Meg glanced up at Kincaid, who was still waiting for her response. She sighed. A part of her wanted to please him because he'd been so kind to her. But she'd spent a lifetime pleasing men: her stoic father, then Philip and his brother, the Earl of Rutledge. "I'm just not hungry."
"I spoke with Mrs. Chandler, a woman on the common debtors' side. She's a midwife. She says you must eat red meat, plenty of liver and blood sausage to replace what your body's lost."
Meg set the fork on the edge of her plate and dabbed her lips with her napkin. "I don't like blood sausage or liver. Never did."
"Then what do you like? Lamb? Partridge? I'll get it for you. I can order from the tavern whatever you crave."
Meg shook her head in disbelief, glancing away toward the barred windows. The man sounded so sincere that it scared her. She wasn't used to such honest giving of one's self. At Rutledge Castle there was always a motive behind any good deed or pleasant word. "I just don't understand you, Kincaid. Why are you doing this? I'm nothing to you. No one."
He slathered butter on his warm bread and took a bite. He ate with the same enthusiasm with which he seemed to meet every aspect of life. "I told you. I like you."
Her gaze moved to the fire on the hearth. Though the wind was blowing harshly beyond the walls of Newgate Prison, their rented cell was as cozy as a Duke's withdrawing room. "You don't know me."
"So help me get to know you better. Tell me your childhood nursemaid's name." He took another bite of his bread. "Tell me what gift you received last Christmas Eve. How many freckles do you have on the back of your right knee?"
Meg swung her head around to look at him with shock at his outrageousness. "Sir, I hardly think—"
Kincaid was grinning—as usual. He pointed. "Touché."
Meg sighed. She was trying hard not to like him, not to get too attached. After all, the man was a highwayman, a common criminal. He was liable to be hanged before long. And what future was there in a friendship she would only have to break? As soon as she managed her release, she would follow through with her plan to become a ladies' maid. Her key to survival, she knew, was anonymity. "I really wish you would not speak to me in such intimate ways, sir."
"Kincaid," he corrected, washing his bread down with his ale. "I'm no gentleman. I'll be called by a Christian name."
"Kincaid," she conceded impatiently. She rose to walk to the hearth, her skirts brushing the floor. Somehow he had managed to acquire all the trappings of a lady's attire. The gown, underclothing, and shoes were unadorned, but well made. Inside the gaol walls, they must have cost him the price of a seeded pearl gown fit for an audience with King Charles himself.
She put out her hands to the fire to warm them. "As I was saying, Kincaid, I wish you wouldn't speak to me with such familiarity. It's not appropriate."
He chuckled. "Meg, we sleep and eat together. I know it embarrasses you, but I've attended to your personal needs. Like it or not, we've become as familiar as most men and their wives, more familiar than many I know."
He had a point. She knew he did. That was one of the things she immediately liked about him. Kincaid was a practical man, seemingly unencumbered by society's rules. "You claim you're not a gentleman and yet you speak like one." She stared into the flickering fire. "You act like one."
"Me? A gentleman?" He made an event of folding his linen napkin, his movements exaggerated and effeminate. "Are you calling me a fop, madame?"
She laughed at his antics. Sweet God, how long had it been since she'd had cause to laugh? "I didn't say fop, I said gentleman. A man of refinement, of education," she eyed him over her shoulder, "perhaps title."
Kincaid tossed the napkin into the air and it floated downward until it settled over a serving dish of congealed raisin pudding. "I am what I am."
His tone had changed so that there was an edge to his voice. Meg realized immediately that she'd struck a nerve in her highwayman. "I wasn't prying. We agreed there'd be no discussion of our pasts, yours or mine. I only meant to say—"
"I'm going to the taproom for a pottle of wine."
This was the first time in the week she had known him that he had showed this side of his personality. So Kincaid could be as moody as any man if pushed to the point.
He caught his wool cloak from a hook near the door and tossed it over his broad shoulders. It was so cold in the gaol this time of year that men and women without proper covering or the coin to pay for a fire froze to death daily. "Lock the door behind me. I'll be but an hour or so."
