The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  "You couldn't get a pardon for us? Not with the amount of coin you received from my goldsmith?"

  Monti frowned. "I will get the pardon, but I tell you, it's going to take time. This is quite a coup d'état for the Lord Chief Justice, catching Captain Scarlet."

  Kincaid sat back on his stool, letting Meg's hand go. He ran his fingers through his sleek, dark hair, He looked this way and that, the carefree grin gone from his face. "I'm ready to take my leave of these vermin, friend."

  "Don't get hot with me." Monti leaned over the table. "Remember, I was the one who suggested we abort that night. I told you the luck was bad."

  Meg looked away, pretending to be interested in the young woman who had just sat down at the table beside them. She felt like she was intruding between Kincaid and Monti.

  She watched as a man with a mop of blond curls, her husband Meg guessed, handed an infant to her over the table and the woman put the baby to her breast to nurse. Meg felt a lump rise in her throat.

  "I don't think this is the time or the place to harp on the matter," Kincaid said. "Get me out of here and then chastise me."

  "I will. But if you're not willing to wait on the pardon, it will have to be an escape." Monti was quiet for a moment as a dirty-faced guard passed their table.

  "Fine. Give me the details."

  "They're not completely laid out." Monti pulled impatiently on his goatee. "I'll have to come back tomorrow or the next."

  "All right. What of coin?" Kincaid slid his hand across the table. "I hope you brought more. This brief stay is going to cost me a year of profits at the gambling tables."

  The men went on talking as Meg glanced from one table to the next, trying to occupy her mind, wishing she could stop from thinking of her son and envying the mother beside her.

  Meg's gaze wandered to the next table, then the next. Suddenly she stiffened. Not three tables down, seated across from a middle-aged man with a drooping mustache and tobacco juice dried on his chin, was the vicar from Rutledge Castle.

  Meg averted her eyes, but not before her gaze met the vicar's. She froze with fear. Surely he had recognized her.

  "Meg, are you all right?"

  She felt Kincaid take her trembling hand.

  "Sweetheart, you're as pale as whitewash. What's wrong?"

  "I have to go." Meg bolted upright off her stool.

  Kincaid leaped to his feet. "I'll take you back to the chamber."

  Monti jumped up, too. "What's wrong? Is she ill?"

  "No." Meg shook her head emphatically, turning away, keeping her back to the vicar. "I can find the way myself." She hurried away, not taking the time to say goodbye to Monti or thank him for his attempts to set her free.

  Meg's heart was pounding in her chest, her palms cold and clammy.

  "Meg." Kincaid was at her side, his gaze searching her face for understanding. "What is it? Are you ill? Shall I have Monti fetch a surgeon?"

  When he tried to take her hand, she pulled away from him. In the last weeks, Meg had allowed herself to pretend the Earl of Rutledge was far away in Kent, too far to ever touch her. But she had been fooling herself and she knew it. She had been indulging herself, allowing herself to enjoy Kincaid's company, even toying with the thought of staying with him for a while once they were released.

  But the sight of the vicar brought her past crashing back again.

  Kincaid attempted to seize her hand again.

  "Let me go," she insisted in a hushed whisper, snatching the key that dangled from a string on his waist. "I don't need you. I don't want you!"

  He let go of her. "I'm sorry. I only meant to help." He sounded hurt.

  "Just let me go," she whispered, "and make no scene." Then she hurried away. The guard at the door admitted her to the prison hallway and she fled at a run, not stopping until she reached the safety of her prison cell in the Press Yard.

  Six

  "I have to get out of here." Meg covered her face with her hands. She was shaking uncontrollably.

  Kincaid tried to reach out and take her shoulders, but she pulled away. "What's wrong, sweetheart? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

  Meg turned from him. At this moment she was even more frightened than she had been the night she killed Philip. That night she ran because the midwife told her to. She ran out of instinct, but she didn't know if she had really cared if she escaped. But now that she had met Kincaid she felt differently. Meg wanted desperately to live. Kincaid had made her realize that.

  "Meg . . ." He stood behind her.

