The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  She followed him back the way they'd come, through the dark tunnels, thankful he was there. Otherwise she'd never have found her way back to the Press Yard where she and Kincaid shared their cell. After five minutes of walking, Meg began to grow uneasy. Was Archie leading her the same way they'd come? The darkness and the stench were making her nervous. "Archie, is it far, now?"

  "Not much," he cackled. But then he halted in the middle of the narrow passageway and turned to face her. Meg had only to look at his face to see his intention.

  She took a step back, lifting her hands in defense. "No. Get back," she whispered. "The Lord Justice said to return me safely. He paid you to return me to my quarters safely."

  "Ye tellin' me what to do, Miss High and Mighty!" Archie lunged forward, grabbing a handful of her cloak.

  Meg screamed, striking him on the side of the head with her closed fist. She knocked the candle out of his hand, launching them into darkness.

  Four

  "In for a little sport are ye?"

  Meg felt the turnkey's hand on her breast as he groped in the darkness. She could hear him panting.

  "No!" Meg screamed. Thoughts of Philip flashed through her head. She remembered him pushing her onto their bed. She remembered him lifting her sleeping gown, despite her protests. How many times had that happened in the last few years as he tried desperately to plant his seed inside her? She squeezed her eyes shut, fighting her panic. She could still smell Philip's fishy breath on her face. No. She had wanted to tell him no so many times. So why hadn't she?

  Suddenly Meg reacted. "Son of a malodorous whore!" she shouted, giving Archie a hard shove.

  "Aye!" he cackled. "I like it with a fight just as well as the next man, I do!" He caught her by one wrist, then the other, pushing her backwards.

  In the darkness Meg could see nothing but the outline of his form. Her attempt to fight him off seemed only to be adding to his sexual excitement. He pushed her against the stone wall and she jerked up her leg, catching him squarely in the groin with her knee.

  "Owlll!" Archie screeched. "Bitch!" He reached out to slap her, but she ducked, and dove beneath his arm.

  "Where ye think yer goin', missy?" He grasped her by the back of her cloak and jerked it so hard that her neck snapped back.

  "Help!" Meg screamed, swinging her fists. "Help me! Someone!"

  The Deputy Turnkey grabbed her around the neck and pulled her against him. Through the thick cloth of her cloak and gown she could feel his hand on her buttocks as he squeezed viciously.

  "What's the matter, Missy? Ain't I good enough for ye? I'm only askin' for a piece of what yer givin' that highwayman."

  "You do this and he'll come after you." She panted, trying to catch her breath, trying to keep her head about her. "You do this and he'll slit your throat!"

  "Shut up before I shut you up!"

  When he clamped his hand over her mouth, she sank her teeth into the flesh of his palm.

  "Bitch!" he shouted, immediately loosening his grip to nurse his wounded hand.

  Meg ducked and lunged forward. She could taste his blood in her mouth, metallic and sickening.

  Archie grabbed her again and she jabbed him in the chest with her elbow. He grabbed a hank of her hair and Meg reached up instinctively to her head.

  She gritted her teeth, her mind spinning. She'd been a victim too long. She'd not give in to this man and his lust. She'd not do it. Not for this man or any other. Not ever again.

  With a vindictive scream, Meg turned to face her attacker, taking him by surprise. Fingers flexed, she sank her fingernails into his eyes.

  Archie squealed like a hog at slaughter, letting go of her hair. He stumbled backwards.

  But instead of fleeing as she should have, Meg flung herself against him. "How dare you?" she ranted, sinking her fist into his soft middle. "How dare you try to take advantage of me," she emphasized each word with a well-placed punch, "you . . . sniveling . . . leech!"

  When Archie doubled over, she brought her knee up, striking him in the mouth.

  "Sweet God, you're mad!" he blubbered.

  Meg knocked off his wig. She ripped his cloak from his shoulders.

  "Help me!" Archie cried as he cowered against the wall, trying to protect his face. "Someone help me, please!"

  "What's about, down there?" came a voice out the darkness.

  "Help!" Archie screamed. "Mad woman! Mad woman! Call the guards!"