Meg followed him to the door, sorry that she had angered him. "Kincaid—"
His face was stony. "Let it go, Meg."
Then he was gone, closing the door behind him. "The lock." His voice echoed off the stone walls of the corridor Meg had not passed through since her arrival.
Meg turned the heavy iron key and the door mechanism caught. She stood listening to his heavy footfall until it dissipated. With a sigh, she went back to the fireplace to pour herself a cup of tea the laundress had left brewing for her. Warm cup in hand, she pulled a chair to the hearth and sat down, hiking her silk brocade skirts to her knees to warm herself. She sipped the sweet cinnamon brew.
"Meg," she whispered. Then louder, "Meg." She liked the sound of her new name. She liked what it represented. Gone was Margaret Hannibal, Daughter of John Hannibal. Gone was Lady Surrey, wife of the Viscount of Surrey. Gone were the Randalls and their hideous curse of deformities. Meg was a new woman now. A woman without a past, with only a future. In time she would forget the loneliness, the despair of her past. She would seek what happiness there was in the world for her, the happiness her grandmama had always promised her darling Meg.
Meg's thoughts turned to Kincaid . . . all too easily for her comfort. So where did Kincaid fit into this new life? He had saved her on the road to London. Of course, he had saved her from Rutledge's pursuit only to have her tossed into gaol for a crime she didn't commit.
But he had given her the time she needed to heal, both physically and mentally. Even not knowing what had happened to her, he'd found a way these last few days to ease the ache she felt in her heart for her lost babe. Somehow, without knowing the pain she suffered, or the crime she'd committed, Kincaid had a way of placing her past in perspective. He claimed not to be a Godly man, and yet his philosophies of life helped Meg restore her faith, not just in God, but in herself. Looking back at the life she had led at Rutledge Castle, she couldn't honestly say now which loss had been the greatest, that of her child's life or her confidence in God and therefore herself.
Meg smoothed the bodice of her gown where her breasts were bound. They still ached with milk meant for a child, but they were better. She was better. She took another sip of her tea.
So, she had successfully escaped the earl and the law for her crime of killing her husband. But now, how did she escape this crime for which she was completely innocent? Highway robbery was a serious felony. Men and women were hanged weekly at Tyburn for the offense.
Kincaid swore he would get her out of Newgate. He said it would take but a few days, a few weeks at the most. He said his man, Monti, was working on the necessary bribes, by the time Kincaid and Meg had reached the vaulted walls of the gaol.
Meg knew she had little choice but to trust Kincaid. After all, she couldn't well explain to the sheriff that she was actually innocent of the crime of aiding a highwayman. What would she say? I murdered my husband, fled my home, fell unconscious, and this kind highwayman picked me up along the road? I did kill my husband, but I was merely an unconscious bystander to the coach robbery, kind sheriff?
Meg laughed to herself. She was stuck, stuck with Kincaid at least for the time-being. Once they were released, they would go their separate ways. She would seek her happiness in the city, as a ladies' maid, or perhaps a clerk at the 'Change selling ribbons or cloth. Maybe she would even dare to find a way to go to the American colonies.
Philip and the earl had once had a guest stay at the castle, a ship's captain. Ni
ght after night he had entertained her with tales of the sea and even more intriguing, tales of the American wilderness. Listening to his stories of red Indians, lush forests, and salty bays, she had longed to see the land she knew she would never see. Now, suddenly there was the possibility. Despite the dangers of a woman without chaperone, alone in Londontown, there were possibilities—possibilities that had never existed for her at Rutledge.
The sound of a knock at the door startled Meg. "Kincaid?" She rose, turning to face the door. It was too soon for him to return from the taproom. Perhaps it was the laundress. "Mrs. Kohn? Is that you?"
The knock came again, firm and echoing.
"Who . . . who is it?"
"Turnkey for the woman, Meg," came a grating voice.
She recognized the voice immediately. It was the filthy little man with the bulging eyes that came to the door each day for his payment. He brought their meals from the tavern and carried messages beyond the walls of Newgate. Kincaid never let him inside their room, but dealt with him in the taproom or the corridor.
