"Mavis?" He squinted in disbelief. "Tell me that isn't you."
She cackled, her gray eyes, nearly hidden with wrinkles, danced with delight. "Hehehehe. Never thought I'd see you again, James, boy."
He grinned. Mavis was the midwife at Rutledge. She'd delivered him and his father, and all his father's dead babies after him. She had cared for his mother on her deathbed after birthing a deformed child. She'd been here forever. As far as Kincaid knew, the old woman had been built centuries ago of the same stone as the castle.
Kincaid walked toward the woman, who was hunched with age, and wrapped his arms around her. Hell, you're still alive, Mavis? I thought you must be long gone to your reward."
She patted his back before releasing him. "Shows what a boy like you don't know, don't it?"
Kincaid crossed his arms over his chest staring at her. I just can't believe you're still here."
"Work's not over," she told him, taking up her digging stick again. "Not over till it's done."
He walked along the fence following her. "What are you doing?"
"Carin' for the graves." She dug at a thorned weed with her stick.
"Surely there must be others who can do that? I could send someone up from the village." He tried to take the stick from her hands but she moved just out of his reach, as stubborn as she had ever been.
"Always taken care of the Rutledge babies. Will till they drop these old bones into the ground."
Kincaid's gaze went to the tiny cross. It was a relatively fresh grave. At once he knew who this had to be. Another half-brother, stillborn. "My father's last?" he asked quietly. Margaret's son.
She nodded her pointed chin. "Aye."
He glanced at the fence, perplexed. "Outside the gate?"
"The earl wouldn't let the wee thing in the churchyard proper. Said he didn't deserve a Christian burial. Was only 'cause I dug the hole myself the little'n got a burial at all. That uncle of yours said to toss 'im in the woods and let the wolves eat 'im. Had to call the vicar up in the middle of the night in the rain to say 'is blessing." She spoke matter-of-factly without any malice toward the earl.
Kincaid looked away. A part of him wondered if he belonged here where he could make a difference to these people. But he only considered it for a moment. He could never live here. He doubted he could ever sleep a night within those walls. The past was already etched in the stone, as unalterable as the jutting towers.
He looked back at the grave. Done weeding, Mavis was planting a spring flower in front of the unmarked cross. "Did he have a name?"
"Don't know if his mama named him."
Kincaid nodded. He thought about asking Mavis about Margaret, but decided not to. What was the point? There was no need to drag her into the ugly business.
"Well, I'm going to see my mother's grave and then return to London."
She smiled. "I'm glad I saw your face 'afore I died, James." She didn't look up.
Kincaid turned to go, then on impulse he walked back to the grave and added the apple blossom twig. He said nothing to Mavis as he walked away, lost in his own thoughts.
He would pay his mother's grave homage and then go. He was anxious to be on his horse headed east toward London. The sooner he escaped the pall of the Randall estate, the better off he figured he'd be.
Meg stood on the steps of Saity's laundry shop in the failing evening light. Monti waited in their coach, but only because she had insisted.
"A week?" Meg twisted her perfumed handkerchief between her fingers. Since receiving his inheritance, Kincaid had been shameful in his gift-giving. "Saity, I can't wait that long. Kincaid will only be gone two or three days."
Saity stood in the doorway in a clean sprigged cotton gown, minus her laundry apron. Her hair had been brushed and pulled back in a sleek coiffure. In the twilight she was rather pretty. "It's the best I could do, Meg. I'm sorry. I told you, my friend said ships don't just take off for the American colonies every day of the week."
Meg glanced over her shoulder at the coach. Monti had climbed down and was now pacing impatiently.
She looked back at Saity, peering at her through the close-cropped hood of her cloak. Since that last close call with the earl, she was hesitant to even step onto the street by the light of day. "Monti said he would see what he could do for me."
She grabbed Meg's arm. "You told him?"
"I had to. I had another run-in with the earl. Next time he'll catch me, Saity. I just know it."