  "Please," she whispered. She feared that if she let him touch her, she would crumble. "Just help me get out of here . . . before it's too late."

  Kincaid sighed. She heard him begin to pace the floor. "Meg, I don't know how much longer I can stand this secrecy." There was an edge to his voice. "Who did you see in the gigger?"

  "No one."

  "What did you hear, then?"

  She shook her head.

  "Damn it, Meg." His temper flared. "I can't protect you if I don't know what I'm protecting you against!"

  When he shouted, she didn't flinch as she always had with Philip and the earl. For some reason, she was not afraid of Kincaid, despite his physical brawn. She knew instinctively that he wouldn't strike her, no matter how angry he became. She was only irritated with him that he would try to use his anger to bully her into answering him. "Don't shout at me! You are not my husband!" She pointed at him, amazed by her own assertiveness. "And you don't have to protect me." She took a deep breath, knowing hysterics would get her nowhere. "You just have to get me out of here. I have no coin to pay you now, but I'll return every tuppence, I swear I will."

  "Meg," he muttered, softening his tone. "I don't want any money."

  She turned to see him running his fingers through his hair in obvious frustration. "I just want you to tell me why you're so afraid. So I can help you. I want to fix it."

  A tear trickled down her cheek. "You can't fix it. No one can."

  Kincaid came toward her where she stood at the hearth. He brushed away her single tear with his thumb. This time she made no protest when he took her into his arms. It felt so good to feel his heart beat against her chest.

  Meg lowered her head to his shoulder.

  "Meg, Meg," he whispered, his breath warm in her ear. "I don't care what you did. How many times must I tell you? I swear by all that's holy, I don't. Just let me help you." He stroked her hair, not as a lover would, but as a mother would stroke his child.

  After a moment, Meg looked up into his eyes. She would never forget this man, no matter how far she went or how many years passed. "I . . . I think I was spotted this morning," she said softly. "I need to get out of here before they come for me."

  "Who?"

  When Meg didn't answer, Kincaid gave another one of his exasperated sighs. Then, taking her hand, he led her to the tiny table where they shared their meals and whiled away the hours playing cards and dice. "Tea?" he asked her.

  She pushed a heavy sheet of hair off her shoulder. "Wine."

  "Excellent choice." He came back with two battered tankards and a dusty bottle. He poured them each a dose of the superior Italian wine. "According to Monti we've but a few more palms to grease and the plan should be set. Arrangements should be complete by the end of the week."

  She took a drink of the wine. It calmed her stomach and her nerves. "Tonight."

  He laughed. "You know, these iron bars, the guards,"—he gestured with an open palm—"they're here for a reason. Even infamous Captain Scarlet can't scale these walls without a plan."

  She took another drink of the wine, avoiding eye contact. "Kincaid, I can't explain it to you except to say that I have to get out of here before he finds me."

  "He who?"

  She didn't answer.

  "Your husband?

  "Not my husband. I told you he's dead. Another man."

  "Sweetheart, it can't be that bad. Whatever you've done, there would be a trial. You have a right to p
rove your innocence."

  "You don't understand, Kincaid. There'll be no trial. He'll just kill me."

  Kincaid stared at her for a long moment. Then, "You're serious, aren't you?"

  She studied his dark brown eyes with their dancing specks of green. "Yes"

  Kincaid drained his cup and poured himself another. She could see his mind was turning. "Well, I'll just have to send word to Monti to quicken the pace. I'll tell him we have to be out of here by tomorrow night, the next at the latest."

  "He'll torture me," she said softly, staring at the glowing embers in the hearth. "Then he'll kill me." Her words came from her mouth as no exaggeration.

  "The escape won't go as smoothly as it would if we had more time," Kincaid warned.

  She didn't know if he had heard her or not, but suspected he had. She looked back at him, knowing this man and his friend were her only chance. "I don't care," she insisted. "Just get me beyond these walls and I'll never trouble you again."

  He frowned, looking hurt and she realized how serious he was about wanting a relationship once they were gone from this place.

