The Prodigal Hero

by Nancy Butler

She practically growled at him. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

  “Then, I’m all at sea here.”

  “Never mind. It clearly entertains you to be obtuse.”

  “I was rather hoping it would entertain you, but I see you are determined to start another day full of crotchets. It’s well that you never intend to wed ... you are not very stimulating company first thing in the morning.”

  “As if that has anything to do with anything,” she said primly and was surprised when he laughed outright.

  “Enough,” he said, once he had recovered himself. “I will get over being startled by your incredible innocence soon enough. And that’s a pity, because you are quite a rarity, Alexa.” He choked back another chuckle.

  “I assume you have come here for something other than making jokes at my expense,” she said in her most quelling voice.

  He nodded and, after pouring a spill of their nuptial wine into a glass, took a seat near the fire. “First off, I had a look around the village this morning. No sign of our pursuers, I’m happy to say. Unfortunately, I was unable to locate a horse for you. Dagshott is sadly lacking in livestock. I’ve also rethought our travel plans. Quincy’s men believe we are heading overland to Exeter. So it would be wise, I think, to head south ... we’ll pass through Rumpley late this morning, where I have a notion we can find you a horse. Then we’ll make for Bournemouth. I’ve an old friend there who can take us up the coast by boat.”

  “Aha,” she cried, pointing a finger at him. “I knew you were a sailor.”

  “Just because I am acquainted with a sailor, Miss Prescott, does not make me one. I get quite bilious on a ship, if you must know. But I will put my infirmity aside for the sake of getting you to Exeter in time to share Christmas with your father.”

  “Very magnanimous,” she stated. “Especially since I’d be more than halfway home by now if you’d left me alone.”

  He looked at her from over the rim of his glass. “You’d be tucked up between the sheets of Quincy’s bed, you mean.”

  “What a repellant thing to consider,” she groaned. “Now you’ve made me feel bilious.”

  * * *

  While they were settling their account with the landlord, he remarked that they were turning out to be a most popular young couple. “Had another two fellows here late last night, asking after the young lady.”

  Alexa clutched MacHeath’s sleeve before she could stop herself.

  “Easy, ma’am,” their host said. “They looked a lot less threatening than the first two, just a gray-haired man with a ruddy face and a bright young fellow with gapped teeth. They told me a different tale, however. Said you’d been carried off from your coach at gunpoint.” He tipped his head back and appraised Alexa. “You’re sure this fellow isn’t forcing you to stay with him? You say the word, and my lads will come running.”

  MacHeath shot a glance at her, and she felt the muscles in his arm tense beneath her fingers. With a wicked gleam in her eyes, she leaned up and kissed him smartly on the cheek. “Why, sir, I am with Mr. Broadbeam of my own free will. There’s absolutely no question of force.”

  There, she thought, that’s paid him back for last night.

  * * *

  They were several miles outside the village before MacHeath spoke what was on his mind. “I keep wondering about those other two men who were asking about us. They don’t sound like Quincy’s type of hireling.”

  “Perhaps Mrs. Reginald sent some men from Reading to come after me.”

  “It’s certainly possible. Speaking of your companion, did you post your letters last night?”

  “I didn’t write to my father .... I thought we’d have another horse this morning. If we rode hard to Salisbury and got on a mail coach, there was every chance we would have arrived in Cudbright tomorrow night. My father’s expecting me tomorrow, so I thought there was no need to alarm him.”

  “We might still make it,” he said thoughtfully. “We’ll be in Rumpley by noon at the latest, and I promise I’ll find a horse for you. If we ride straight on to Bournemouth and catch a fair wind across Lyme Bay, you’ll be in Cudbright before dark tomorrow.”

  Catch a fair wind, she echoed silently with a secret smile. And he claimed he was no sailor.

  “And so you didn’t write to Mrs. Reginald, either?”

  “Mmm. I sent her a message at the White Hart—I assume she went back there. I told her not to worry, that I was in good hands, and that she should travel on to my father’s house, that I’d explain everything when I got home. With any luck, she won’t get there before us and upset Papa.”

