The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  They fell to the dirt-packed floor of the dimly lit tavern, locked arm in arm. Over and over they rolled. Swing after swing, fist meeting flesh. Kincaid was now blind with fury. No one would call his Meg a whore and live to tell the tale!

  Somehow both men managed to separate and stumble to their feet again. A crowd of tavern patrons had gathered around them, sloshing back ale and making bets on the outcome of the fight. One enterprising barmaid took a place at the door, allowing men to come in off the street to see the fight for half a shilling each.

  The sailor charged Kincaid with a chair and Kincaid barely sidestepped being skewered against the wall. He tore his coat off, pushing back his bloody sleeves. "Come on, come on!" he encouraged. "Take me if you can, sister, cause you're going down!"

  The sailor bellowed like a bull and charged with the chair again. This time Kincaid caught one of the rungs and swung him full around, sending him crashing into a table set with playing cards. The cards went flying into the air and the four men who had been seated at the table made a hasty retreat over several overturned chairs.

  The sailor caught Kincaid by one arm and swung him around, ramming him into the wall and butting him with his head. Kincaid grabbed him by his tarred tail, practically jerking his head off his shoulders, and sank his fist into his soft gut.

  The sailor went reeling backward and the crowd cheered. More coins were changing hands and Kincaid ran his hand over his face, wiping away the sweat and blood that blinded him. "Come on sister! Go another round?" he baited.

  Someone caught the sailor by his shoulders and shoved him forward, straight for Kincaid. Kincaid was just drawing his fist back when the sound of a shot from a blunderbuss exploded in the air. The sound of a lead ball from the pistol whizzing past his head shocked him back into reality.

  What the hell was he doing here down by the waterfront in a tavern full of crooks and thieves? What was he doing drunk, fighting a man that could easily kill him?

  "Enough," called an ugly, squat man from where he stood on a table near the back of the room. "Enough fightin', men. Ye want to fight, ye take it into the street where you won't be wreckin' my fine establishment."

  Before Kincaid knew what was happening, two burly men appeared at his side and half-carried him, half-dragged him across the tavern floor and shoved him out the door. Right behind him came the sailor and the two landed in a heap in the stinking gutter.

  Kincaid's head swam. There wasn't enough ale or fists to take away the pain he felt in his heart.

  "Hey, you all right?" The sailor sat up, giving Kincaid a boot in the hip. "Souse, you still livin'?"

  Kincaid just lay there in the gutter that smelled of shit, panting, wishing he could just forget about his father. Wishing desperately that a part of him didn't still want the bastard to love him.

  Eighteen

  "Where do you think he could be?" At the sound of a coach halting below, Meg raced to the window to draw back the curtain and stare down into the dark London street. Each time she did it, she hoped Kincaid would materialize. The door of the hired hackney swung open and a middle-aged man and woman appeared. Meg let the chintz curtain slip from her fingers with disappointment.

  "You don't think he went out without telling us? As Captain Scarlet, I mean."

  Monti stood in the shadows of the doorway watching her. "I know it's not like him not to tell one of us where he's going." He glanced up. "But I'm sure he's all right, Meg."

  She sat down in a chair, wrapping her flannel nightrobe tighter around herself, hugging herself for comfort as much as for warmth. "He was very agitated when he left. A coach took him away, a private coach, but I didn't see the shield on the door. I don't know who it was."

  "You didn't ask where he was going?"

  "He was in one of those black moods of his. I didn't dare."

  Monti came to lean on the back of the chair behind her. "Oh, you know our captain. He probably just lost track of time. He's playing cards somewhere, tipping an ale."

  "He said he wouldn't go out on a mission without telling me. He promised."

  Monti rested his hand on her shoulder. "Meg, he's all right."

  She stood, pushing a lock of hair off her shoulder. "It's after midnight." She began to pace. "Something's got to be wrong. He's been picked up by the soldiers. Caught."

  Just then Meg heard the turn of a key in the front door. She had heard no carriage on the street, so whoever it was had to have come on foot.

  She hurried out of the withdrawing room with Monti directly behind her. Before she reached the front hall, she heard the door swing open and a crash, followed by the sounds of shattering glass.