  "Beyond these walls, and then where will you go? You don't seem to have any family, or anywhere safe to hide until your name is cleared. No. You'll go with me. Monti's already found a place we can stay until the pardon is secured."

  Meg chose not to argue. What was the point? How could she make Kincaid understand why she couldn't stay with him, when she didn't understand herself? All she knew was that she couldn't. So once they made their escape, she would simply slip out of his reach and into the darkness. She would be forever thankful to him, not just for helping her escape, but for making her feel alive again. Suddenly she was filled with a tenderness for this rough highwayman.

  As Kincaid watched her, she rose from her chair and walked around the table to his. He just sat there, seemingly entranced.

  "I know you'll do what you can to get us out of here," she said.

  He put out his hand to her and she took it. How familiar she had become with his hand, so broad and warm. It was as if she had known his hand . . . known Kincaid, a lifetime.

  Meg pressed her lips to his palm. There was a lump in her throat. She wanted to escape. She was ready, but now she realized that escape meant parting, and parting meant living without the security Kincaid had provided her these last weeks. "I don't know how to thank you," she murmured.

  He looked at her with that lazy grin of his. "To see you smile is enough." His gaze never strayed from her face as she sat down on his lap.

  He smiled. It was obvious he was pleasantly surprised. In the month they had spent together he had never attempted to be intimate with her in any way. He had sensed her need to be left alone, despite their mutual attraction. He had respected her. Yet, at this moment his display of affection seemed right.

  Meg settled on his knee, looping her arms around his neck. She felt giddy inside. It gave her a sense of power to know that she was in control here; she was sitting on his lap because she wanted to, not because she was forced.

  "Ah, Meg, Meg . . ." He kissed her earlobe. "Ye don't have to do this out of gratitude."

  She smiled, staring at his full lips, wanting to kiss them. For days she had wondered what he would taste like. For days she had wondered what it would be like to kiss for the fun of it rather than to be kissed for punishment or out of pure lust.

  "I'm not," she said, her voice breathy. "I'm doing it because I want to. Because you want me to." Meg touched the corner of his mouth with her fingertip. He sat perfectly still, his arm around her waist. He made no advancement, just continued to watch her.

  Slowly Meg lowered her mouth to his, enjoying the anticipation. As her lips touched his lips, she stroked his jaw with her fingertips. She smiled as their mouths met. He tasted of sweet wine and raw masculinity. A trill of pleasure leapt in her breast as he parted his lips slightly, still letting her take the initiative.

  Meg sighed, settling deeper into his lap, tightening her embrace. When his tongue touched her lower lip, she stiffened for an instant. She thought of Philip and his sardine breath as he had thrust his tongue into her mouth so many times, trying to hurt her, to shame her. But the memory faded in a flash. All Meg could think of was Kincaid and how intoxicating his taste had suddenly become.

  "Kincaid," she whispered against his lips.

  "Meg," he echoed, stroking her back. "My sweet Meg."

  She dared to meet the tip of his tongue with her own. He pulled her closer, rocking her back in one muscular arm. She clung to him, reveling in the new sensation. A strange feeling of want crept up from her tingling toes, a feeling she had never known before but could immediately identify.

  It was Kincaid who broke the kiss and pulled away as breathless as she.

  Meg smiled down at him, still cradled in his arms.

  He smiled back, a grin as broad as his hand. "You know, Meg," he gave her a playful peck on the lips, "if I didn't know better I would think that was your first kiss."

  Her smiled faded. "Why?" She touched her fingertips to her lips. "Did I do something wrong?"

  He laughed, hugging her tightly. "Wrong? Sweet heaven no! It's just that," he grasped for words, "you seem in such awe. Like a child discovering a patch of sunlight for the first time." He laughed again and she realized his voice was shaky. She had affected him as greatly as he had affected her.

  "Come to think of it, I feel like it was my first one too, and I have to admit it was not."

  She just kept smiling at Kincaid, pleased with him, pleased with herself. "Spare me." She held up her hand. "I want to hear nothing of your conquests." She drew her breath in slowly. "Though I am curious, why hasn't a man like you married?" she crossed her arms over her breasts. "I assume you're not married."

