The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter

by Mary Ellen Dennis

  As if she held a scorpion’s tail, Elizabeth quickly dropped the purse onto the tabletop. The guineas and jewelry followed. Mesmerized, she stared at the watch with its diamond-encrusted fob-seal.

  “Now you’ve done it, John Randolph Remington!” She didn’t know whether to laugh or curse. Picking up the ring, raising it to the candle’s flame, she slowly twisted it around, allowing the ruby to catch the light. “Impressive,” she said dryly.

  But the blood-red ring had looked even more impressive when it had graced the finger of Walter Stafford.

  Nine

  As Rhiannon loped across the countryside, Elizabeth reveled in the fragrance of the moorland grass, the sight of the valleys falling away on either side, and the feel of the wind caressing her curls.

  Pinned to her petticoat was the blasted coin purse.

  She had decided to hide it in the peel tower, but this morning was her first opportunity to do so. With all the recent hysteria, should she merely stroll through the inn yard alone, some do-gooder would insist on finding her a male escort.

  In the teeth of Dorothea’s protestations, Elizabeth had persuaded her father to ride ahead, saying they would rendezvous nearby at West Scrafton. Today was Walter Stafford’s Midsummer’s Eve party, which, despite the robbery, was taking place as scheduled. That exacted a bit of courage on Walter’s part, for Rand had humiliated him beyond reason. When a raving Stafford had arrived at the inn, he had been naked as an egg. Rand had stolen the lawman’s clothes along with his horse.

  Feeling guilty over her part in the crime, no matter how incidental, Elizabeth had vowed that she would be nicer to Walter. Aware that he would wholeheartedly approve, she wore a stylish riding dress, purchased at a second-hand shop in York. Dorothea had altered the outfit, making it au courant, using as a model a fashion baby mailed from Paris. What Elizabeth might have regarded as an act of kindness had been dispelled by Dorothea’s remark that a woman could never snare a wealthy husband garbed in a dress that dated back to the Year of the Flood.

  A blue cloth skirt over billowing petticoats hid Elizabeth’s breeches and boots. A blue cloth coat, very low-cut, nipped her waist, then flared out at the back. Beneath the long-sleeved, velvet-cuffed coat was a cream silk waistcoat. Much to Grace’s relief, Elizabeth had added a white lawn fichu, draped loosely around her neck, then fastened at her bosom with a brooch. The fichu hid the rising mounds of her breasts, or accentuated them, depending on one’s point of view.

  Perhaps she covered her bosom to avoid Walter’s penetrating gaze. Nevertheless, she would behave like a proper escort. A demure demeanor, ladylike rather than masculine, compliant rather than rebellious, should diminish Walter’s fury, and he might not be so determined to shoot Rand on sight.

  Walter Stafford wasn’t the only one upset by the robbery. The entire Dales were scandalized, at least those who had something worth stealing. Since the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion always worked in tandem, the populace feared the arrival of yet a third highwayman. Carriages rode with armed escorts, the papers cried for the culprits’ immediate capture, and the roads crawled with posses. Elizabeth was certain Rand had long left the area, which was undoubtedly best, even though she wondered how she would ever see him again.

  Fearful the coin purse would be discovered, she had concluded that the safest place for it was pinned inside the waistband of her petticoat. She didn’t dare leave the stolen goods in her room, and she couldn’t pawn the jewelry. Following the example of John Fielding, the famous head of the Bow Street Runners, Walter had availed himself of the local papers, publishing descriptions of each stolen article. His ring and watch now topped the list. Every day Elizabeth worried that she would be found out and accused of the robbery. Hadn’t she taken her ride soon after Lord Stafford’s departure? Suspects had been found guilty on as little evidence and women were not exempt from the hangman’s noose. Until events calmed down, she would simply bury the purse and go about her business.

  Damn John Randolph Remington! He had returned her money, albeit in guineas and jewelry, but now she couldn’t spend it.

  Elizabeth raised her face to the sun. In keeping with her newfound desire to be agreeable until safely divested of the coin purse, she had allowed her stepmother to slather an ointment on her face. The ointment smelled of vinegar and apples and it was supposed to subjugate the sun’s rays. According to Dorothea, Elizabeth’s unfashionable complexion was one of the main reasons she had not yet snared a husband.

