He grinned. "Go ahead, tease the captain. Soon he'll be gone from your life, never to be seen again."
"Not even in my bed?" she teased, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Of course she knew her time with Kincaid was nearly done. She knew the evenings of fun and games were over, too, but it was nice to think about them, to dream, to pretend they were going to last forever.
"Well, he may call upon a certain lady in her bedchamber on occasion." He winked.
Meg giggled behind the mask. Sweet heavens, how she loved the man. How would she live without him?
They had just turned the corner onto the street where Saity ran her laundry, when Meg spotted a woman with a baby. The woman, lost in conversation with another woman, was standing in front of a cook shop, the baby attached to one brown teat.
A lump suddenly rose in Meg's throat. The baby looked just like her little John. True, the infant's mouth was not misshapen, but it was the same dark head of hair, the same roundness of his cheeks.
Meg stopped in the middle of the street to stare at the baby. He was so perfect. Her John had been so perfect . . . well, nearly so.
A tear trickled down Meg's cheek. Most of the time she could keep herself from thinking of her baby, gone to heaven. She just didn't think about him. Usually she could look at an infant and not feel the ache in her arms for the child she would never hold again. The aches felt so strongly now. For some reason this baby brought all the memories tumbling back. It brought the pain . . .
"Meg," came Kincaid's gentle voice. "You all right?"
She couldn't answer him. All she could do was stare at the baby. She knew it was wrong to covet what belonged to another, but she wanted that little baby. She wanted him for her own.
At that moment she realized how desperately she wanted another child—Kincaid's. Secretly she wanted to be pregnant. She wanted to take a part of him with her when she went. So what if there was a stigma attached to giving birth unwed? She'd lie. She'd tell the settlers in the colonies that her husband the carpenter, the jeweler, the pickle man, had died. What would they know living so far from England?
"Meg . . ." Then Kincaid looked in the same direction she was looking and saw the baby. He wrapped his arms around her trembling shoulders and gave her a hug. "We'll have children," he whispered against her cheek. Then he kissed her temple. "I promise."
Meg took a deep, shuddering breath. What a miracle that would be, she thought. Mentally she counted the days since her last flux. It was too early to be sure, but the possibility was there. If only God would give her Kincaid's child.
She started down the street again, forcing herself to look away from the baby, to return him in her mind back to the bosom of his mother. That wasn't her baby. It never would be. Her son was buried, in the churchyard, she hoped.
"I'm all right," she told Kincaid, breathing evenly, making herself think of other things. "It just makes me sad sometimes."
He took her hand, squeezing it. "I know this has been hard for you. Newgate and Mother Godwin's. The list. The matter of my father's death. His property and title. But when it's settled, we'll go away from it all."
Kincaid's father. Now here was something she needed to be worrying about. Philip, the bastard. He had ruined her life once, and now he was ruining it again. She couldn't protect herself from the pain, but she could protect Kincaid. She would, no matter what the cost.
"There's Saity now!" Meg forced herself to smile, lifting a hand to wave.
Saity was standing on the edge of the street pouring a wooden tub of dirty water into the open sewer that ran the length of the street she lived on. Saity spotted them and waved, dragging the tub back up her front stoop. "Meg."
"Saity!" Meg let go of Kincaid's hand and left him behind. "I was hoping you would be here."
Saity stood on the top step, wiping her forehead with the corner of her damp, soapy apron. She was looking good these days, not so haggard. Though she obviously worked long, hard hours, she appeared happy to Meg.
"And where else would I be but here wringin' out stockin's?" Saity asked, lightly.
"I don't know. Having tea with the king?"
Saity threw her head back in laughter. "Maybe you, but not me." She lifted her skirt and bobbed a curtsy. She was always a little shy around Kincaid. "Afternoon, sir."
He swept off his hat, presenting his leg as if she were the Queen Mother, Henrietta Maria. "Madame . . ."
Saity fluttered her apron, blushing. "You rogue, you!"
