as her true colors had been waved in his face. Even as every other thing he learned of her had drawn him in like some perfume on the air. She was brave. She was kind. She understood betrayal long before he brought her here.

  The men had been suspended in place, agog, while she railed, but of course it was Lionel who recovered first.

  “What a waste that we didn’t all take a turn with ye then.”

  Rhys re-leveled his pistol at Lionel’s face and stepped toward him.

  “Don’t you care about your man Harry?” asked Lionel. “After all, you care so damn much, don’t you? For the quartermaster’s family, for her.” He directed his eyes at Beth.

  “I cared about where you ended up too, Lionel. It’s why we’ve done all of this.”

  “And it was good in the beginnin’. But we’re far from the gallows now, and I want more.”

  “So do I, Lionel.”

  “Then let’s get her looking spruce and ride off.” Lionel’s eyes opened up in desperation and he bounced in his knees, pleading. Some unexpected trace of loyalty was still there. Rhys didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

  Lionel’s face relaxed into a scowl at Rhys’ silence. He snapped his fingers toward Solomon who pressed the tip of the knife more firmly at Harry’s ribs.

  “You betrayed me, and now I’ll take her back for the ransom myself.”

  “You still don’t know where.”

  “And how do you know she didn’t tell us between her dips in the bath and beg us to take her there?”

  Rhys fought the twitch in his lip. He was wrong about many things, but one thing he knew. “She simply wouldn’t.”

  “Then tell me or I’ll rut her and leave the lot of you dead!” Lionel screamed himself into a purple hue. A nasty spray spewed from Lion’s lips as he roared. “Sol, grab her too.” Lionel pointed to where Beth had been standing, but she wasn’t there.

  Lionel’s eyes were darting around when they all heard the rumble. Only a second’s warning before—

  Rhys’ saddled chestnut came bursting around the corner of the house, throwing the whole scene into chaos as Beth rode right through them. Rhys’ heart leapt at the sight of it, even as he rolled out of her warpath. Go. Get far away from here.

  Harry took his chance to dive away from Sol. Rhys saw Sol lunging for Harry, dagger still in hand, and turned his pistol.

  CRACK

  Solomon’s leg instantly gave way beneath him and he clutched his hip where the ball struck.

  “You bastard!” Lionel came for Rhys now that his shot was spent. Rhys’ back slammed into the icy mud as two crooked thumbs pressed in
to his throat. Rhys shoved the heel of his hand up into Lionel’s jaw, pushing, pushing—making use of his advantage in arm span—yet Lionel’s grip would not relent. Rhys coughed.

  A dull and heavy thud sent Lionel flying sideways off him as Harry and his helpful boot replaced Rhys’ view overhead. Harry pulled his sword on the squirming man. Rhys swiftly stood and drew his own.

  He glared at the pathetic man in the mud.

  “Run away,” he said.

  Lionel pulled himself up. With a sour expression, he began a trudge toward the horses. Rhys barred him with the length of his blade.

  “You know better than that how this works.”

  The wretched man raised an oily eyebrow and then pivoted grudgingly. He was marched to the forest’s edge with Rhys and Harry’s swords brushing his back.

  Solomon’s groans sounded like those of a man being dragged straight to hell. Lionel turned and looked over Rhys’ shoulder at his injured ally. Rhys shoved away a pang of guilt and was grateful when Lionel didn’t speak. Their lives were not supposed to end up this way.

  Rhys and Harry both watched as Lion disappeared onto the same trail that they’d arrived on.

  Rhys walked over to Solomon who breathed deeply while clamping down on his hip. “You were on the wrong side, but I wish I hadn’t had to do it,” said Rhys.

  Solomon nodded, biting his lip.

  The dark mud made it hard to see how much blood had been spilled, but Solomon’s face was far whiter than it should have been.

  “Did it strike the bone?”

  “Dunno.”

  “Do you want me to look at it?”

  “Nay.”

  “Do you want me to—”

  “What? To put me out of my misery, Captain? I’ll stay where I am. The cold can take me soft enough.”

  Rhys turned to Harry, who stood at his side, looking down at Sol with a concerned expression. “Do you have any drink in your saddlebag, Harry?” Harry nodded, and Rhys didn’t have to instruct him further.

  Harry soon returned with a flask and passed it down into Solomon’s bloodied hand.

  “Farewell, old man.”

  Turning his back on Sol, Rhys felt like every step away brought him ever downward, closer to hell. It was true what Lionel had said. Rhys cared, and it made it damned difficult to do the things he had to do.

  They went to the remaining horses. They were all fully tacked, having been readied for their now-abandoned plan. Beth had done well to take Rhys’ horse—the best of the lot.

  “I’ll take Lionel’s,” said Rhys. He took the leads of the spare hackney horse and Solomon’s nag and put them in Harry’s hand. “You should take these two and sell them.”

  “Do you want me to come with you, Captain?”

  Harry said Captain with so much reverence in his tone. Rhys couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “I’m no one’s captain, Harry. Least of all yours. Please, just sell the horses. Take everything that’s been stashed in the folly and find a way to make ends meet.” Rhys rationed out the contents of Solomon’s saddlebags as they spoke.

  “Where will we meet up again, Rhys?”

  Rhys swung his leg up over Lionel’s black horse. “You’ll have a better life if you don’t know me. You’re too skilled and capable to suffer all of this.” He gestured to the crumbling folly and its muddy side yard.

  Harry tossed the sandy hair from his eyes. “Good luck, Rhys.”

  “Same to you, Harry.” Rhys reached a hand down, laying it warmly on Harry’s shoulder. It was difficult to pull away.

