by Ashe Barker
“Ah… the money then.” I am strangely disappointed and not because I had hoped to retain my fortune intact.
“A thousand pounds, you say?”
“Yes, it shall be yours in eight months’ time.”
“In that case, madam, I am at your service.”
Chapter Three
I have not the faintest notion what possessed me to reconsider. It is not as though I need the little wench’s money and I have no serious intention of collecting my ‘fee’ in eight months’ time. Her alternative offer is the more attractive, but I doubt the lady to be in any condition to fulfil her part of that particular bargain, at least not for a while. She is badly battered, her face and body a mass of bruises and as she walks beside me to my horse, I discern a distinct limp. I also notice how small she is, a fact that had somehow escaped me back at the coach.
That bastard has much to answer for and he shall do so. Not right now though and certainly not while my little protégée looks on. It would have been a pleasure to deal with him here and now but he will keep and I have a more pressing problem to address. I need to find a place of safety in which to install a vulnerable young lady until such time as she is sufficiently recovered to make the journey to Scotland. I am reluctant to abandon her in some anonymous coaching inn, but neither am I comfortable about remaining overlong in her company. Apart from the rather insistent demands being made by my dick, I consider it less than prudent to risk enabling her to identify me in the future. She may be grateful for my aid now, but will that sentiment last when in the cool light of a new day she has the leisure to reflect upon my dubious profession?
A highwayman trusts no one. That is the only way to keep the hangman at bay and even that strategy cannot always be guaranteed to work.
I whistle and Nero, my horse, lifts his head from the grazing he was enjoying. He trots over to us, his reins dangling from the bridle. I flung myself from his back as soon as I came upon the struggle in the woods and am glad of his loyal nature that means he will never stray far. I remount and lean down to offer my assistance to my diminutive companion. She takes my hand and I lift her up to sit before me. She winces as she seeks to arrange herself in comfort.
“Apart from bruises, do you think you have any more serious injuries? Where does it hurt the most?” Should I procure the services of a physician as well as finding her safe board and lodging?
“My ribs, though I do not believe any to be broken. The pain is lessening, I think.”
I am relieved to hear this but not entirely convinced. The wench has courage and fortitude. As for her injuries, time will tell. Meanwhile, we need to put some miles between ourselves and the scene of the crime.
“We need to ride hard, but you must tell me if you desire me to stop.”
“Thank you. I will be all right. I will not slow you down, I promise.”
I flick the reins and give Nero a soft tap with my heels, sufficient signal to send him into a brisk canter soon to become a hard gallop when we clear the trees. I turn his head north in the direction of the village of Knaresborough. A plan is forming in my mind.
After perhaps ten minutes flat out gallop, I slow Nero to a canter again. It is only now that I realise my passenger is shivering.
God’s bones! I pull her closer to me and wrap my cloak around her slender from. “Is that better?”
“Thank you, sir. Yes, it is.”
“Not too uncomfortable? Remember, you must ask if you need a rest.”
“Thank you, but I am quite all right.”
I accept that at face value and press on.
A further ten minutes or so pass before she breaks the silence. “Sir, may I know your name?”
Ah… right. I knew this was coming and I am prepared. “You may. I go by the name of Alistair Graham. Most just call me Gray.” It is a good enough descriptor for a highwayman and gentleman thief.
“I am Imogen. Miss Imogen Bennett from York.”
A pretty name. It suits her. “It is my great pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Bennett.”
“I am delighted to meet you too, Mr. Graham… Gray. May I ask, what is our destination?”
“As to that, I would prefer you not to know where we are or where we are going. In fact, I will need to insist that you wear a blindfold before we progress very much further. It is for your protection and, of course, mine. And that of others we may need to do business with in the course of the coming days. I am sure you will appreciate my preference to remain anonymous and avoid leaving a trail.”
“I… yes, of course, I was not thinking. I will comply with whatever stipulations you feel are required.”
My cock twitches and I bite back a curse. Such obedient submission is rare in a woman and quite beautiful in my view. As my member swells and hardens within my breeches, I shift in the saddle in order to prevent her noticing. I am not entirely convinced of my success, but she makes no comment on my embarrassing condition, so perhaps there is hope.
“Is that why you have not removed your mask, Mr… Graham? So that I may not recognise you in the future?”
“Gray. And yes, it is best you are not able to identify me in the unlikely event that our paths might cross again.”
“I understand, but please be assured I would never betray your kindness and chivalry.”
“I am neither kind nor chivalrous, Miss Bennett. A thousand pounds will purchase much in the way of practical aid.”
“You have protected me, Mr… Gray and I have no doubt you saved my life. I reserve the right to believe you to be a man of honour as well as one in possession of astute business sense.”
“It is just Gray. And you may continue to believe what you like of me, Miss Bennett. All I demand of you is that you do as I tell you and in return, I will do my utmost to ensure your safe passage to wherever you choose to go.” Despite my gruff response, I find her good opinion oddly warming. I urge Nero back into a gallop before she has any opportunity to take the discussion further.
* * *
“Miss Bennett, I must blindfold you now.”