  Someday she would like to live in a place so hot it would blacken her skin. During her research on Richard of the Lion’s Heart, she had become intrigued with the Holy Land and its climate, so very different from the north of England with its cold weather and relentless winds. The Holy Land was… well, holy, while dark things formed in the north—ghosts and demons and evil spirits.

  She dismounted at the peel tower. It had been erected in the fourteenth century during the time of the bad king, Edward II, when Robert the Bruce had ravaged the borderlands at will.

  Reaching beneath her skirt, she unpinned the purse, then entered the tower. Its roof and three of its four walls had long since crumbled. Periodically, farmers carried off stones to erect fences and cottages. Tough grasses had replaced the hard-packed earth upon which frightened Northerners had huddled against marauding Scots.

  She sometimes spent hours at the tower, writing or gazing up at the clouds and dreaming. Once she had fallen asleep, but that had been a mistake. The Dales were steeped in history. First Anglo-Saxons, then Danes, then the Normans had swept across the area in violent tidal waves. Folktales and the ancient mounds of the dead bore witness to bloody confrontations. Perhaps that was why she had dreamed of shadowy knights on horseback, engaged in some sort of battle. Perhaps that was why she had awakened screaming.

  Today her throat felt dry as she picked her way across the rubble to the western wall, but nothing disturbed the silence save for the whisper of displaced pebbles, the bubbling trill of a curlew, and the distant bleats of sheep. Selecting a landmark, Elizabeth buried the purse.

  How did my life come to this? she wondered, replacing the rocks. How did she ever become so enamored with a highwayman? Why would she want somebody so absolutely wrong for her?

  She knew why. A country squire could never compare with a highwayman and the romantic, outrageous legends that sprang up about his deeds. Despite gossip to the contrary, Elizabeth knew that, deep down, she possessed a romantic nature. Didn’t she breathe life into men who had never existed? Men like Ralf Darkstarre, the perfect lover?

  Unfortunately, the only lover a highwayman could embrace was Death. Elizabeth pictured Rand shot down while fleeing from the law. She pictured him sprawled in the moonlight, his linen shirt black with blood.

  A lump as big as an acorn filled her throat and her eyes blurred with tears. Sometimes a vivid imagination was a hindrance. “But most likely you’re in Scotland now,” she whispered, dissolving the lump.

  Rising, she brushed off her skirt. Someday, somehow, they would meet again, and when they did, she would persuade Rand to give up his life of crime.

  “Yes, we shall meet again,” she said. Directly overhead, a buzzard, wings outstretched, rode the wind across the sky. “And next time I’ll not let you get away.”

  Ten

  Rand left the highway to travel his own route. During his two months in the Dales, he had come to know the area well, a necessity in his profession. Sometimes he and Zak stayed with friendly locals, but more often than not, they hid out in the remains of lead mines, or in such ruins as Fountains Abbey. Rand had grown to love the Dales’ bleak beauty. He enjoyed walking along the river beds and stone fences which networked the moors like the wrinkles on an aging face. Under different circumstances he might have entertained plans for settling in the area.

  But it was time to go. Past time. He detoured around Horsehouse, a cluster of stone houses where pac
khorses were fed and rested. Hadn’t he and Zak robbed a goldsmith right outside the town? Or was it a minister? Or could it have been a post boy? There had been so many, Rand had trouble remembering.

  However, he had no trouble remembering a flower-like face, dark eyes bright with an unfathomable expression that made his need to escape even more vital. Once he would have courted Bess and—

  Zak and I court danger if we stay here much longer.

  Unfortunately, Zak had become enamored of a tavern maid in Coverham, and he balked at leaving. Ever since the theft of Walter Stafford’s clothes and valuables, Rand had decided it would be safer to separate, and Zak had spent the entire time with his Annie.

  No wonder Zak gets caught. Whatever part of his anatomy he uses for thinking, it isn’t his brain.