Kincaid returned his hat to his head. "I'll return shortly," he told Meg. He was already starting back down the street. "Stay put until I come back for you, and don't talk to masked strangers." Then he blew her a kiss.
Meg could only smile as she returned the kiss and stood there on the step watching his back until he disappeared into the crowded street.
"A woman couldn't ask for a better man," Meg sighed.
Saity stood on the step beside her, watching Kincaid go. "Indeed, a woman couldn't." She eyed Meg. "That mean you're reconsiderin'?"
"No." Meg stepped into the shop with Saity behind her. She dropped her vizard on the table her friend used to fold clean, dry clothing. "I won't reconsider. I can't hurt him any more than that bastard Philip has already hurt him."
Saity dropped the washtub on the floor and began to fill it with buckets of water she'd already brought in through the rear of the shop. "Well, if your mind is made up, I won't stand in your way." She watched the water pour from her bucket into the tub. "I'll even help ye. But I want you to know it's 'cause you're my friend, not 'cause I agree with it."
Meg removed her cloak made of a pale blue, lightweight damask. Kincaid had brought it home for her only this week. It bothered her to take such expensive gifts from him, especially now that she would have to leave him, but she didn't know how to refuse them without hurting his feelings or making him suspicious.
"So, have you found any information on passage to the colonies?" Meg sat down on a three-legged stool and began to fold a pair of yellow clocked stockings that must have belonged to a man with calves like a tree trunk.
"Very little." Saity took a pot of water from where it boiled on the hearth and lugged it toward the wash tub. "But I got a friend working on it."
Meg noticed a hint of color in Saity's cheeks. "A friend, you say?" She lifted an eyebrow inquisitively. She wanted desperately for Saity to be happy. "And might that friend be a man?"
Saity poured the steaming kettle of water into the tub. "A man who's got no wife." She looked at Meg slyly. "But he's lookin'."
Meg laughed, reaching for the other yellow stocking. "What does he do?"
"He's just a fishseller." She shrugged her thin shoulders. "But he's real nice to me. He brings me fresh fish." She nibbled on her lower lip. "And he don't smell like a fish, either. He smells . . . clean," she finished with a grin.
"He sounds wonderful." Meg looked up from the table. "Is he courting you?"
"I think he is. I just think he don't realize it yet." She set the kettle back on the hearth and picked up an armful of soiled white table linens. "I guess I ought to tell 'im what I did before I come here, but I'm afraid I'll run him off."
"You wouldn't have to tell him."
"Yea." Saity dropped the linens into the steamy water. "But I wouldn't feel right, me stalkin' him, thinkin' wedding, and he not knowin' I been a whore."
"So wait a little while. See what comes of the relationship and tell him if he brings up marriage. If your fish man loves you, he won't care about your past."
"I guess you're right. If my Clancy ever comes to love me, he shouldn't care what I was. Or at least he should forgive me." Saity stirred the clothes soup with a big wooden paddle. "But you could make the same argument talkin' of Kincaid." She looked up at Meg.
Meg sighed, keeping her hands busy folding laundry. "It's not the same thing. I killed a man. I killed Kincaid's father." Her hands fell still as she thought about her dead baby again. "Saity, what would you say if I said I might
be with child?"
Saity spun around, her paddle coming completely out of the tub. "I'd say I'm glad it's you and not me, sister."
Meg laughed. Leave it to Saity to lighten her burden. "I'm serious. I'm only a little late. A few days. It took me years to quicken with my John, but . . ."
Saity's brow creased. "But a part of you is hopin"?"
"I know it's wrong, a sin to bring a bastard into this world. But a part of me wants desperately to take a part of Kincaid with me when I go."
"Phew-eee!" Saity pushed the paddle back into the water, throwing in a lump of her soap for good measure. "Now that really would set a hardship on your shoulders. An unmarried woman carrying a child. In the village I came from, they put girls like that in the stocks. That's why I come to the city in the first place."
"You were pregnant?"