We have been riding for almost three hours and have come within five miles of Knaresborough. The grey light of a new dawn is just starting to bathe the countryside and although Imogen has dropped into a deep slumber, it is quite possible she might awaken at any moment and spot some landmark that would betray our location. At my muttered words she stirs in my arms.
“I am sorry, what did you say?”
I rein in Nero as Imogen comes fully awake and twists her body to peer up into my masked face. I repeat my request. “I must ask you to wear a blindfold from here.”
“Oh… yes, of course. But… what if we pass someone? It is getting light and people will soon be about. Will it not seem peculiar?”
“All the more reason for me to remove my mask, which I cannot do as long as you are able to see me. So, may I…?”
I produce a kerchief from within my cloak and fold it along the diagonal, then again to form a long, thick band of fabric. “Once it is in place, you may secrete yourself under my cloak where you will be warm. Please ensure your head is covered to conceal the blindfold and I will inform you when we reach our destination.”
Her mouth flattens in a resigned smile and she gives a brief nod. I make haste to secure the blindfold in place, then draw my thick cloak around her. Only when I am sure she is completely hidden do I reach to pull off my own mask. It feels good to breathe unfettered again after several hours. I urge Nero into a steady canter and we continue on our way.
* * *
“We are here, Imogen. I will help you down and you must stand quite still until I instruct otherwise. Do you understand?”
I peel back my cloak to reveal the small figure huddled beneath. She nods and straightens in the saddle. I dismount quickly, then reach up to place my hands on either side of her waist.
“I have you. Just slide down to the ground if you would, please.”
She ob
eys without hesitation and I hold her for the few moments it takes for her legs to steady. I toss Nero’s reins at the rather bemused-looking stable lad who has rushed out to greet us on hearing the clatter of hooves in the courtyard. I narrow my eyes at him, sufficient incentive for the boy to offer no comment or questions as to the presence of my unexpected companion. I take Imogen’s hand and lead her toward the rear door of the inn.
“We will be going up some stairs and you should remain very close to me. All right?”
“Yes, Gray,” she murmurs. Her grip on my hand tightens, so much so that I feel the pressure through the thick leather of my gloves.
“Trust me, you will be quite safe.”
“I know that. It is just… I am not used to… I hate the dark, that is all. And I am afraid I might trip.”
I scoop her into my arms then shoulder the door open. As I make my way up the stairs with her, she flings her arms around my neck.
“Am I hurting you?”
“No, sir, not at all.”
“Liar,” I whisper, as I set her down at the threshold to the room I intend to use. I reach around her to open the door. “You are covered in bruises.”
I steer her into the small but comfortable lodgings, a place I use quite regularly and where I know we will be safe and undisturbed. The Blue Man inn at Knaresborough is a decent hostelry where a fine mug of ale and wholesome fare may be procured for a fair price and the accommodation is both clean and warm. Most important of all, the innkeeper is a close personal friend who owes me more than a few favours. I am confident of both our welcome and comfort whilst under this roof.
I manoeuvre Imogen across the room to the bed, then command her to sit. She does so, her chin tilted up despite the blindfold obscuring her vision. Her head swivels to follow me around the room as I move about lighting the fire and arranging lamps as needed. Satisfied, I return to crouch in front of her.
“Imogen, I am going to leave you now, but I will be back in few hours. You are at an inn, a safe establishment where you may rest and make yourself comfortable. The innkeeper is called Thomas and he will shortly bring a tray of food for you, followed by a bath with plenty of warm water. I suggest you avail yourself of these, then get some sleep. You will feel much better in a few hours.”
“I feel fine now.”
“No, you do not. Despite sleeping most of the way here, you are exhausted. You must be hungry and your bruised body will benefit from a long, hot soak. If you need anything else, you have only to ask Thomas and he will do all he can to provide for your comfort.”
“Must you go?” Her tone is plaintive, her courage wavering.
I take her hands in mine, now minus the gloves since I came indoors and I squeeze them. “Yes, I have matters I must attend to but I swear I will return before nightfall. I will lock the door behind me; that is for your protection. You are not a prisoner. Thomas has a key and he will let you out at any time if you ask him. You are free to leave if you choose to, but I advise that you do not until I have made preparations for your onward journey. When you hear the lock turn, you may remove the blindfold.”
“What about when you come back? Should I put it back on?”
“I shall be masked when I enter. You need not wear the blindfold again if it frightens you.”
“I do not fear the blindfold. I am afraid of you not being here.”
I stand, then cup her chin in my palm. “Trust me, little Imogen. I will be back for you.”
I take her reluctant nod as sufficient permission to make my exit. I lock the door behind me and make my way back down into the main room of the tavern to face the wrath of Thomas.
Thomas McIntyre is a long-time acquaintance of mine and former comrade in arms. He and I fled Scotland together with the young prince, Charles Stewart, following the failed Jacobite uprising of 1746 some four years ago. We narrowly escaped the final battle of the uprising, Culloden, with our lives and I have no doubt neither one of us would have survived the slaughter alone.