"Don't say that! It's bad luck!" She took Meg's hand in hers and rubbed it. "Now if Monti wants to help you, you let him."
"He wants to give me money to pay my passage, but I don't know that I can take it. I don't like putting him in the middle of all of this. It's not fair to Kincaid; it's not fair to Monti."
"Listen, if there's one thing I learned on the street, sweety, it's that if a man wants to give ye money fer nothin', ye take it."
Meg had to smile at her version of wisdom. "So even if I do take the money later, what do I do now?" She tried to look around Saity, thinking she had seen someone move behind her in the shop.
"Ye pack yourself and get over here where you'll be safe in my neighbor's attic. We already fixed up a nice bed fer ye. Got an invisible door in my wall and everything, just like the king's privy closet."
Meg moved to one side of the step, realizing that Saity was purposefully blocking the door "Who've you got in there?" she whispered, smiling. "Your fish man?"
Saity brought her finger to her lips, blushing. "Shhh. He's just come to sup with me. Brought cod."
Meg tried to get a glimpse of the man, as much to tease Saity as to satisfy her own curiosity. "Oh, I can't come tonight and ruin your intimate supper."
Saity shrugged her thin shoulders. " 'e probably won't stay long. At least not after he gets a taste of those flat biscuits I made."
Meg chuckled. "I'll come tomorrow."
"You'll be safer here," Saity argued.
"No. It's all right. Really. Kincaid's not due for another day or two. Even if he left by the first light of the morning, he'd not be here till nearly noon. I'll be here before noon tomorrow." She held up her right hand. "Honestly." She backed down the splintered steps. "Now you have a nice supper with your man and I'll see you tomorrow."
"He's not my man," Saity corrected, giggling as she leaned over the rail.
Meg just waved a gloved hand in response and stepped up into the coach. She'd spend one last night in the bed that still smelled faintly of Kincaid, and then in the morning she'd leave.
By the time Kincaid arrive home to Charing Cross, she'd have disappeared into the city with her terrible secret, gone from him forever.
Twenty-five
Meg rolled over in bed, her head swimming. She was so tired, she couldn't think. It had been days since she'd slept more than a few hours and it was taking a toll on her.
Kincaid . . . I love him so much and now he's gone. I'll never see his smile again, never feel his lips on mine, never hear him call my name again.
Meg drifted off to sleep in exhaustion, still thinking of Kincaid, remembering every kind word, every touch of his hand, every broad grin.
She could still smell him on her pillow. It was that deep masculine scent that reminded her of the forests of Kent and of her sexual attraction to him that had been strong, even from their days in Newgate gaol.
She snuggled deeper into the feather tick. She could almost smell him here in her bed. In her dream she could feel his weight beside her. She smiled in her sleep.
"Meg . . ."
She heard his voice, so real . . .
He brushed his lips against hers, his hand snaking over her bare belly.
He had always known how to touch her.
She sighed as he took his pleasure, brushing his broad palm over her ribcage, lingering at her breasts.
Instinctively Meg curled against him in her dream, savoring his warmth. She caressed his shoulder, all of it seeming so real.
"Meg, I missed you
," he whispered in her ear.
And I you, she said in her head. I miss you now. I'll miss you forever.
She felt his lips brush hers and she moaned, an excitement quickening in her veins. It was so real.
Her hand fell to his hip, stroking the taut, sinewy muscles of his thighs.
In her mind she heard him chuckle.
How she loved the sound of desire in his voice. Desire for her. She would never get over her amazement that a man like Kincaid could want her and want her with such fervor.
"Meg, my love. Meg, my lover."
She felt his weight upon her, pressing her deeper into the feather tick. Hot in her dream, she pushed back the counterpane impatiently. She wanted to feel nothing on her skin but his skin.
When his tongue teased the tip of her swollen breast she groaned. Threading her fingers through his silky hair, she squeezed her eyes tighter, wanting the dream, the sensations, to last forever.
