Moonstruck Madness

by Laurie McBain

  “Caro, we should pay a visit to this little house,” the contessa suggested, then turning to the duke explained, “You see, I am the marquis’ third wife, and as yet I have not met his family. How many bambini do you have, caro?” she demanded with a frown. “Two or three, n’é vero?’

  Lord Wrainton shrugged carelessly. “Three, I think.”

  “You obviously haven’t seen your children in some time,” the duke commented sardonically.

  “This one has not been the proud papa, but soon,” she smiled knowingly, glancing slyly down at her waistline, “he shall be, and he will not run off and leave this one as he has these other poor bambini.”

  The marquis turned a dull red under the lash of her tongue, shifting uncomfortably at the truth.

  “And you, your grace?” she asked Lucien, gaining his wandering attention. “You are married and have a family?”

  Lucien smiled derisively. “No, not yet, contessa,” he replied shortly.

  “Ah, you suffer from the broken heart, si? This is too bad, but I think you have many amores just the same.” She glanced at the duke provocatively, her gaze lingering on his face. “You seem the cool one, but I think you are like Lucifer the fallen angel with your scarred face—a warning, perhaps, for one to beware?”

  The marquis looked nervously at the duke. “Please excuse Luciana, your grace, she is Italian and inclined to speak her mind without thought,” he apologized, sending a quelling look to the contessa who merely smiled teasingly at him.

  The duke laughed. “I think your wife keeps you very busy, Lord Wrainton, and I am too well used to sharp-tongued females to allow the contessa’s words to trouble me.”

  They traveled throughout the afternoon, the rain continuing to fall lightly as the team of horses pulled the coach swaying and lurching down the road, becoming bogged down in numerous potholes and streams.

  “We are to arrive soon, I trust? I never thought to find myself seasick in a coach,” the contessa remarked impatiently and then gave her maid a shake. “Wake up, Maria! You begin to snore.”

  The coach began to slow down, and as it came to a complete halt the contessa leaned forward expectantly. “Bene, we are here at last.”

  The duke frowned and made to look out the curtained window when the door was thrown violently open and a breath of cold, damp air rushed in.

  “What the—” Lucien began.

  “Stand and deliver!” a voice called from outside and before Lucien could reach for the pistol strapped to the side of the coach, the other door was swung open and a large man holding two pistols pointed them at the occupants of the coach.

  “Dio mio!” the contessa cried, cringing backward as Maria screamed in terror and fell across her lap in a dead faint.

  “Ah, we’ve ladies present, have we now?” the voice commented with amusement. “If the gentlemen will remove themselves from the carriage for just a moment, we won’t keep them longer than it takes to relieve them of their purses,” the highwayman invited politely.

  The duke looked at the pistols pointed at his heart, and shrugging at the contessa’s frightened face and Lord Wrainton’s outraged one, he climbed from the carriage, pausing briefly as he saw the tartan sash of the highwayman before stepping carefully into the muddy roadway.

  “Well, well, if it isn’t my scar-faced friend from the party. You do have the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the right time for me,” Bonnie Charlie laughed.

  The coachman and grooms were standing nervously on the other side of the road, their weapons in a pile in the middle of the road and under guard of the highwayman’s other large companion. In the growing twilight it was becoming difficult to distinguish details, everything turning palely indistinct in the fading light.

  “Would our other fine gentleman care to join us?” Bonnie Charlie requested.

  Lord Wrainton climbed slowly from the coach, the collar of his greatcoat turned up to protect him against the light drizzle that fell and his cocked hat shadowing his features as he stood nervously beside the duke.

  “Now, what will we be donating to the cause today? A few golden guineas would not come amiss. After all, no gentleman of means travels without a full purse. Hand it over,” Bonnie Charlie demanded, hardly glancing at the man who stood beside the tall duke.

  Lucien reached into his coat, his hand disappearing beneath the thick material.

  “Carefully, lad. I’d hate to ruin your finery,” the highwayman cautioned as he watched Lucien remove his purse and toss it over to him. “And your friend?”