  Rhys guided his horse toward the trees that had swallowed Beth’s escape. Somewhere beyond them, she ran, and he would do what he could to ease her path.

  Chapter 10

  Twigs snapped on Beth’s arms as she wove Rhys’ horse through the dense growth. She held in her mind the image of smoke rising in the distance—the view she’d caught from the window the day before. When she’d made her disappearance into the woods, she’d done so with purpose and direction. But now, boulders, embankments, and even the trees themselves conspired to throw her off her bearings.

  She slowed down to think. The low morning sun was stretching its long fingers through the forest, warming her back as she rode. When she’d surveyed the area from her window, the morning sun hadn’t been a part of the view. So it seemed possible she was still on the right path . . . roughly.

  Unfortunately, slowing down allowed other thoughts to catch up to her too. The fog of self-preservation was lifting, unwrapping recent memories . . .

  The snap of a pistol’s shot.

  Birds scattering upwards.

  The impossibility of looking back.

  The horror of not knowing.

  Beth gave Rhys’ horse a gentle kick before the feelings overwhelmed her. A trickle of icy trough water dribbled down her neck from where her wet hair clung to her. Bringing a hand up, she discovered that Rhys’ scarf had been lost, but the pendant—it was still there. She gave her head a fierce shake, loosening the sopping tresses that might benefit from the sun at her back. An entire day stretched before her. This time, her survival would not be a fool’s errand.

  The sun had passed overhead, and it was well into the afternoon when Beth hopped down to rifle through Rhys’ bags for food. Only by focusing on the task at hand could she seem to preserve herself from wondering what happened back at the folly.

  And another concern brewed. When Rhys had ridden to town, the entire errand had taken up barely more than half the day. It meant that she was straying off course, perhaps badly.

  Her search in his saddlebag yielded a familiar bundle. It was the one Rhys had pulled their little rations from when they’d eaten together that first morning. Even more familiar was the flask of gin. She fumbled it as though it burned her. Seizing it before it hit the dirt, she clutched it to her breast. Fear blossomed from where she held it.

  Had Rhys been—is he all right?

  A tingling ache surged to her cheeks as tears began to pool, but they were held back. Firming her jaw, she swallowed hard and lowered herself to the ground to eat. A hunting knife was bundled with some small pieces of cured meat. The mysterious voices of the forest—the caws and snaps and rustles—told her she’d do well to keep it close. When the knife’s duty as a utensil was complete, she slipped it behind the front laces of her stays.

  A cold breeze whisked up her spine as she packed up the remains of her repast. The thicket was all still, but the sounds of its hidden denizens were becoming more insistent. She had but a couple more hours until sunset.

  Rising up too quickly, she struck her head on a low branch and let out a sickened hiss.

  She turned fiercely, as though she might strike out at the cruel branch, but instead she found herself inspired by its lowness. So she climbed it.

  Beth hadn’t been up a tree since her youth and certainly never one so intimidating as this. She wrapped herself tight to the trunk, feeling much too breakable as a fully-grown woman. But after steadying herself, she teetered her way up a few more branches until she could see just enough of the sky—

  To have her hopes completely dashed.

  There was no smoke ahead. No sign at all of a town. She turned her head as far around as it could go, straining for an owl’s view of things.

  Far behind her was the distant, dying wisp of the folly’s chimney. Then she saw it, off to the east, a whole set of cheerful puffs. She’d not been entirely off, but her direction was poor enough that she’d passed the village and was now very far out of its way.

  At least it was there, proving its existence and her remaining sanity. Glumly, she climbed back down. She found it only too fitting when she slipped on the same malicious branch that had injured her before.

  On her back in the damp loam, her cheeks prickled again, and this time, she allowed herself the tears. Over
and over, she struck her chest with her fist as though to knock the emotion out of her. The stays, which she’d not removed for days, deadened her own strikes, so she struck harder. She kept doing so even as her knuckles dinged against the hard handle of the knife that she’d stowed there.

  She gasped until she coughed, and at last her hand flopped to her side.

  Her chest rose and fell deeply. Purposefully. Until her concentrated breathing brought the tears to heel.

  She stood then, remembering to evade the cursed branch this time. “I’ve learned,” she said to it—to no one.

  Pulling herself up in the stirrup, she caught a glimpse of some familiar fabric rolled into a bundle on the horse’s rump. She touched it. Rhys’ cloak.

  Soon it was around her shoulders and hanging down well past her feet in the stirrups. She pressed her nose to her shoulder, finding and inhaling that soothing trace of pine. Of winter. Of him. Memories danced toward her. Memories of his chin rested against her in the rain, of being pressed against his warm body . . .

  She turned the horse in the direction of the village, but her resolve to focus had been irreparably weakened by disappointment in herself.

  The canopy above was oppressive and dark—feeling ever lower—like the branches might push her down, down, right into the earth. Then their roots would knit themselves over the ground and conceal that she ever existed at all. No one would find her.

  She could no longer fix her mind on the present. It was growing far too frightening. She did not think it any wiser to surrender to the past, yet it kept seducing her with its whispers of warmth and hope.

  So she stopped struggling and laid herself bare to memories.

  She imagined herself sinking into Rhys’ cape as though it were a pool of ink. And just as she felt enveloped by the wool, so she felt enveloped by his arms. To even think of him helped her to stay upright in her seat. Her spine was a solid pillar so long as she could lean against the ghost of Rhys. The mere fantasy of his body heat was enough to warm her through.

  Her lip curled wistfully as she recalled his expression when she’d had a hot fire iron to his throat. He’d not been afraid but had certainly been surprised. That had been enough to please her.