"I see, so you want to punish him not just for his crimes against all English citizens, but also for his poor husband-ship?"
She smiled. "We all have our agendas, Captain. The longer I have to contemplate the characters of the men on your list, the more I realize that those who do not treat their fellow countrymen well, do not treat their family and friends much better. The betrayal is only more subtle."
A smile twitched on Kincaid's face, yet he said nothing.
"What?" Meg asked after a moment "What did I say that you find so amusing?"
He reached out and took her black gloved hand in his own to caress it. "I smile, not because you amuse me, but because I realize how lucky I am to have found a woman so innately good, and so intelligent, too." He exhaled. "I cannot help thinking my father could have chosen a bride more carefully. He'd not have died as he did then, would he?"
A lump rose in Meg's throat and she pulled her hand from his. "Is . . . is that coach wheels I hear?"
Kincaid lifted his head, listening. "It is." He reached down and brought up the scarf he wore around his neck, winding it about his face.
Meg raised the hood of her cloak so that it shadowed her feminine features. Beneath her cloak she wore a pair of men's breeches, a linen shirt, and German leather riding boots. From the saddlebag she extracted a primed pistol. Her nerves were on edge. She could hear the coach drawing closer now, the sound of the hoofbeats and the roll of the wheels obvious.
"I can do this alone," Kincaid whispered. They had backed off the road so that the coachman wouldn't immediately see them in the shadows of the forest. "Just go into the woods and wait for me. I'll make short work of Hardgrove and meet up with you."
"Yes, you can do it alone, but it's far more dangerous. I want to keep you in one piece, my love."
Just then the coach and four appeared on the dark road, rumbling toward them.
"If there's any trouble," Kincaid warned, "get the hell out of here. We'll meet at the tavern we agreed upon."
"Just be sure the whore gets her kiss," Meg teased, making light of what they were about to do. "You know Monti heard the woman at Gerard's Cross was quite disappointed you didn't kiss her."
Kincaid rested his pistol across his lap. "I'm practically a married man. I cannot continue to kiss these women forever."
Meg smiled. The coach had nearly reached the designated point. "Ready?"
"Ready."
Meg sank her heels into the gelding's flanks and shot onto the road before the stagecoach. The driver pulled back on the reins and the coach horses rolled their eyes and shied right in fear of the horse and rider that had appeared out of nowhere like a ghostly apparition.
As the stagecoach rolled to a halt, Kincaid appeared out of the darkness beside the door. "Stand and Deliver," he shouted in the voice of Captain Scarlet. "Comply and no one will be harmed."
Then Meg heard the first gunshot.
She wheeled around in fright, realizing the fire came not from the coach, but from a rider behind it. Where in sweet heaven's name had he come from?
"Kincaid!" Meg shouted, knowing she mustn't panic.
Another shot blasted in the darkness, filling the air with streaks of light and black powder smoke. As she wheeled around the side of the coach, she saw Kincaid return fire.
There were two horses and riders that had been following the coach! An escort?
"Go," Kincaid shouted into the darkness. "I'm right behind you!"
Meg's horse reared as another shot rang in the air and she fought to remain in her saddle. She had sworn she would be no burden to Kincaid. She had promised she could take care of herself if they got into trouble. She'd not disappoint him.
Meg jerked hard on the reins, veering around the coach, her horse rearing again. Inside the coach she could see the shadows of a man and woman huddled together. The woman was screaming. There was a great din between her shrieking and the men shouting, the horses neighing.
"Kill them!" the man, Lord Hardgrove no doubt, shouted. "Kill the thieving bastards."
Kincaid fired again, this time hitting one of the men's horses. Horse and rider went tumbling down.
Now there was only one man who could pursue them.
Meg leaned over her mount's neck, urging him into a gallop. Behind her she could hear Kincaid shouting. He was still astride and hot on her heels.
She dared a glance over her shoulder as she rode into the forest. The other rider was pursuing them. She had one shot left. . . . Could she really shoot a man? After all, she and Kincaid were considered the criminals. In the eyes of the court, this man was only defending his employer.