  He shook his head. "Not married."

  "Why?"

  He shrugged. "Never met a woman I wanted to marry before you."

  She frowned at his mention of wedding her, but said nothing.

  Kincaid went on. "Even if I had found a woman to call my own, my life has been such that there would have been no place for her, for children."

  "You want children?"

  "What man or woman doesn't?" He brushed a stray lock of hair from her cheek. "But a man with a wife and babes needs a home, an income."

  "No, I don't suppose a highwayman can keep a permanent residence can he?" She kept her tone light, but she was definitely probing. She had been so careful to guard her own past that she'd not asked him of his, but suddenly curiosity was getting the best of her.

  He laughed. "I wasn't always Captain Scarlet of the highway, you know."

  "No?" She stroked his chin with her finger.

  "No. Before our king returned I was a soldier."

  "Where?"

  "France. Spain. Wherever I was needed. Wherever I could find a musket and crock of ale. There were thousands like me, men without a country, like our own sovereign."

  "Then you came from a family of Royalists? Your father supported the Stuarts."

  His face hardened. "My father?" His voice was suddenly thick with sarcasm. "My father supported the coin, whichever side it landed upon." He gave her a gentle push and she slid off his lap. He rose. This was obviously difficult for him to speak of. She admired him for trying.

  "While Cromwell bled our countrymen dry, my father and his family profited. They bought seized lands at a fraction of their worth. They robbed royal coffers. They paid and accepted bribes." He spat the words that were bitter in his mouth. "So you see, my love, I took after the father I ran from after all. We are both thieves."

  Meg stood watching Kincaid as he paced on the far side of the room. The shadows behind him danced jaggedly. It was obvious to her that there was more to this story. She longed to reach out and comfort him. Not only could she hear the anger in his voice, but also the pain.

  "Kincaid." She took a step toward him, but he shook his head, lifting a hand to stop her. It seemed he had secrets, too.

  It
was Meg's turn to respect his privacy.

  After a moment he spoke, changing the subject entirely. "If we're to have a chance at escape, Meg, I need to prepare you. You'll have to memorize the layout of the gaol." He picked up a scrap of paper and a bottle of ink and quill from the rough hewn mantle piece. "I'll go over the details that Monti has already secured." He crossed the small room and pushed the stool out for her at the table. He took the seat opposite her.

  Meg sat down. As he began a crude sketch, she watched him by the light of the flickering tallow candle in the center of the table. The longer she knew Kincaid, the more complex he became. The fact that he was a common thief seemed of less importance to her each day. In him, she saw more than a thief.

  Meg sighed, looking away from him, focusing on the light at the hearth. It was just as well that they would be leaving Newgate and parting this week, she decided. She feared that if she didn't depart from the thieving scoundrel soon, she just might fall in love with him.

  The Earl of Rutledge held fast to the strap on the wall of his coach as he was jarred from side to side on the heated leather bench. It was sleeting in London this dreary night. A mixture of snow and rain fell from the dark sky, making Holborn Street slick with ice and freezing mud.

  The earl tightened his wool cloak at the neckline. "How much farther?" he demanded between clenched teeth.

  His secretary, Higgins, stared at his master with limpid, gray eyes that reminded the earl much of a shark trapped in a net. "Not far, my lord," he eeked out as he tried to wedge himself between the earl's shifting traveling bags and the coach wall.

  Percival didn't care much for Higgins. He was a nasty, dwarfed man with a hawk nose and a liking for little girls. But he was devoted to the Rutledge name, which was all that mattered to the earl. Higgins would lie, steal, cheat, murder for his master without so much as a blink of an eye. He had no conscience, as far as Percival could detect. For that; he paid Higgins well, and ignored his disgusting perversion.

  The earl lifted the brocade window shade and peered out. Visibility was poor. Sleet came in sheets from the sky. He could see only the blur of buildings and the occasional burst of lamplight as they careened down the center of the narrow, rutted street.