  Rand shook his mane of unruly hair. Zak had promised they would leave for Scotland today, and Rand meant to hold him to his promise.

  Zak had agreed they’d meet at Roova Crag. Since the crag was visible for miles around, Rand figured Zak couldn’t possibly get lost, or stumble into one of Stafford’s patrols.

  His bonehead cousin hadn’t even bothered to acquaint himself with the area!

  “’Tis no mystery why highwaymen are so easily caught,” Rand told his stallion. “Some of us are just plain stupid.”

  He had long ago decided that Elizabeth was wrong about Stafford’s intellect. The lawman was both perceptive and persistent. And Stafford possessed sufficient London connections to piece together the fact that Rand and Zak were the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion. Early on, Rand had realized that it wasn’t only the Dales’ sparse population that accounted for its low crime rate. The last three highwaymen who had dared intrude upon Stafford’s jurisdiction were still hanging in chains atop Roova Crag. Those particular robbers had made the mistake of holding up a local judge, one of Stafford’s friends. Angered by the judge’s refusal to part with his valuables, the trio had divested the judge’s coachman and footman of their clothes, tied them up, and thrown them into a pond. Then the highwaymen had shot the horses, demolished the coach, and hanged the judge. Unfortunately for them, they had tried to sell their stolen goods to one of Stafford’s many spies.

  Rand didn’t regret his own robbery, or even the impulsive theft of Stafford’s clothes. In the army he had encountered dozens of officers like Stafford, men who had been pampered all their lives, who had inherited or purchased their ranks in order to increase their fortunes at the expense of their troops. If he could even momentarily discomfit the Walter Staffords of the world, Rand considered the possibility of death worth the risk.

  Or at least he had until he encountered Elizabeth Wyndham. He recalled the scene beneath her bedroom window, the touch of her silken hair, the taste of her lips, her breath warm in his hair. Her flowery, female scent had rendered him indecisive. He hadn’t responded with pretty words or insincere promises, but for the first time since the American War he longed for a normal existence. A damn shame it could not be. His Bess was fraught with danger. She didn’t evoke images of a hangman’s noose. Nay, his perception of her was that of a conspirator. Why, he couldn’t say. He only knew that, should he continue to spend time in her presence, he was doomed.

  Wasn’t he doomed anyway? Wouldn’t his feelings for Bess erase the past, dispel the ghosts and—damn! Only a young, foolish lad would conclude that “love conquers all.”

  “Love is a babble,” a man sang at the top of his lungs. “No man is able to say ’tis this or ’tis that, ’tis full of passions, of sundry fashions, ’tis like I cannot tell what.”

  No mistaking that singer, Rand thought, as Prancer picked his way up the rocky path. Zak had beaten him to the summit.

  A pistol cracked. Rand instinctively ducked, even though he could tell that the shot was aimed in the opposite direction. Raising his head, he saw Zak, garbed in a satin waistcoat, black velvet breeches and white silk stockings. The bloody fool was reloading his flintlock.

  Beyond Zak, the skeletons of the hapless highwaymen, clothed in tatters, appeared silhouetted against the sky. Their iron cages creaked in the wind, and their limbs swayed, keeping time to a melody only they could hear.

  “Cousin!” Rand called.

  Zak spun around and grinned. Then he turned back to the gibbet, aimed and fired. One of the skeletons increased the tempo of its dance. Zak aimed a second pistol and pulled the trigger. The pan flashed, but didn’t fire.

  “Damn!” Zak shook his pistol at the gibbet. “Ye toad’s harlot! What’s wrong with ye this time?”

  “You didn’t hit the cage, nor the corpse.” As Prancer carefully made his way around various mounds and tussocks, Rand added, “Maybe your priming is wet or your flint’s dulled.”

  “Or maybe this pistol’s a piece of shit.” Zak poured powder from his large main flask into the first gun’s muzzle, then jammed the patched ball down with a ramrod.

  “What the hell are those?” Rand gestured toward a string of horses tethered nearby.

  Zak’s swarthy features brightened. “Ain’t they a fine bunch? I thought t’ take them t’ Middleham. They’re havin’ a horse fair there today. Annie told me.”