  The marquis handed over his purse with ill grace, cursing under his breath as he did so.

  “Now, if we might have a look at the ladies and see if they would care to share their wealth with those not as fortunate?”

  Bonnie Charlie waved Lucien aside, staying out of the aim of Will’s pistol, which was trained on the two gentlemen, and glanced inside the coach.

  The contessa was fanning Maria frantically, trying to revive her, when she looked up into the face of the masked bandit.

  “Dio!” she squeaked, beginning to fan herself instead.

  “You’re not English,” Bonnie Charlie commented regretfully as he eyed the milky pearls around her neck, “so I’ll leave you your lovely pearls and take only your earrings. As the other lady is insensible and obviously unadorned, I shan’t trouble her.”

  The highwayman bowed, a grin on his lips as the contessa stared in bemused silence at this gentleman of the road. “Arrivederci.”

  Backing from the opened door of the coach, Bonnie Charlie turned to confront the duke, whose coat was dampened from the misty rain that was beginning to fall more heavily.

  “My apologies for keeping you standing in the rain,” Bonnie Charlie mocked, his own clothes covered by a black greatcoat that enveloped his figure warmly. “You may both get aboard, and I trust I haven’t inconvenienced you too greatly, although it is a pity that you must look the fool in front of so lovely a lady. Better that, however, than a foolish attempt to fight me and find oneself dead. Yes, far wiser to play the fine gentlemen and return to the lady in one piece.”

  The duke grinned, the scar on his cheek whitening as he said deliberately, “So brave, my small foe, with your giants behind you. I’ve yet to see you prove your worth. You do a lot of fine talking, but I’ll wager you’re no more than a bluffing puppy giving himself airs.” Lucien laughed scornfully, adding softly, “You swine, you’re not fit to lick the boots of a guttersnipe.”

  Bonnie Charlie’s violet eyes blazed with anger at the duke’s sneering contempt, and losing control at his baiting, lifted a hand and struck the duke full across the face.

  Lord Wrainton gave a gasp of astonishment and remained deadly still. Lucien smiled. “Not much strength for a renowned and supposedly vicious highwayman, but as much as I’d expected from a braggart.”

  “Get back in the coach if you value your mongrel skin,” Bonnie Charlie ordered hoarsely, his gloved hand shaking as he leveled his pistol even with Lucien’s heart.

  “My pleasure. I begin to grow chilled,” Lucien acquiesced in a condescending tone and followed the marquis into the coach.

  Bonnie Charlie backed up to his horse and agilely mounted, and for just a second glanced away from the coach as he grasped the reins. In that instant the duke withdrew a pistol from his coat and fired it at the giant guarding his coachmen from the back of his horse. John grunted in pain and momentarily dropped his guard, but before the astonished coachmen could react Will had fired a shot into the ground before them, halting any movement they might have made, and Bonnie Charlie had fired his pistol into the door of the coach causing the contessa to scream in alarm and Lucien to draw back for protection.

  Signaling to Will and John, Bonnie Charlie urged his mount through the prisoners, scattering them in alarm, and disappeared into the trees, Will and John doing likewise, but in
different directions.

  The footmen ran to their weapons, but by the time they’d reached them and turned to aim, the highwaymen had disappeared into the darkness of the forest.

  Lucien stared grimly after them, his lips thinned in anger, then climbed from the coach to confront his coachmen who were standing sheepishly in the road.

  “Well, how did this happen? I had assumed you were all armed for the likes of these highwaymen?” Lucien demanded, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

  “Was a tree, your grace, fallen across the road and causin’ us to stop. In this weather we never thought ’twas highwaymen. And then from nowheres these giants appears and aims them pistols at us before we could even draw ours. Would’ve laid us low if we had,” the head coachman explained ruefully, seeking confirmation from the other abashed faces around him. “Got to move the damned tree besides,” he added, looking balefully at the fallen tree across the road that had caused all their trouble and was now still blocking their way.