  Meg didn't know what had come over her, but she couldn't stop herself. She couldn't stop swinging her fists. She couldn't stop screaming.

  "What the devil?" The hallway filled with feeble light. "What's going on? Let her go!" came a vaguely familiar voice.

  "Let her go?" moaned the turnkey. "She's the one assaultin' me! Call the guards!"

  "Shut up!" Meg shouted at Archie, drawing back her fist threateningly. "You hear me! Keep your filthy mouth shut."

  "Meg?"

  She took a step back. Her heart was pounding, her breath rapid. She was shaking from head to foot.

  "Meg, is that you?"

  She took another step back from the wall and the turnkey, who was still huddled on the floor, his hands covering his head. She could see blood on his face. She must have split his lip. Blood was running from one nostril, too.

  "Oh . . . what have I done?" Meg said aloud, staring in horror.

  The man with the lantern came up behind, putting his hand on her shoulder. It was Kincaid, of course. Her savior. Her highwayman.

  "Meg," he said gently. "What's happened here?"

  Meg stared numbly at her hand, still balled in a fist. She didn't know what was wrong with her. She didn't feel like herself. Whose feelings were these? She had never gotten so angry before. She had always tried to placate Philip and his brother. Whose hands were these that had assaulted the turnkey? Never once in all those years had she turned her hand to Philip, not until the night she had killed him . . .

  Meg was so confused. She turned to look at Kincaid. Then, before she knew what she was doing, she found herself placing her arms on his chest, pressing her body against his. She needed the warmth of this man, the assurance of his touch. "He attacked me," she whispered.

  "Liar!" Archie accused, stumbling to his feet. "She went mad. I was takin' her back to her room, like the Lord Chief Justice done said, and she went wild on me." He grabbed up his wig from the floor and dropped it sideways onto his bristly-haired head.

  Meg shook her head emphatically as she looked into Kincaid's eyes. "No." She didn't know why, but she needed desperately for him to believe her. "It wasn't like that. He touched me. He was going to rape me." Her lower lip trembled. "If you hadn't come, he'd have taken what wasn't his to take."

  Kincaid's handsome mouth turned up slowly into a lopsided grin. "If I hadn't come, hell, sweetheart! Looked to me like you were doing just fine defending yourself. Remind me not to ever make you angry. I saw that right fist of yours." He touched his chin. "Ouch."

  Then he rested his hand on her shoulder and for a moment nothing mattered for her but his smile. How was it that Kincaid could always turn anything into a joke? How could he always make the best of a terrible situation? She smiled back, her gaze lost in his.

  "There'll be charges!" Archie shouted, retrieving his cloak from the stone floor. "I'll see you pay."

  Kincaid swung Meg around into one arm so that he could face the Deputy Turnkey, but still held tightly to her. "No you won't, Archie," he said, his voice calm, yet his anger obvious. "You'll not speak a word of this incident."

  The filthy man wiped his bloody nose with the back of his hand. "Why not? She coulda kilt me!"

  "You won't." He moved so fast that he startled both her and Archie. He grasped the turnkey by his armpits and lifted him straight in the air until his rotting boots hung a hand above the floor.

  Meg watched Kincaid in amazement. She knew he was so angry he could have killed the turnkey, and yet he remained in control of himself and the situation. The soft steel of h
is voice was more intimidating than any shouting she had heard from Philip.

  "You won't," he explained evenly, "because you want to continue to live your pathetic existence, that's why, Archie. You won't because if you do, you'll die. Poisoned pudding. Armed robbery. An angry whore with a blade!"

  Archie stared gape-mouthed at Kincaid, his feet still dangling in the air.

  "There's really a myriad of ways to send you to hell, Archie," Kincaid went on, calmly. "And I quite like the idea of choosing one best suited to a maggot like yourself." With his last words he dropped the turnkey onto the floor in a heap.

  Archie scrambled to his feet. Tightening his cloak around his shoulders, he took a cautious step back. He was visibly shaking. "You . . . you couldn't. You wouldn't dare."