She frowned. "The boy said he'd marry me. His papa owned the town tavern. It woulda been a good life." She glanced out the window. "Only he married the blacksmithy's girl instead of me, and there I was in my father's house, fifteen years old with a babe growin' inside me. If my father had known, he'd've beaten it outta me."
"So you came to London?" Meg asked sadly.
"Yea. Lost the baby. It was best anyway. I couldn't feed myself," she gave a little laugh, "how'd I have fed a squalin' babe? You know the rest of my sad tale."
"I'm sorry," Meg said softly, genuinely feeling Saity's pain.
"I know someone who could rid you of it," Saity said hesitantly, "if that's what you want."
"No." Meg looked up at her friend. "I don't even know if it's true or not yet, but if it is . . ." She looked at the child's linen shirt she held in her hands. "If it is, I'll care for him or her. I'll sell myself into servitude if I have to, but our son or daughter will have food on the table and know that he or she is loved. By me, and by the father who couldn't accompany us to the colonies."
Saity gave a long sigh, leaning on her stick. "You got dreams, I'll give you that, Meg."
Meg smiled, feeling better now that she'd confessed her fears, her hope. "So you'll have your friend Clancy find out about a ship? It has to be soon, Saity. The Earl of Rutledge saw me at the theater."
Saity's eyes widened. "No!"
"Yes. And now that Kincaid has contact with him, it's only a matter of time before one of them realizes—"
Saity held up her palm, raw from the lye soap. "You don't have to say any more. If you want to go to them Indian colonies, babe in your belly or not, I'll help you find a way, even if I got to swim across that ocean with ye on my back."
"Someone say something about swimming?" Kincaid stepped inside the shop door that had been left open to let a breeze blow through the hot room.
Startled, Meg popped up off the stool. "Heavens, you gave me a fright." She laid her hand on her breast, feeling her heart patter.
"Sorry. Ready to go? I promised Monti we'd meet him for sup and cards at the Roost tonight."
Meg picked up her vizard and cloak. "Sorry I couldn't stay very long, Saity." She allowed Kincaid to drop the cloak over her shoulders.
"Always good to see your sweet face." Saity brushed her palm across Meg's flushed cheek. "You come back when you can, dirty sheets or no."
Meg laughed, leaving the shop with a wave. "Back in two or three days."
"Bye, Saity." Kincaid waved farewell.
Out on the street Meg and Kincaid walked side by side. "Have a good visit?"
"Yes."
Kincaid glanced down at her. "I'll never understand what you two women talk about. Me?"
Meg laughed, breaking the tension she felt in her chest. "Now isn't that just like a man to think every conversation must revolve around him."
"I just asked." He acted innocent.
"We talk about women things, if you must know." She raised the mask, putting it in place.
"Well, I like to talk about woman things," he answered with a chuckle. He lowered his voice until it was husky and sensual. "Especially your woman's things."
Meg broke into laughter at his lewd remark and smacked him playfully on the arm with her folded fan. "Honestly, Kincaid, I don't know how I live with you!"
He grinned roguishly, slipping her arm over his. "But you couldn't live without me, either. Could you?"
She laughed, hoping the gaiety in her voice covered the pain.
Rutledge took the steps one at a time, allowing the aura from the single tallow candle he carried to light his way. He took his time on the stairs, entering the bowels of Rutledge Castle. More than one Randall family member in the last centuries had met his or her death on the treacherous steps.
At the bottom, he veered right. The labyrinth of halls and rooms below the main floor of the castle stank of wet earth and rock, and years of darkness. The air was damp and cool and hung over his shoulders like a shroud.
He wanted a particular bottle of wine from the wine cellar, a superior brandy. When he returned to London tomorrow, he was to take it as a gift to a business acquaintance. He could have sent a servant, but it was one of those matters he preferred to handle himself. A man who did not freely roam his own palace, his father always said, was a man who would never quite be in control of it. And of course Percival would not give up control. It empowered him.
He whistled to himself as he walked deeper into the dungeons. A large rodent squeaked and scuttled past him on the dirt floor. He made a mental note to have one of the servants throw a few cats down the steps. That would take care of the rats.