  “But wouldn’t she have written to him after you were taken?”

  “I don’t think so. She is very timid, and he puts her in a quake over the least little thing. Just to make sure, though, I asked her not to write to him if she hadn’t already. Her nerves are so easily overset ... I’m sure this whole thing has rattled her enormously, but I tried to sound reassuring. It was difficult ... I am not feeling very reassured myself.”

  MacHeath halted the horse at once and turned around in the saddle.

  “I swear I won’t let anything happen to you, Alexa. These may be rough, hardened rogues who are after you, but I’ve lived among them long enough to become hardened myself. I’m not afraid of them, and with such men, that is more than half the battle.”

  She set her hand upon his shoulder. “That almost makes me sad. I suspect you were meant for finer things than rubbing elbows with hired thugs.”

  He shrugged carelessly before he turned away from her. “There’s nothing I was meant for,” he said in a low voice. “Not any longer.”

  Alexa wisely chose not to pursue this line of conversation. She knew when a door had been firmly shut in her face. But that didn’t stop her from conjecturing on why such an intelligent, compelling man lived on the edges of society. She eventually decided that he had suffered a Great Tragedy somewhere in his past and determined to ferret it out before their journey was ended.

  Chapter 6

  Quincy was not at all pleased. “I can’t believe you let her get away!”

  Finch and Connor both scraped at the threadbare carpet with their boot toes. It seemed they were bound always to be on the defensive with their employer, standing cowed and abject while he raked them down in the parlors of shabby little inns.

  Finch finally raised his head. “But we did get close, sir. She was there at the Crusader—the landlord admitted she was, once we put a healthy bit o’ fear into him. But she must have heard us come in, and she run off. We searched the whole village, and then scoured the next two towns before we come here. No one saw any sight of the woman or MacHeath. It’s like they dropped off the bleedin’ planet.”

  Quincy thought a moment. “If she ran off, then she knew she was discovered. Which means, if MacHeath has even half a brain, he will change direction. They’d be too easy to follow if they kept on toward Salisbury. It’s my guess they’ve gone south now. MacHeath was a smuggler, as you say, he knows the sea. That’s where he’ll take her. My cousin is a handful on a good day, and by now she’s likely driven him to distraction. He’ll want to be rid of her as soon as may be, which means he’ll take her to the coast. He can get her to Devon faster by ship than on horseback.”

  “Would they make for Portsmouth?” Connor asked.

  In his head Quincy pictured a map of the coast. “That would mean backtracking. I’d think Bournemouth. It’s a straight course to Exeter from there by boat.”

  “They’ll be wary now.” Finch pointed out. “Less likely to stop off in any inns along the way. We’ll have the devil of a time tracking them if that’s the case.”

  “Yes, but they’ll need to stop for food. He can’t be carrying much in the way of provisions, not with my cousin up behind him.”

  “Last we heard they had but one horse between them,” Connor said, “but there’s a chance he’s gotten a beast for her to ride. ‘Specially now that he knows we’re right behind them.”<
br />
  “Good point. Check all the liveries around Dagshott. And then drop south from there. He’s heading for the Channel, I swear it.” In spite of the confidence in his voice, he rubbed the side of his face fretfully with one manicured finger.

  Connor’s brow was gnarled in perplexity. “Then, you’re not going to help us with the search, Mr. Quincy?”

  The blond man made a hissing noise of displeasure. “I’ve told you, don’t ever use my name. Even between yourselves.” He waited until they nodded. “At any rate, I think I can do more for my cause by attending my uncle. We are running out of time, unfortunately. If you haven’t caught up with them before Bournemouth, I want you to take a mail coach to Exeter.”

  He scribbled the direction of his uncle’s home and handed the paper to Finch. “I’ll need you in Cudbright to keep watch on the house. I don’t want Alexa slipping through the net. She mustn’t get to her father. Do you understand?”

  “Aye,” said Finch with a quick nod of his head.