Thomas shouted a warning to me as one of King George’s fine militia bore down on me from behind brandishing three feet of fine English steel. I managed to shift in time and the English soldier buried his blade in the soft earth. Thomas saw him off to his maker and from there, we had each other’s backs. I managed to return the favour, dragging Thomas to the ground to evade the bullets of the English artillery and we somehow managed to emerge from the field with nothing more than a few cuts and bruises.
This was more than could be said for the majority of our countrymen who had rallied to support The Young Chevalier. By the end of that fateful day all around us the dead of Culloden lay heaped, the stench appalling, the blood of so many brave Scotsmen seeping into the earth beneath our feet. The dying lay among them, only the occasional groan or flutter of a limb denoting the difference. In a few hours even that distinction would be eradicated.
Thomas and I found shelter in a deserted barn, only to be joined there by the tattered remnants of Bonnie Prince Charlie’s personal guard, their defeated leader among them. The next several months were spent evading capture by the English and plotting with loyal Scots to spirit our vanquished prince away. The Sweet Virgin only knows how we eluded capture, but we did and eventually managed to get aboard a frigate bound for France. Although we were glad enough of the haven at the time, neither Thomas nor myself saw ourselves living out our lives in exile.
The Jacobite cause was lost. In the months following Culloden, as I reflected on the idiotic tactics of our leaders during the entire uprising, I could not help concluding that was perhaps a good thing. The Young Pretender inspired loyalty well enough and was an impressive figurehead to rally behind, but would have made a poor ruler, in my view. I had been a youthful idealist myself when I took up arms against the English, flying in the face of my family’s wishes and fervent advice. Driven by a vision of a liberated Scotland, free from English rule, I was ready to lay down my life for the cause. Whilst still harbouring a lingering fondness for such patriotic zeal, I am mellower now and a disinterested Roman Catholic at best. If expedient to do so I daresay I could bring myself to espouse the Protestant faith, but for the most part I successfully avoid all encounters with religion and the dear Lord seems content with my approach.
Thomas and I returned to Britain in 1748 and Thomas took over the running of his uncle’s tavern here in Knaresborough. His elderly relative died of influenza soon after our return, so Thomas was set up for life as long as no one should get wind of our previous foray into rebellion. For myself, I may be a disillusioned nationalist and have no enduring interest in politics but I find my passion for adventure undiminished. I like to live dangerously and have generally found the life of a highwayman convivial enough. I have made a decent living at it for the last couple of years and apart from one or two narrow scrapes where I had to ride Nero hard to elude the attentions of King George’s militia, I have managed to evade justice.
It is my intention to continue to do so, to which end I make it my business not to employ undue violence that would attract greater energy in pursuing me. Nor have I ever treated the females I have robbed with less than perfect courtesy. My mother would never have countenanced such ungentlemanly conduct for one thing and for another, I hold women in generally high esteem and would have no desire to harm a lady.
Maybe therein lies the explanation for my near irrational anger at the attack I witnessed when I opened the door of the coach carrying Miss Bennett and her stepbrother. I would not normally leave my victim bound and helpless and minus his cloak when I conclude my business with him, but that bastard brought out all my worst qualities. I managed to retain some semblance of reasoned thought when I turned down Miss Bennett’s enticing proposals but found myself unable to sustain that clarity of purpose for long and turned back after just a couple of minutes, mercifully in time to put an end to Sidney’s final, murderous assault.
As a result, that lady now enjoys the comforts of Thomas’ hospitalit
y and I owe my friend and accomplice some sort of explanation. I enter the tavern to find him manhandling a large cask of ale across the floor so I hurry to assist him. Together we manage to position the barrel such that the tap can be readily broken and the ale served to Thomas’ customers, not that any are in evidence right now. The denizens of Knaresborough are as fond of their ale as those of any other village, but at this hour of the morning most are either still abed or preparing for the day’s labours, so the tavern is empty but for the pair of us, Seth, the stable lad, and my sweet companion upstairs.
It is the subject of Imogen that is most exercising Thomas’ mind as we stand back from the barrel, panting.
“So, who is she?” Concise and to the point, Thomas can generally be relied upon to go straight to the heart of the matter. “And what the fuck is she doing here?”
“Her name is Imogen Bennett. She requires a place to hide. I thought here would be a suitable choice.”
“She is an outlaw?” Thomas’ eyebrows disappear under his low cap. “Seth said you brought her into the yard bound and blindfolded.”
“Not bound, but I believed it prudent that she remain unaware of this place, or at least as unaware as I could make her. And no, not an outlaw. She is merely in need of protection and a safe refuge for a few days. I naturally thought of you.”
Thomas gives a disgruntled snort, then picks up a cloth and starts attacking his perfectly clean tables with it.
“How long?”
“Two days… three perhaps. She met with something of a misadventure last night and needs time to recover. Just bruises, but she is sore and—”
“Not you?”
I glare at him, incensed. “Of course, not me! God’s holy teeth, Tom, have you ever known me to raise my hand to a lass?”
“Aye, often enough.” He fixes me with a level stare, quite unintimidated by my indignant response.
I subside. He has a point, perhaps.