"What do you want?"
"Open the door, Meggy"
Kincaid had told her to open the door for no one. He said she was not safe anywhere within Newgate, except locked here in their room, or at his side. "Tell me what you want. C . . . Captain Scarlet doesn't wish to be disturbed."
"I seen your man go down the hall, so don't play the sly with me. I know 'e ain't there, Meggy."
She set her tea mug on the rough-hewn mantel over the hearth. "Go away." She hugged herself, wishing Kincaid were there. She didn't know what to do.
"Cain't. You been summoned."
"Summoned?" Her heart skipped a beat. Had someone realized who she was? Had they come for her? "Summoned by whom?"
"Summoned by whom?" the turnkey mocked. "The Lord Chief Justice 'imself, that's whom! So get yer lily-white ass out 'ere!"
Harsh words had no effect on Meg. She'd listened to them a lifetime. She steadied her voice. "Why? Why does he want me?" she asked through the door.
"Questionin'." He rattled the doorknob impatiently. "Open up, Meggy. He ain't a man to be set waitin'."
She took a step toward the door. "Doesn't he want to speak with . . . with Captain Scarlet, as well?"
"Said just you. Just the highwayman's woman."
So I've become the highwayman's woman, have I? She rested her hand on the key to the lock.
The turnkey rattled the knob again. "It ain't like you got a choice, Miss High and Mighty. Ye been summoned. Either you come to the Lord Justice on yer own two precious feet, or I call the guard, they busts the door, and haul you outta there."
After a moment of indecision, Meg turned the lock. The door swung open immediately and she stood face-to-face with the Deputy Turnkey. He held up a sputtering candle to illuminate her doorway. He was a short man with a protruding stomach, the ragged cloth that covered it stained with the likes of gravy and mashed turnips. He wore a cheap, ill-fitting wig that must have once been white, but had turned a dull gray with time and lack of upkeep.
The disgusting little man picked at his teeth with a long, grimy fingernail as he stared up at her. Extracting a shred of beef, he wiped it on his coat. "Even', missy. It's no wonder the cap'ain keeps you to 'imself. Comely bitch you is, for certain."
Meg pulled the cloak Kincaid had procured for her from the nail on the wall. Words, nothing but words, and words couldn't hurt unless a woman let them, that was what Grandmama always said. "Well, let's go. Let's be done with it."
"This way m'laidy." The turnkey gave a sweep of his fat hand.
Meg passed the creature, taking care not to let her skirts brush against him. The man smelled of a sewer. "Which way?"
He held the candle high so that pale light cast over the stone floor and walls. Meg felt like she was inside a tomb.
"This way, missy." He pushed past her, touching her hip purposefully with one hand as he went by.
Meg shrank back against the wall and a rat screeched, caught between her and the stone. She gave a jump, stifling a cry as the rodent scurried over her slipper and disappeared into the darkness.
The turnkey hocked and spat on the floor. "Stay with Archie, 'ere, missy. I'll protect ye from the vermin." Chuckling, he started down the dark hallway again, leaving Meg with no choice but to follow or be left behind in the pitch darkness.
The turnkey led her through the catacombs of the prison, said to be built early in the thirteenth century during the reign of King John. For hundreds of year the gaol had been the abode of suffering and sorrow for the likes of debtors, felons, religious martyrs, and committers of treason.
Meg followed Archie down steps and up through the fetid passageways that stank of stale air, human excrement, and hopelessness. Above and below her and on all sides, she heard the sounds that would haunt her in her dreams forever. Some men laughed, others cried. Sobs reverberated off the cold stone walls, neither male nor female, only voices floating. Somewhere a woman screamed in the agony of the last stage of childbirth, and Meg, remembering her own delivery, wondered if the mother cried in anguish because of the pain, or because of the wretched circumstances of her child's birth.
The turnkey went around another corner and Meg hurried to catch up. In the gloom of the madness, even this creature was a comfort. "How much farther?" she asked, hoping he didn't hear the uneasiness in her voice.