  Kincaid stared at the man with a gaze that would have intimidated a braver fellow. "I can do anything or get anything I wish within these walls, and you know it. So go with you." He dismissed him with a wave of his hand as if swatting at a gnat. "Go before I really lose my patience and kill you here and be done with you."

  Archie turned on his worn heels and hurried down the passageway into the pitch darkness.

  "And from now on you'll work for me for half wages!" Kincaid called after him.

  Meg heard nothing but the echo of Archie's fading footsteps as he broke into a run.

  After a moment, Kincaid turned his gaze to her again.

  She took half a step back, staring at him. The only evidence left of his anger was his narrowed eyes that still burned with his fury.

  When he came toward her, she stood perfectly still, prepared to bolt if his fury was directed toward her. Just in case . . . That was the way Philip and the earl had always been. When they were angry with someone or over something, they always took it out on her.

  But Kincaid's face changed the moment he looked at her. His anger was gone as suddenly as it had come and he was smiling. In barely a second's time, he was the Kincaid she knew once again.

  He took her in his arms and she let him. "So, sweet, since you're up and about, would you care to share a drink with me in the taproom?"

  She couldn't resist a smile, though she was still wary. She didn't know what to make of him. How could a man turn so angry so quickly and then change back again to such a gentle fellow? She was amazed. "I . . . I'd be honored, sir."

  Kincaid ushered her through the catacomb of hallways and landings toward the sound of laughter and music. At a closed doorway at the bottom of a worn stone step, he offered a man his candle and a coin. The man took the coin, bit into it, smiled, and pushed open the door.

  The taproom was filled with pinpricks of light cast from punched tin lanterns that hung from the rafters overhead. It was a bright place in the darkness of the gaol. The room was filled with patrons, like any common taproom on any evening in Londontown. To look at the faces, one would not have guessed that these men were criminals of one ilk or another. They looked like any man one would see on the street behind an ox cart or selling milk at a country market. Here, like in any tavern, the men laughed. Dice tumbled across the tables and coin passed hands. In the far corner of the room, a man played a lute and a woman with long red tresses sang a bawdy tune.

  Kincaid ushered Meg through the crowd of men and a few women patrons. Several men glanced up at Meg in interest, but the look her protector gave them made them look away in fear.

  Kincaid indicated a table and Meg slid across the bench seat. He sat across from her, facing the room, and waved to the woman behind the bar. "Dame Watson! Ale for myself, claret for the lady."

  Then Kincaid folded his clean, big hands on the table and peered at Meg. "You all right?"

  "I'm all right."

  "I can have him killed. If he touched you—"

  "No. I'm all right." Though she thought he had over-reacted, she appreciated Kincaid's concern. She didn't dare tell him that his loss of temper had frightened her almost as much as the turnkey's attack. "Archie's crime wasn't great enough to die for." She took a deep breath. Her hands had ceased shaking. Her head was clear again. "He just scared me, that's all. I don't want any retaliation."

  Kincaid nodded. "As you wish." He slowly traced a heart carved into the worn trestle table. There had once been names inside the heart, but they were now too worn to read. "So what did he want with you, love? The Lord Chief Justice?"

  Meg couldn't take her eyes off the highwayman. She was mesmerized by his high cheekbones, his twinkling eyes, the kindness in his half smile. Heavens, but she was infatuated. She looked away, suddenly feeling shy. "Questioning."

  "About me?"

  The dame brought Meg her wine and Kincaid his ale. Meg waited until he had paid the bar mistress and she had gone before she responded. "Aye."

  "What did he offer you? Coin?"

  Meg sipped her claret. "Pardon."

  "Muckworm. He should have at least offered you a few pounds with your pardon. Something for your trouble." He took a long pull of ale from his leather jack. "So what did you tell our man of the court?"

  "Everything." Meg didn't know what made her say it, it just came out of her mouth. It was as if she was suddenly bedeviled.

  He raised an eyebrow, looking entirely too serious for himself. "Everything, Madame?"

  Meg couldn't help herself. "Everything. I told him where the infamous Captain Scarlet hides out, who his accomplices are, which robberies he was responsible for." She had to drink from her glass to keep from giggling. "What choice did I have? I had to save myself, sir."