  “When you do find my cousin, send me word at my uncle’s. We’ll work out some sort of plan then. Meanwhile, I’ll be holding the old gent’s hand and being the very best of caring nephews.”

  Quincy smiled to himself; this would be the role of a lifetime. There was much he could gain by offering his solicitude to the old man in his time of distress. He would place himself at his uncle’s disposal, and force himself to bow and scrape if that was what was required. Anything was worth earning Prescott’s gratitude.

  He’d spent most of his life trying to curry his wealthy uncle’s favor, but the man had always treated him with aloof disregard. Prescott was never actually rude to him, but neither had he taken him to his bosom.

  That special place had been reserved for his wife, who had been the center of Prescott’s universe. And then Alexa had been born, and Quincy saw any hopes of gaining the man’s approval vanish. The little upstart had eclipsed him, and as he grew older and understood that, for all his good birth, he was in reality the impecunious relation, he began to hate her ... her father’s darling, her father’s favorite, her father’s only heir.

  As if he’d read his thoughts, Finch said, “I was wonderin’, sir, who gets the old man’s gelt if the girl dies?”

  “I believe I would. My cousin has no siblings, and my uncle has no other relations. I am not blood kin to him—my mother was his wife’s cousin. But I’ve run tame in that house since I was in leading strings—I am the closest thing to a son he’s got.”

  “So why don’t you just put the chit out of the way?”

  “Because,” he said with great forbearance, “I am a gentleman, and such low behavior is repugnant to me.”

  “Phaw,” Finch said in disgust. “Pull t’other one.”

  “Anyway, I need the money now. Not when the old man finally turns up his toes.”

  “We could help him along, as well,” Finch said matter-of-factly.

  “Yes, but I expect a killing spree along the Devon coast might raise some suspicions. Just do as I say and find the damned girl. If you feel the urge to murder someone, MacHeath is a prime candidate.”

  * * *

  It was nearing noon when MacHeath and Alexa rode into a bustling market town. He settled her in the parlor of an inn, the Squire’s Hat, and went off to hire a horse. Alexa grew fretful while she waited. Even though MacHeath had assured her that it was unlikely they were being followed, sitting there alone in the parlor reminded her too much of the previous evening at the Crusader. She started at every strange noise and nearly leaped from her chair when the maid came through the door with her luncheon.

  When she could stand the waiting no longer, she left her meal half-finished and went in search of her missing companion. She walked quickly along the main street of the town, past a chemist shop, a tidy bakery, and a dry goods store. A group of laborers touched their caps to her as she went past them, and a farm girl in a pony trap slowed down to admire Alexa’s pelisse in a very obvious manner. It was reassuring; she felt she could be in little danger in such a public place.

  The row of shops eventually gave way to a grassy field; beyond it the street curved to the right at a stone bridge. There appeared to be more shops on the other side.

  She was crossing the bridge, wondering where in blazes MacHeath had gone, when she heard two horses come up behind her. Only one rider went past her, however, which she thought curious. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and was mounted on a large gray horse. She was about to give him good day, when he swung his beast around sideways, blocking the end of the bridge. He sat there then, leering at her.

  When she spun around, she saw that the other rider, a weedy fellow on a yellow mare, had likewise barricaded the entrance to the bridge.

  “This is rare luck, Alf,” the man on the gray called out. “There we was, all set to give up the search, and she walks right by us.”

  “Let me pass,” she said in her most imperious voice, meanwhile looking desperately in either direction for assistance. She cautioned herself not to panic as she’d done last night. But then she had not been face-to-face with the ugly customers as she was now. “My father is a magistrate here in ... St. Nicholas,” she declared boldly. “And I assure you, he will learn of your insolence.”

  The weedy man guffawed. “An’ I thought this town was called Rumpley. My mistake, I guess.” He nudged his horse closer.

  She edged away from him, but the brawny man had also brought his horse closer to the center of the span, boxing her in.

  “It’s a pleasant day for a stroll, ma’am,” he said. “But it’s an even better day for a nice, long ride.” He licked his lips as he took off his hat. The watery winter sun gleamed down on his bare skull. “If you take my meaning.”