"Not much, missy."
They walked to the end of the corridor and Archie rapped on a wooden and iron door and then flung it open. "The girl, Meg, to see you, m'lord."
Meg stepped into the chamber, very similar to the one she shared with Kincaid. Only here there was no bed, but instead, a desk and a chair on each side.
A tall, bewigged man in a gold cloak turned from the fireplace to face her. He had a long nose and high cheekbones, an honest face.
Meg dipped a curtsy as one of her own maids would have. "M'lord."
Archie stood in the arched doorway scratching furiously beneath his wig. Catching a plump louse between his thumb and finger, he cracked it enthusiastically.
Meg's stomach churned.
"Get out," the Lord Justice ordered with a wave of his ringed finger. "Out, you malodorous Papist!" He brought an embroidery-edged handkerchief to his nose. "In God's name, man. You stink! Have they no running water inside these walls?"
Archie bowed and backed out of the room, grinning.
Meg stood just in front of the door the turnkey closed. She could still hear him outside in the passageway. He must have been told to wait.
The Lord Justice walked to a Spartan table and poured himself a portion of sack posset. "A warm drink on a cold night, madame?" He lifted the bottle.
Meg shook her head. She kept her hands folded neatly, her eyes averted.
"I suppose you wonder why I've called you here."
She looked up, but made no reply.
The middle-aged man sighed. He appeared both tired and overworked.
"I sent for you because I need your help. All of England needs your help, madame." He sipped from his glass, letting his words sink in. "It seems that since the return of His Highness, we have been overrun with highway robberies. The mails are not safe from these thieves. Innocent men and women are being assaulted."
Still, Meg said nothing.
The man sighed. "If you were to provide the courts with information—"
"I don't know anything."
". . . you could easily be pardoned."
So that was his game. Pardon. Release. Of course she couldn't give any information, because she didn't know any. And even if she did, how could she betray Kincaid, criminal or not? He had risked his life to save her on the muddy road. He had a chance to escape the king's soldiers that night, but he had chosen to return for her.
"I told you," she said, her voice without emotion. "I don't know anything."
He swished the liquor in his glass, watching it slosh up the sides and run down into the pool again. "How can you not know anything? You
were caught with the bandits that night."
"A mistake," she said softly. Then she looked at him with a defiance in her eyes. "I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time." A smile played in the corners of her mouth. This felt good, this new strength of hers. It felt good to defy authority. It felt good to be alive.
The Lord Chief Justice set his glass down impatiently. "Come, madame. This could mean your life. Don't you understand, you could be hanged beside this man!"
Again, she dropped her gaze to the stone floor at her feet. "I'm sorry, sir, but I've nothing to offer you. I came upon the gentleman in a tavern." She was amazed how easily the lie rolled off her tongue. It was as if she was creating her own past as she went along. "We but shared a little wine and laughter."
"You're telling me he was taking you home to his bed, when on his way he decided to rob a coach?" The man laughed, but it was obvious he saw no humor in her explanation. "Come, child, surely you don't think me that old and foolish."
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug as she often saw Kincaid do. So let the Lord Justice think she was a whore, better than a murderess, was it not? " 'Tis the truth. I cannot change it, not even for my own release."
He exhaled, blowing from his cheeks. "Heaven help my soul, I've been at this too long. I almost believe you."
They stared at each other for another moment. Then he waved his hand. "Well, go with you. But if ye have a change of heart, call for me. I'm the only man in all of England save our good king himself who can get you out of this hell hole, and it's not likely he'll come calling, I can promise you that."
Meg only nodded.
After another moment the Lord Justice turned away, dismissing her. "Deputy Turnkey!"
The door opened so quickly that Meg knew Archie must have been listening at the door. "M'lord?"
"Take her back to her cell and see she's not harmed on the way." He tossed a coin into the air and Archie put out his dirty hand to catch it.
Meg heard the turnkey add the coin to a pouch on his waist before he lifted the candle to light the way. "Come along with ye, miss."
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 3