  He leaned across the table. "But Meg, you don't know anything."

  She looked over the rim of her glass and gave an exaggerated frown. "No, I don't suppose I do, do I, Captain Scarlet?"

  He stared at her for a moment perplexed, then broke into hearty laughter. He slapped his hand so hard on the table that ale sloshed over the side of his jack.

  Meg laughed, too.

  "You didn't tell him anything, did you sweetheart?" He was still laughing.

  "How could I?" Tears ran down her cheeks, she was laughing so hard. The look on Kincaid's face there for a moment; it had been so funny. "How . . . how could I when I was unconscious?"

  "Good point!"

  As their laughter finally subsided, Kincaid reached across the table to take her hand. Meg let him.

  "Ah, Meg. It's so good to hear you laugh. I feared you hadn't a lick of humor in that serious heart of yours." He turned her hand in his, studying it. "I feared that whatever happened to you in the past left you with no laughter."

  Meg's gaze met Kincaid's. She knew she had to be careful. She knew she was emotionally vulnerable right now. With all that had happened, he was the first man who had ever been kind. It was only natural, she knew, that she would react to him this way. But she couldn't help herself. After all these years of loneliness, she craved affection. She craved Kincaid's affection. "Please don't ask me how I got on that road," she whispered. "Please don't, Kincaid, because I can't tell you. I won't."

  He brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles. "I could kill the bastard who did this to you, Meg, for surely it was a man. I can see it in your eyes." He studied her face carefully. "I can see it when you watch me, always fearing I'm going to lash out at you." He shook his head ever so gently. "But I won't. I would never hurt you. I will only protect you. I will only love you."

  Meg could feel her heart pounding, her pulse racing. For the first time in her life she was physically attracted to a man, and it felt wonderful. Scary, but wonderful.

  She looked away. "Love? You don't know me, Kincaid. You don't know what you're saying. You don't love me."

  "Don't tell me what's in my heart." He pressed her hand beneath his cloak to the place where she could feel his heart beating. "Feel that? That's for you."

  She laughed, withdrawing her hand from his. "How silly do you think I am, Kincaid, that I can't see a man playing me for a fool. Love, indeed. You want nothing but what every man wants of a woman." She knew it was true, but she wa
sn't offended. In fact, she was flattered. Kincaid was the first man in her life who had ever expressed a desire for her who didn't repulse her.

  "That's not true." He reached for his ale. He was still flirting with her, but in a way that wasn't threatening. He lowered his voice until it was husky. "Well it is true. I can think of nothing I'd like to do more right now than to cradle you in my arms and make love to you all night."

  Make love. Meg liked the sound of that. Certainly what she and Philip had done in their marriage bed had nothing to do with love.

  "But I'd be willing to make you an honest woman."

  Meg's breath caught in her throat. Suddenly the playfulness was gone. "What did you say?"

  "I said, I want to make love to you, but I'd make you an honest woman." He leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms over his chest. He was entirely serious. "I would marry you, Meg. I'd make you my wife and I'd take care of you the rest of your days. I'd give you more babies if that was what you wanted," he said softly.

  A tear gathered in the corner of Meg's eye. Suddenly her breasts ached for her dead son. "Don't say that."

  "It's true. I'm in love with you. Have been since the night I found you on that muddy road."

  Meg leaned back, wrapping herself tightly in her cloak, withdrawing into herself. "Please don't say that again. You don't know what kind of person I am. You don't know what I did."

  "I bet I know you better than you think." He was watching her, watching her with eyes that seemed to see through to her very soul.

  Suddenly Meg was short of breath. She slid off the bench. She had let this innocent flirtation go too far. "Take me back, Kincaid."

  He was at her side in an instant. "Meg—"

  She took a step back, avoiding his touch, for if she let him touch her right now, she feared she wouldn't be able to control her emotions. She feared she would break into tears, tears that would never stop. All she could think of was why, why had she met Kincaid now and not eight years ago when she was forced to marry Philip?

  "Please, Kincaid," she whispered, keeping her eyes downcast. "Just take me to the room. I'm . . . I'm tired. I need rest."