  "Kincaid?" She ran down the hallway in the darkness of the unlit entryway. "Kincaid, is that you?"

  She immediately recognized his silhouette laid out on the hall carpet. She went down on her knees beside his crumpled body. The table next to the door had been overturned and a Chinese vase he'd purchased for her was shattered on the hardwood floor.

  Panic rose in Meg's chest. Had he been shot? Run through with a sword?

  "Kincaid!" She tried to sound calm. "Kincaid are you all right?"

  But the moment she raised his head off the floor, she detected the heavy odor of liquor on his breath and clothing, among a myriad of other ill smells. "Kincaid, damn you Are you dead or just drunk?"

  Monti squatted on the floor beside her and helped her roll him over onto his back. He ran to get a lamp and returned to the front hallway. Meg was just pushing the front door shut when he appeared with the light.

  "You can check him over, but I don't see any injuries," she spit with an irritated wave of her hand. "I think he just passed out."

  Monti righted the small table and set the oil lamp on it. He quickly scanned Kincaid's body while Meg stood over him, her arms folded against her chest.

  "Nope." Monti ran his hands the length of Kincaid's prostrate body. "He's not hurt. No broken bones. No wounds." He pulled a handkerchief from his sleeve and waved it over Kincaid. "But God's bowels, he stinks."

  Meg set her jaw. "Wake him up."

  Monti chuckled. "Don't know that I can. Don't believe I've seen him this drunk since Paris."

  Meg pushed Kincaid's ribs with the toe of her wool slipper. "Kincaid!" she snapped. "Wake up!"

  Kincaid groaned and tried to roll onto his side, but Monti stopped him with the heel of his lavender slipper.

  "C'mon old boy. Wake up. The mistress isn't terribly pleased with you, so I suggest you come to." He slapped his cheeks lightly, rolling his head back and forth.

  Kincaid muttered something under his breath about tripping on the damned carpet. His eyelids fluttered.

  "There we go, friend."

  Kincaid opened his eyes staring up at Monti. "God's s . . . steeth," he slurred. "You're an ugly . . . sight to see."

  Monti glanced at Meg. "See, he's not hurt."

  She walked around so that she faced Kincaid as Monti helped him to sit up. "Where the blast have you been?" she demanded. "I thought you were dead. I thought you were run through on some highway outside of London."

  Kincaid blinked slowly. "M . . . Meg, I . . . love."

  "Don't you Meg Love me," she spat, so angry she could have slapped him. "Where did you go? Why didn't you send a message that you were all right? You've been gone nearly ten hours!"

  Kincaid lurched to his feet with Monti's aid. "L . . . lost track of . . . t . . . time."

  He swayed toward her and she took a step back. "You stink like a chamber pot!"

  He glanced at the floor covered with broken shards of colored glass. "B . . . broke your vase, M . . . Meg."

  "Oh, shut up." She glanced at Monti. "I guess you can lead him to our bedchamber. There'll be no getting anything out of him tonight." She shooed them both. "But I want those clothes off him! He won't sleep in my bed stinking of a sewer."

  Monti chuckled his way down the hallway, leading Kincaid. "My friend, you're in deep refuse this time," he murmured. "I warrant you
I won't be here come morning and you wake."

  Meg passed them on the hallway headed for the bedroom. "Leave his clothes in the hall."

  She went into the chamber, fully lit with candles, and began to put away her quill and ink and the paper she had splattered with ink smudges attempting to write while she waited on Kincaid.

  Her heart was pounding. He had scared her, scared her to death. She felt like their time together was running out. She felt like he wasn't going to live long enough to see that last name crossed off his list.

  Outside the door in the hallway she could hear Monti as he attempted to help Kincaid disrobe. Kincaid was putting up a mighty protest, but Monti seemed to be getting the better of him.

  Meg was furious that Kincaid could have frightened her like this. Yet, she was immensely relieved. He was all right. He hadn't been shot, or arrested. He'd just had too much to drink.