Meg fought her conscience as she rode deeper into the thicket. Surely by now Kincaid had reloaded. She knew he could do it astride as quickly as standing.
Then Meg heard a man's voice from the roadside. "Come back, you stupid bastard! Don't leave me here alone in the dark!"
Meg couldn't believe her own ears as she heard the rider behind Kincaid fall back. Still, she rode hell-bent through the woods. What if he went back to check on his lordship and then pursued them again?
Branches tore at the hood of Meg's cloak, knocking it back, dragging the leaves through her hair. Briars scratched her legs through the breeches; insects flew into her face, but she kept riding. Occasionally she looked over her shoulder to be certain Kincaid was still there.
They must have rode twenty minutes hell-bent through the dense forest, in the darkness, following a narrow game path. Finally Kincaid called for her to slow down.
She halted beneath an ancient oak tree to wait for him. Moonlight peeked through the branches nearly filled out with leaves. "Something to be said for Monti's stars, eh?" She smiled. "He said the luck would be with us tonight."
Kincaid rode up behind her, scowling. "I don't understand this, damn it!" He shook his fist. "They always went off without a hitch until that night I found you on the road."
"So maybe I'm the bad luck." She reached to take his hand as he rode closer. A thin shred of moonlight crossed his face. Suddenly Meg realized he was pale. Deathly pale.
"Kincaid?" Panic rose in her chest. "Kincaid, are you all right?"
"I'm all right."
Then she saw the bloodstain on his breeches. "Sweet, heaven," she whispered, covering her mouth for fear she'd cry out. "You've been shot."
"How's the leg?" Meg rolled onto her side. They had just woken to the morning sunshine pouring through the windowpanes onto the bed quilt.
Kincaid flexed his bare leg, bandaged at the thigh with strips of linen Meg had gotten from the innkeeper. Because they had already reserved a cottage at the quiet inn down by the Thames outside of the city, and because Kincaid had paid the innkeeper a healthy fee, there had been no questions asked. The innkeeper's wife had supplied bandages, healing balm, hot tea, bread, and cheese at nearly four in the morning.
Meg herself had extracted the lead ball that was just beneath the surface of the skin on Kincaid's thigh and then bandaged it. After a dose of tea laced with brandy-wine she had tucked Kincaid beneath the colored quilt that smelled of fresh lilacs. Then she watched over him as he slept, monitoring him for any signs of fever or infection.
Kincaid flexed his leg again. "It's a little stiff, but I'll be fine." He kissed her forehead. "You'd make an excellent physician, my love. Better than those cuttlefishes in the masks."
Meg smiled, but then it faded. "It's time to end this, Kincaid. I don't know what's happening, but I think you need to give up on the list."
He tucked one hand beneath his head, still reclining in the bed. "I can't, Meg. I set out to do a task and I'll complete it."
"Kincaid! Do you hear yourself? Are a few coins, a couple of emerald necklaces, a gold watch or two, worth your life?"
"It's not the things I take, and you well know it. It's the principle of the matter. The embarrassment of the robbery. And I must admit I enjoy going into the slums to take the coin, the food, the medicine the thievery provides." He reached out to tug on
a lock of hair that fell forward on her cheek. "You know, Monti said he heard last week that those that have been robbed by Captain Scarlet have formed an association. They realize that they all have something in common. And when my satire begins to circulate with all their names, they will lose business. There will be those who will no longer wish to associate with them. Perhaps the king himself will even look into the matter once a finger is pointed in their direction."
Meg sat up, hugging her knees. "I understand your reasoning, but we're talking about your life here!"
"I'm almost done. The list is almost complete."
"Kincaid! Surely you don't believe that it's by accident that you've nearly been caught half a dozen times!"
He shrugged. "Poor luck. Nothing more. Only a few of my contacts even suspect who I might be, and even to them, I have given no confirmation."
She looked away, angry that he could be so stubborn. Out the window, through the part in the chintz curtains, she could see a goose girl herding her charges over a hill. "Someone is giving up information. Someone knows."