"So, how are we are today?" he called, his voice echoing off the dank, filmy walls.
From somewhere ahead came a scrape of wood against stone. "Quiet today, eh?"
He listened to the sound of his own footfall as he continued down the corridor. "Tom and Sam said as much. Pity. I thought we could chat. Would you like that?"
Still, there was no sound but his own footsteps and the rise and fall of his breath.
"You'll be happy to hear I'll be staying tonight and not returning to London until tomorrow. Doesn't that please you, my dearest?"
Percival chuckled, feeling warm despite the chill of the dungeon. He liked it down here. Perhaps when he found Margaret—not if, but when—he would bring her here. They could spend some time together, time Percival had always wanted when she was Philips's wife.
Down here in the dungeon, perfect little Margaret would have no place to flee. It wouldn't be like it had been before. She'd not have Philip to hide behind. She'd not be able to escape to her apartments, pleading a headache. Her attention would be utterly his.
Percival smiled at that thought, a smile he knew was crooked. A smile that if he held too long, would cause spittle to drool from the corner of his mouth.
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand, brushing them with the Brussels lace of his cuff. Then he reached to his groin, shifting the bulge in his breeches to a more comfortable position. Just the thought of bringing Margaret down here, having her all to himself, made him hard.
He passed a closed plank door in the narrow corridor that led to the wine cellar. "Do you hear me, darling?" He banged on the door with his closed fist as he passed it.
Again came the sound of wood scraping against stone. Then nothing. He couldn't help wondering why he hadn't thought of any of this before. How much he had missed for his lack of creativity all these years!
Percival smiled a thin smile. "I'll go for the wine and then come back," he called over his shoulder. "Perhaps I'll even bring two bottles and we shall share one. Would you like that, my love?"
He didn't wait for a reply. He knew there would be none. Instead, he tipped back his head and roared with laughter. Down here his disfigurement meant nothing. Down here in the bowels of the earth he was in charge. He decided between life and tortured death. That was power. And he liked the taste of it.
Twenty-two
Meg held so tightly to the reins that the leather bit through her calfskin gloves into the soft flesh of her palms. Her horse danced impatiently beneat
h her, snorting and pawing at the ground.
"You all right?"
Kincaid's voice was brusque, but not unkind. Meg had participated in enough robberies by now to know he meant no harm in his sharp words. He was now Captain Scarlet, not her Kincaid, not James Kincaid, not even James Randall. He was cautious, with a single intent in mind.
She patted her mount's neck with a gloved hand. "Fine."
The half-moon hung low in the dark, cloudless sky over Maidenhead Thicket. They were awaiting the Bath coach on which a Lord Hardgrove was said to be traveling with his whore.
"I don't know what's become of Monti. He said he had a friend to visit in Bath, but he would meet us in time." Kincaid looked up into the sky, guessing the approximate time, no doubt. "I hope he's not run into trouble."
"You know Monti." She urged her roan gelding forward until she was beside Kincaid on the rutted road. "He's probably soused in a tavern with a woman on his knee." She chuckled, but Kincaid didn't join her.
"Did you hear something?"
Meg was still for a moment, listening. At first she heard nothing, but then a rustle in the trees across the road. "That?" she whispered.
Kincaid nodded.
She listened another moment. Now she heard nothing. "Just a deer foraging for food, I suspect," she said after a moment.
Kincaid nodded, glancing up the road in the direction of Bath. "I'm sure. I'd just feel better if Monti were here."
She lifted an eyebrow. "I'm here."
"Exactly."
She frowned. "I've done a superior job to this point. Monti said so. So did you, if I recall correctly."
He sighed. "I don't know how I let you talk me into this. Each time, I tell myself you'll stay home this time, home where I know you'll be safe. Then here you are, dressed like a highwayman in a black cape and mask.
"Highway woman," she corrected, refusing to take insult from his words. She understood his reluctance. "And it will be over soon. You've only another three on your list after our dear Lord Hardgrove, who travels with his whore while his wife is still in childbed in London."
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 23