  But what had set him off? What had the man in the carriage said? Where had he taken him? In the time Meg had known Kincaid she had never seen him drunk. What had happened that made him go out and consume so much ale that he couldn't walk.

  Meg looked up to see Monti, a full head shorter than Kincaid, stumble through the door, half carrying Kincaid, stark naked. She strode across the room, tossing back the counterpane. Helping Monti get him to the bedside, she gave Kincaid one hard shove and he fell into the bed with a groan.

  Meg jerked the counterpane over him. He lay on his stomach on the tester just as he fell with his arms thrown out and his legs askew.

  "Sleep well, my love," she muttered, covering his shoulders. "Because you've got a hell of a lot of explaining to do come morning."

  Meg looked up from her chair where she sat reading a book. Kincaid was just beginning to stir. It was nearly noon.

  He groaned, covering his face with his hands.

  Meg closed her book and set it down beside her. She took her time walking to a table to retrieve a pot of coffee she'd kept warm for him since her breakfast at seven.

  "Still among the living, my love?" Her sarcasm was thick.

  He closed his eyes. "Hell, what stinks?"

  She poured him a mug of thick, strong-smelling brew. "You."

  Slowly he sat up to lean against the headboard, accepting her offering. He squinted in the sunlight that poured through the open windows. "I feel like my head is going to crack open."

  She sat down on the edge of the bed. "I feel like I could crack it open myself."

  He took a sip of the coffee, looking at her, then back at the coffee. "You were worried about me. I guess I should have sent a message I was all right."

  "Kincaid, I thought you'd gone out on a mission. I thought you'd been arrested. Shot. I—"

  He tried to take her hand, but she pulled it back. He took another drink of the coffee, focusing on her face. "I apologize. It was just—"

  "Just what? I heard you speaking to someone in the hallway. Then suddenly you have to leave. You go without telling me where or how long you'll be and then you just don't come back. I thought maybe you were being interrogated, tortured."

  He exhaled, running his fingers through his hair. "I need a bath."

  "I'll call for one." She continued to look at him, waiting for an explanation.

  He exhaled. "Oh, hell, Meg. I don't have an excuse but to say I was a little out of my head last night. I wasn't thinking clearly." He rubbed his temples with his thumb and forefinger. "You won't believe what's happened."

  The distress in his voice made her realize something really was wrong. Suddenly she forgot about herself and her own worries. Her anger fell away. "Tell me."

  He handed her the cup. "More coffee."

  She poured another cup and pushed it into his hands. "Who was that man I heard you speaking with?"

  "My uncle's manservant."

  She blinked. "You have a living uncle?"

  He looked away from her toward the window. "I didn't tell you because I was ashamed of him. Ashamed to be related to him."

  "You're not responsible for the actions of others." She folded her arms over her chest. "You've told me that more than once." She waited for him to go on and when he didn't, she prodded him a little. "So it was your uncle who sent for you?"

  He nodded, still staring out the window, obviously avoiding eye contact with her. "He wanted to tell me my father's dead."

  Meg's response would have been to say that she didn't know his father had still been alive. But that had been part of their agreement from the beginning, hadn't it? It had all been her idea. He was supposed to keep his secrets, she was to keep hers.

  "I'm so sorry," she said softly.

  "Don't be." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "He was a bastard. Same as my uncle."

  Meg kept her voice soft, realizing that his words, the thoughts that were in his head, were painful to him. And she didn't want to hurt him. No matter how angry she was with him, it distressed her to see him in pain. "To you?"

  "To anyone. Everyone. He was a futtering non-discriminatory bastard!"

  She stared at the counterpane, surprised that the man she loved could have such hate for another. "How did he die?"

  "Murdered. Some bitch murdered him."

  Meg felt her chest tighten. Most of the time she was able to suppress any memories of her past, of her life before she woke up in Newgate with Kincaid at her side. But suddenly she saw Philip on the floor. She felt the knife in her hand. She swallowed against the emotions that bubbled up inside her. "W . . . why? Why did she kill him?" She hoped he didn't hear the strangeness in her voice.

  "I don't know. My uncle didn't really know. Something about a dead baby."