"If someone were betraying me, I'd have been caught and hanged by now. It's just the luck, like Monti says."
"Monti." Meg looked back at him. "And where is he? What if those men who fired at us came upon Monti last night? What if he's lying in some ditch, dead or bleeding to death?"
"If there's one thing I've learned in all these years with Monti, it's that the man can take care of—"
A knock at the door cut Kincaid's sentence short. He jumped up from the bed, lifting his loaded pistol from the night table.
Meg drew the bedcovers up to her chin. The cottage they had rented was small, only one room. There was nowhere to hide if they had been caught. No place to run. They had assumed that this was such a small, obscure village that no one could find them here.
Kincaid walked to the door, limping just a little. At the door, he pressed his back to the wall. "Who is it?" he called.
Meg held her breath, reaching for her own pistol. Perhaps she couldn't shoot a man pursuing them to save herself, but she thought she could shoot a man to save Kincaid.
"Who the hell do you think it is?"
At the sound of Monti's voice, Meg exhaled with relief.
Kincaid unbolted the door and jerked it open.
Monti stepped inside, dressed neatly, every curl in his red periwig in place, a plumed hat in lime green in his hand. "Good morning to you. Or should I say afternoon. I never thought the two of you would wake. I've been waiting outside for hours."
Kincaid kicked the door shut with his heel and limped back toward the bed.
"Where have you been?" Meg demanded: "I thought you were dead."
"Me?" Monti indicated himself with a flip of his manicured hand. "I'm like a cat, my love. I always land on my feet."
Kincaid sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled on a pair of wrinkled breeches. Meg had not yet unpacked the clothing they'd brought along.
Monti's gaze settled on Kincaid's bandaged leg. "Gads, wounded, friend?"
"Where the hell were you, Monti?"
Monti walked to the small table painted blue with its quaint matching chairs. From a wooden bowl, he plucked an apple. "Got caught in the tavern with a group of the king's soldiers. I couldn't well excuse myself, telling them I had a robbery to commit, could I? Especially since the bottleheads were losing their purses."
"You were gambling?" Meg jerked the counterpane up higher. She was dressed in only a thin shift. "I was afraid you'd be killed or caught and you were drinking and throwing the die?"
"I'm sorry, Meg." He bit into the apple. "But a man has to assess every situation. Don't you think the soldiers would have been suspicious, had I excused myself suddenly in Bath and then a robbery had taken place shortly thereafter?"
His breeches tied, Kincaid sat back down on the edge of bed, laying his pistol on the bedtable. "He's right, Meg. I'd probably have done the same thing."
Meg let her hands fall to her lap as she sat in silence for a minute. "So now what do we do?"
"I take it you were shot at?" Monti took another bite of the apple. "So old Hard Ass Hardgrove was lugging a pistol?"
"No." Kincaid got up and walked stiffly to the table where he retrieved a half-empty glass of last night's brandy. "He had escorts, Monti. Futtering escorts going from Bath to London!" He sloshed back a gulp of ale.
Monti chewed, thinking. "Someone on the inside giving us away?"
Kincaid slammed the glass back on the table. "Who? No one knows the exact particulars. Some of the regulars, Roberts, Parker, Candle, they might suspect who we are, but they couldn't know for sure."
Monti sighed, tossing his apple core into the cold fireplace across the room. "It wouldn't be a crime to give up here. Write your scathing satire, distribute it, and get the hell out of London."
Kincaid ran his fingers through his loose hair that fell to his shoulders. Since he had gotten word of his father's death he looked haggard to Meg. The character lines of his face were more pronounced, his worries etched in his smile. He looked like he needed a good night's sleep.
"I can't do that, Monti." He flipped his inky hair over the crown of his head. "You know I can't."
Monti opened his arms. "Could have just been a fluke. Maybe Hardgrove is paranoid and travels regularly with an escort."
Kincaid shook his head. "Parker would have told us."