  Rand frowned. “We’re highwaymen, not copers. Besides, Stafford lives in Middleham. You’ve pulled some gormless stunts in your time, cousin, but peddling stolen mounts in Stafford’s town would number among the most idiotic.”

  Zak jammed one of the pistols behind his belt. “’Tis no more gormless than makin’ the bloody pimp walk butt-naked in the fog. Anyway, I bought them beasts fair and square. I’ve got me a bill of sale right here.” He waved a piece of paper in front of Rand.

  Rand knocked it away. “That’s about as worthless as your word. You bloody fool! Do you want to end up like them?” He jerked his head toward the swaying skeletons.

  Zak grinned. “Ye’re a sour one today.”

  Dismounting, Rand slowly circled the grazing horses. If Zak had bought them and planned to make a profit, they couldn’t be quality animals. Rand knew well enough how to fix horses. A lean horse could be temporarily fattened with a glut of unwholesome food. One suffering from a broken wind might be “cured” by keeping it short of food and water, or giving it grease dumplings. A rambunctious horse might be beaten just before it was displayed, making it appear quiet and manageable. A listless horse might be confined to a dark stall. Once freed, it would bound out of the barn and, startled by the daylight, toss its head and prance about like a colt.

  Zak shoved his beaver hat off his forehead, where it perched precariously atop his wig. “What’d I tell ye? Won’t they fetch me a fine amount o’ rum cole?”

  Rand grunted, then ran his hand down a bay gelding’s foreleg. “This one’s lame.”

  “What d’ya mean?” Zak puffed out his chest.

  “I know how you fix a bad leg, cousin.”

  Copers had a thousand tricks, thought Rand. They might soak the leg in water, or they might hammer a tiny stone between the shoe and the hoof’s most sensitive part after first removing a sliver of flesh. Thus the good leg would be lamed, and to an inexperienced eye the horse would appear normal.

  Zak assumed a sorrowful expression. “I can’t believe ye would accuse me of bein’ a bite. Them animals are sound.”

  “Sound? Look at that chestnut mare. You’ve stained its legs to hide its blemished knees.”

  Zak placed his hand over his heart. “I swear on me brother’s grave, ’tis not so.”

  “Both your brothers are alive and kicking, which is more than I can say for these sorry mounts.”

  “Ye’ve wounded me, cousin.”

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do with this fine bunch, Zak, but you’re not selling them. We’re bound for Scotland.”

  Zak’s expression sobered. “Annie says she’s with child, and I promised t’ scrounge up enough ridge t’ see her and the baby through for a
year. I can’t just go off and leave her t’ fend for herself.”

  “What about the fifty guineas from our last robbery?”

  Zak shrugged his massive shoulders. “A man has expenses.” He thrust out his right leg to display a shoe with silver buckles. “These stampers cost a fortune, and Annie was in need of some new lurries.”

  “Are you daft? Annie must be all of two months pregnant. She doesn’t need a new wardrobe, and if she does you can send her money from Scotland.”

  “Ye waste yer boodle on cows an’ such!”

  “’Twas not a waste. Old Fife’s baby was knocking at death’s door.”

  Zak snorted. “I s’pose all the other buggers was knockin’, too.”

  “Look, cousin, I told you from the very beginning that I’d only keep enough to survive, that I’d give the larger portion of my share to those in need.”

  “Annie was in need. I promised her, Rand, and I’ll not disappoint her. Ye know what it’s like t’ be soft on a lass. Ye’re soft on that Wyndham woman, though only Our Lord himself knows why. I’d sooner handle a rabid dog than that one.”

  Judging from Zak’s stubborn expression, Rand knew the argument was lost. Nevertheless he said, “I’ll have no part of your blasted horse fair.” He crossed to the edge of the crag where the valley spread fifteen hundred feet below. The village of West Scrafton huddled in the distance, and alongside it, riders on the king’s highway. “I have a bad feeling about this, Zak. I had that dream again last night. If you go through with your wild scheme, something’s bound to happen.”

  Zak came up behind him. “Ye must visit me sawbones, lad. Them black moods ain’t healthful.”