  “I trust this will never happen again? I only allow one mistake of this nature while you’re in my service, so don’t disappoint me again,” the duke replied coldly. “Now get this cleared as quick as you can,” he directed. “We’ve been delayed long enough as it is.” Turning, he walked back to the carriage, his broad back looking uncompromising and stern to the chastened servants.

  “Well, don’t just stand there gawking. Get to it. You’re not in a funeral procession yet,” the head coachman yelled, giving the closest boy a cuff on the ear that sent him scurrying.

  “We shall be on our way presently,” the duke informed Lord Wrainton, who was leaning weakly against the soft cushions of the seat. “Are you quite all right, contessa?”

  “Si,” she replied faintly, her fingers nervously clasping and unclasping her pearls.

  Lucien settled himself in the coach and stared silently out of the window. The scar on his cheek still throbbed with anger.

  “Why the hell did you do it?” Lord Wrainton finally found the courage to ask the duke’s aloof profile.

  Lucien glanced over at him indifferently. “Do what?” he asked haughtily.

  “Risk all of our lives by baiting that highwayman? I could scarce believe my ears when I heard you insult him.” Lord Wrainton took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. “He might have shot me as I stood there next to you.”

  Lucien shrugged unrepentantly. “You were in little danger. I merely was curious how far I could push the fellow, and now I know his weaknesses.”

  The duke’s eyes were narrowed in thought and gradually a cruel smile curved his lips and he suddenly laughed, a satisfied expression settling on his features as he slapped his leather gloves carelessly against the palm of his hand.

  “And so you put us all into danger for that?” Lord Wrainton demanded incredulously, feeling a shiver of apprehension as he saw the duke’s expression.

  “Per favore,” the contessa broke in before the duke could make his scathing remark. “We are safe, si? There is no cause for further alarm? So, we will forget the incident. Of course, I must admit it was quite exciting,” she added mischievously.

  “Luciana!” Lord Wrainton said in exasperation.

  “It was the first time I have been held at pistol point,” she excused herself. “Si, I was most excited, and this bandito, he was quite the gentleman, too,” she murmured, touching her pearls reassuringly.

  “I personally found him to be impertinent,” the duke answered softly, “and in need of being taught a lesson.”

  “Well, I found the whole thing distasteful,” Lord Wrainton said irritably. “Why, we came close to being murdered, and you two think it was exciting. Lud, but I must be the one half-crazed.” He held his handkerchief to his lips, dabbing at the beads of perspiration.

  The contessa stared at him, then said in an uncertain voice, “This bandito, there is something strange about him, something not quite right.” She shook her head in self-derision. “Ah, I am silly. It is nothing really, and quite ridiculous.”

  “What is ridiculous?” Lucien asked curiously.

  “No, we will not discuss this notion of mine. I will look the complete fool then,” the contessa laughed and snuggled down into the fur of her pelisse, then issued an abrupt “Silenzio!” to the sniveling Maria.

  They arrived at the King’s Carriage Inn early in the evening, the duke dining with Lord and Lady Wrainton, and then bidding them farewell as he planned to make an early start the following morning. But he did not go to bed immediately. He sat in the darkness of his bedchamber for over an hour, his mind preoccupied with a certain scheme he’d been devising all evening, until, finally satisfied, he slipped between the sheets of his bed and slept contentedly.

  ***

  “Here, give me the bandage,” Sabrina told Will as she held a piece of cloth against the wound in John’s shoulder.

  “And give me the bottle,” John said between clenched teeth as he grimaced at Sabrina’s ministrations. “Don’t worry, Charlie, Mam’ll see to it,” he said confidently.

  “I just want to stop the bleeding or you’ll never make it to her,” Sabrina answered shortly, nervous perspiration threading down from her temples.

  “He’ll be all right, Charlie, John’s as strong as an ox. Take more’n a bullet to kill him off.”

  “Yeah,” John agreed, taking a deep swallow from the bottle of rum Will had handed him. “More like a cannon-ball, eh, Will?”

  “More’n one,” Will chuckled.

  “I wish you’d stop joking,” Sabrina spoke worriedly.