"Well, my suggestion, friend," Monti said, "is that I go back to London and pay a visit to our friendly cobbler, Mr. Parker. You and Meg stay here a few days, rest, let the gossip simmer down. By the time you return to London, I might have an answer for us."
Kincaid picked Meg's dressing robe off the back of one of the blue chairs and carried it around to her side of the bed. He held it up to shield her from Monti as she slipped into it.
"I suppose Monti's right," she said, looking up at Kincaid as she knotted the tie of the robe around her waist. She reached up to stroke his beard stubble. "You look like you could use a day or two of rest."
Kincaid walked away, agitated. "I suppose it makes sense, though I'm anxious to be done with this matter." He looked over his shoulder at Meg. "I'm anxious to get on with our life. To marry. Suddenly America seems like home to me even if I've never set foot on its ground."
"That means you're going to take your inheritance and run?" Monti questioned. "I thought you were going to find your father's killer. I imagine your dear uncle will be hurt if you go."
"The earl," Kincaid said with distaste, "is tracking the witch as we speak. He's spotted her in London and seems confident he'll have her in a matter of days."
Monti nodded. "Then once the list is complete, you'll be a free man."
Meg stood at the window watching the goose girl in her blue tick dress and scarf tied around her head. The conversation made her shaky inside. Suddenly, for the first time, she realized how hard it was to live so many lies. Only now did she recognize what a toll the whole farce was taking on her. The sooner she was gone from London, the better. It would break her heart to leave Kincaid, but she had no choice.
"Meg . . ."
She turned around, realizing Kincaid was speaking to her. "I'm sorry, I fear I wasn't listening."
"I asked," Kincaid repeated, "if you'd be content to stay here a few days while Monti questions our contacts in London."
Meg smiled. The thought of spending a few days alone with Kincaid before she made her escape was heavenly. She knew she was taking chances each day she put off her departure, but she was still waiting for definite word on a ship from Saity. And what would a few more days matter? She was here in the country and Rutledge was in the city. She would be safe enough.
"I think it's an excellent idea. It will give your leg time to heal."
Monti started for the door. "Good enough, then. I'll send a message in a few days." He stopped, his hand on the doorknob. "Now, who are you two again?"
Kincaid followed Monti to the door. "Mr. And Mrs. Albert, come to rest a few
days before returning to our estate in some shire, can't remember which one right now."
"Good enough." Monti dropped his ridiculous lime-colored hat onto his head and nodded to Meg. "See you in a few days, dear."
"Be careful," Meg called after him.
Kincaid closed the door behind him and set the bolt. "Now," he said turning to her, a smile on his face. "What shall we do to amuse ourselves in this little cottage for several days?"
Meg laughed, coming to him to put her arms around his waist. "I have a suggestion, if you're so inclined, my lord . . ."
"And that is?" He looked at her in a way that made her heart melt.
How could she leave him? Though leave him, she must . . .
Meg lifted on her bare tiptoes and whispered in his ear.
Kincaid lifted an eyebrow roguishly. "Precisely what I was thinking."
Arm in arm they returned to the cozy bed.
James heard his own footfall in the darkness. He could smell the dank walls of the stone corridor. "Father?" his little boy voice called. "Father, where are you?"
James ran, his bare feet cold on the stone floor, his nightgown twisted at his ankles. Cold terror ribboned through his veins. "Father!"
His father's voice echoed in his head. "No one could ever love you, boy. That's why your mother died . . . it was the only way to get away from your sorry ass. Idiot. Incompetent. Fool."
"Father?" James called out, still running as if the devil himself was on his tail. "Father, I can't find you . . . "
Up the stairs the boy ran, stumbling on the hard, cold stone, cutting his knees, scraping his shins. But he picked himself up and started up the stairs in the darkness again.
He had to help his father. He had to save him . . .
"Father, I'm coming," he called.
Just as he reached the top step he heard his father's first blood-curdling scream.
"Father!" James cried. He ran from door to door along the corridor, hearing the screams, not able to tell where they were coming from.
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 24