  Alexa’s heart began to pound furiously. She again looked past the men for someone to aid her. The street behind her was obscured by a large thicket of laurels—it was unlikely anyone could even see the bridge through them. The street beyond her appeared to be deserted.

  She watched in terror as Finch began to dismount. Once that Goliath had his hands on her, she would never get away. As she opened her mouth to scream, he plucked out his pistol and leveled it at her. “Not a peep,” he growled. There was no mistaking the menace in his voice.

  Without conscious thought, she hiked up her skirts and scrambled onto the stone railing of the bridge. “Stay back or I will jump!” she warned them. She cast a quick look over her shoulder. The river below looked deep enough that she wouldn’t brain herself if she leaped into it.

  “Now, sweetheart,” Finch crooned as he approached her. “We don’t mean you any harm. We just want to take you someplace warm and safe.”

  “Like a hedge tavern?” she challenged him. “Where my devoted cousin is waiting to ravish me?”

  “That’s not what we have in mind for you. What lying bastard told you that?”

  “I did.”

  Both men’s eyes swung instantly to the far end of the bridge, where MacHeath stood holding a raised pistol in his left hand; a second one was tucked into his waistcoat. The taut expression on his face boded neither of them any good.

  “Aw, Mackie,” Alf called in a wheedling tone. “You wouldn’t use your popper on an old friend. Tell you what? We’ll let you in on the deal ... right, Bully?”

  MacHeath took a step closer. “That has some possibilities. Why don’t you two ride off and let me think it over.”

  “Weren’t born yesterday,” Finch growled, his deep frown making his bulbous forehead look like a melon gone bad. “That’s not how this is going to play out.”

  Alexa saw that he was edging the barrel of his pistol up along his horse’s withers; the animal was blocking MacHeath’s view of it.

  “He’s got a gun!” she shouted from her perch.

  MacHeath instantly straightened his arm and shot Bully Finch in the side of the neck, right over his horse’s saddle.

  Alf squawked in surprise and fumbled for his own weapon, but his horse had commenced to dan
cing. Finch roared in pain and rage as he staggered sideways, one hand clasped over the long, bloody gash on his neck. Darting a swift, vicious look at MacHeath, he raised his shaking pistol and aimed it at Alexa.

  What she read in his face stopped her heart. Without a second’s hesitation she stepped backward off the ledge and plummeted straight down to the water below.

  Just before she hit the surface, she heard the echo of Finch’s shot.

  The river was deeper than it had appeared from the bridge, deeper and swifter. She pushed up from the bottom, where the water weeds tangled in her skirts, and sputtered to the surface. The shock of the icy water stole all her breath. Paddling furiously, she tried making for the reed-covered bank, but the current was too strong, and she found herself being swept under the bridge.

  She looked up frantically as she cleared the archway. A number of people were gathered up there now, but the two riders had disappeared. She thought she saw MacHeath leaning over the stone railing.

  Suddenly she experienced a shimmering, fantastical vision of a tall man leaping over the side of the bridge in a perfect arcing dive.

  Something jolted inside her. A memory from long ago—one she had never quite forgotten—slammed into her. Simeon Hasting ... her dear, disgraced Simeon ... slicing down into the water to save her.

  But no one had dived from the bridge, and that ancient memory was torn away from her abruptly when a sideways eddy propelled her into a pile of jagged rocks. She fought the current until she was drawn back to midstream.

  “Alexa-a-a!” MacHeath shouted her name from the bank, running to keep pace with her. “There’s a landing farther down,” he called out. “Just stay with me, sweetheart.”

  She saw the pale shingle up ahead, thrusting out into the water, and she stroked toward it with all her strength. Her body was completely numb below her neck, but she somehow managed to keep kicking.

  At the landing MacHeath was already waiting for her, thigh deep in the water. He clasped her arm with his left hand as she swept by, and then clamped his right arm around her waist, tugging her into shallow water.