  Meg knew she must have paled three shades. Her instinct told her something was terribly wrong here. Something she could feel, but couldn't touch. Something she could sense, but couldn't see. Her heart beat erratically. "A . . . a baby?"

  "His wife killed him, Meg." He turned his gaze toward her, reaching for her hand. She could have sworn she saw tears in his eyes. "Murdered my father! And then she ran."

  Meg could barely breathe. Suddenly she knew who Kincaid was. It was some horrible, unbelievable coincidence, but she knew it even before she asked the question. "Tell me the truth. Your name isn't James Kincaid, is it?"

  "No." He didn't seem to noticed how frightened she suddenly was. "When I came back to London after the king's crown was restored, I dropped my last name because I didn't wanted to be associated with my father or his family."

  Meg heard his words as he went on with his confession, but they sounded as if they came from far away. She didn't need to ask him what his name really was. She already knew. James K. Randall. The Honorable James Randall. Her husband's long lost son . . .

  Nineteen

  Meg knew she was trembling; she only prayed that Kincaid, wrapped up in his own emotions, wouldn't notice. Her heart was pounding in her ears. She felt like she was falling . . . falling into a black hole, blacker than hell.

  She stood up, trying to act casual, and moved away from the bed. Kincaid was still talking.

  " . . . I know that. I know I should just be able to walk away, Meg. Take his inheritance and say good riddance to the bastard." His tormented gaze followed her. "But he was my father. My father. I have to find her. I have to find the woman who did this and see that she pays for her crime." He ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it over the crown of his head. "Am I making any sense at all, sweetheart?"

  Meg rested her hand on the back of a chair to steady herself. "You. . you said he was a bastard. That . . . that he was cruel to you."

  "He was." Kincaid stared at his hands in his lap.

  She wished she could catch her breath. "So . . . what if he deserved to die?"

  "No man deserves to be brutally murdered!"

  And what of a babe? her heart cried. Did my son deserve to die because he was less than perfect? Her stomach twisted in agonizing knots. "Could it have been self-defense?" she asked softly.

  "Of course no
t," Kincaid scoffed. "My father was a bastard, but he certainly wouldn't have tried to kill Margaret. She grew up in our house! He loved her."

  Hearing Kincaid speak her name, the name of the woman she had once been, sent a chill down her spine. It was almost more than Meg could bear. How had everything that had been so right between her and Kincaid turned out so wrong so quickly. "So you'll avenge your father's death, even though you hated him. Why?"

  He groaned. She knew it was difficult for him to express his true feelings. To reveal his emotions to her. But she had to know. Why was he doing this? Why was he doing this to her?

  After a long moment of silence, he spoke, his voice stark in the sunny room that suddenly seemed chilled. "I guess a part of me still wants him to love me," he said softly, shrugging.

  Meg picked up one of Kincaid's discarded shirts and began to busy herself folding it. She had to do something with her hands to stop their shaking. "You can't make a dead man love you, Kincaid."

  "I know this is difficult for you to understand." He threw his bare feet over the side of the bed, holding his hand to his forehead again. "But it's something I have to do. I'd never feel right taking his money and title, money you and I can use to buy that land, without at least attempting to find the cold bitch who did this to him. Do you understand?"

  She dropped the shirt into a small basket she'd been collecting soiled clothing in to take to Saity. It wasn't even dirty. "I understand," she said softly, feeling numb from head to foot.

  She took a deep breath, trying to sound matter-of-fact. She had to get out of the room before she suffocated. "I . . . I'll have Amanda bring in the bathing tub and hot water so you can bathe." She picked up a pair of his discarded stockings and dropped those into the laundry basket as well. "Then . . . then I have to go out for a while."

  He slipped into his dressing robe. "You're leaving?"

  She started toward the door with the laundry basket, fearing that if he drew too close, if he touched her, she would shatter. "I . . . I'll be back later."

  He caught her at the doorway, wrapping his fingers around her arm. "Meg, I said I was sorry about last night. I know I scared you and I didn't mean to. I also know this is a lot to foist on you. I should have told you about my father, about the whole futtering family of freaks, but I . . ." He sighed, looking away.