  “Like I said, Charlie. Mam’ll take care of him, all we got to worry about is spending these guineas.”

  Sabrina wasn’t listening. “This is the first time anyone has dared to shoot back at us. John could’ve been killed,” she cried.

  Will rubbed his big thumb against the side of his nose. “Told you I didn’t like that scar-faced gent. Would be his carriage we’d have to hold up. Looking daggers at us, he was.”

  “Gave me the shivers,” John contributed thickly, the rum he’d drunk beginning to take effect.

  “Revenge is what he’s gonna want, Charlie. And once you’re at his mercy, he’ll want blood for blood,” Will warned. “You shouldn’t of hit him.”

  “Speaking of accounts to be settled,” Sabrina promised, looking at John’s shoulder wound, “I’ve one to settle with our scarred friend.”

  “Go easy, Charlie,” Will entreated her. “He’s different. If he ever gets his hands on us, well, I’m a big man but that look of his sent a chill up my spine.”

  “Do you think I’m frightened of that town fop?” Sabrina demanded incredulously.

  “You should be, Charlie,” Will told her quietly.

  Sabrina’s lower lip jutted out, and with her hands on her hips and the light of battle still in her violet eyes she vowed rashly, “I don’t know who he is, or why he’s here, but he’ll soon wish he’d never set eyes upon me, and I’ll give him time to lament the fact before I send him to his grave.”

  Will gazed at this little firebrand who was the brains behind their misadventures and shook his head sadly. They’d come to love her these past years, admiring her courage; but she was a tough, determined little lady who would have her own way, and he had an awful feeling in the pit of his stomach that it would lead to ruin. He felt like they were sitting on a barrel of gunpowder with Charlie going around striking sparks off everything, fearing nothing and no one. He shook his mop of corn-colored hair in resignation. They’d end up on the gallows yet.

  It is a double pleasure to deceive the deceiver.

  —Jean de La Fontaine

  Chapter 4

  Sabrina climbed down daintily from the horse-drawn gig. To any observers she was playing Lady Bountiful to her less fortunate neighbors, bearing a basket of homemade goods, perhaps bread and soup, to the ailing Taylor s
on who’d hurt his shoulder chopping wood.

  Sabrina knocked once, then twice rapidly and waited, the scent of lavender and herbs heavy in the warm afternoon air. Sad-faced pansies stared back at her from the flower beds and the loud notes of a storm thrush called from a chestnut tree.

  “Ah, Lady Sabrina, come along in,” Mrs. Taylor welcomed as she escorted Sabrina inside the cottage. “You don’t mind going into the kitchen? I’ve bread in the oven and it’s likely to burn if I’m not there to watch it.”

  “Of course not. You know I like that room above all; it’s always so warm and smells so good in there.”

  Mrs. Taylor smiled. “You and the boys’ll never grow up. Hoping for a piece of freshly buttered bread, are you?” She chuckled happily as she pulled out a cane chair for Sabrina to sit on.

  The large farm kitchen was full of the aroma of baking bread from the brick oven built into the fireplace, where a great kettle hung over the open fire.

  “How is John?” Sabrina asked.

  “Well, a bit feverish, but that’s to be expected. I’m not worried, though, I’ve applied a salve and he’s gettin’ plenty of rest. Be himself in no time,” Mrs. Taylor answered assuredly. “Now, how about a cup of coffee? I’ve just brewed some over the fire.”

  “I was hoping you’d ask me to have some,” Sabrina admitted. “I’ve been tantalized by it since I came in, and with the coffee mill still fragrant, it must be freshly ground.”

  “Not much misses your eye, Lady Sabrina,” Mrs. Taylor beamed. “Just finished grinding it shortly before you knocked.”

  Mrs. Taylor took down two pewter mugs and placed them on the table, then removed two loaves of crisp, golden bread from the oven. Holding one of the loaves with the edge of her voluminous apron, she placed it on the table in front of Sabrina. Going back to the fire with the mugs, she tipped a small kettle from its adjustable hanger and filled the two mugs with the steaming brew.