He took her nipple between his teeth and tugged gently, her hands guiding his mouth.
"Like this, my sweet?" he asked.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, my love . . ."
She moved beneath him, wanting to feel the hardness of his manhood pressed hot and throbbing against her. She wanted to linger in this dream state of sensations forever . . . and yet she wanted more.
Meg heard herself moan, still amazed at how real this dream seemed. If she could always dream like this, she thought, perhaps she could bear to be without him. Perhaps her life would not end.
Meg parted her thighs, feeling his stiff rod scorching her bare thigh. She could feel the wetness there between her legs. She could feel her urgent need for him.
"Meg, Meg . . . " He cradled her in his arms. She could feel his hair brush her cheeks, his warm breath on her lips. Then he slipped inside her with a sturdy thrust.
Meg's eyes flew. Sweet heaven, this wasn't a dream! "Kincaid?"
"Expecting someone else?"
Meg blinked. "W . . . what?"
Kincaid laughed, propping himself up on one elbow, still deep inside her. "I said, were you expecting someone else? You looked so surprised when you opened your eyes."
She closed her eyes again, panting. Where did he come from? Why was he here? He was supposed to be at Rutledge Castle. Had she wanted him so badly in her bed this one last time that she'd actually conjured him up?
"I'm sorry I woke you," he whispered in her ear. Then he tickled her earlobe with his tongue.
Meg sighed. Her desire for him was so strong that she couldn't think. Not now. Not until she was spent.
"A wonderful way to be woken," she purred, curling her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, deeper.
He kissed the pulse of her throat. "I thought you would think so."
Her eyes closed, Meg let go of all thought of the future or of how she would get away. All that mattered at this moment, was this moment. This last time together, the last time they would make love.
Slowly Kincaid began to move rhythmically, taking his time, teasing her, taunting her, making her ache for each thrust.
Meg's hands fell back on her pillow as she writhed beneath him, lost in the ecstasy of the moment. Again and again he drove her to the brink of fulfillment, only to cheat her, to make her moan.
"Kincaid . . ."
"Yes, my love?"
"Please . . ." She wrapped her arms around his waist, drawing him into her, trying to urge him to move faster.
"What is it? What do you want?" His voice was warm and breathy in her ear. She could tell by his tone that he, too, was close to orgasm.
"Tell me," he encouraged. "Tell me what you want."
"You." She turned her head this way and that, her entire body trembling with arousal. "I want you. Only you. Always you, Kincaid."
He lowered his body over his, his descent deliciously slow. Finally his mouth touched hers and Meg lifted her hips at the same time that she thrust her tongue into his mouth.
And each time Meg thrust her tongue, he thrust. Again and again until she was frantic.
Then finally, when it was he who could stand the sweet torture no longer, Kincaid brought her to the brink and over the side of the cliff. Together they were falling, falling in the moondust of the magic of the night.
Later, when Meg's breath came more evenly, when she was cuddled in his arms, her head resting on his shoulder, she finally found her voice. "Why . . . why did you come back so soon? Change your mind about going to Rutledge?"
"No. I went, but once I arrived, I realized I wanted nothing more than to come home to you."
The maternal instinct in Meg made her reach out and stroke his hair, smooth and silky between her fingers. "Was it terrible?"
He pulled away from her to lean back on the bolster, his arm tucked behind his head. "Yes. Worse than I remembered."
For a moment Meg was silent. She of all people understood the pain of one's past. "Are . . . are you all right?" she asked finally.
He drew her into his arms again. "Now that I'm home again, I am." He kissed her temple. "I'm fine. I stopped at the Green Duck Tavern on the way back into London and lucked upon one of my consorts. He was drinking with Monti, if you can believe that. It seems Mr. Geoffrey Gilbert will be leaving the city tomorrow morning. I believe he and I have a date on the highway."
"The last name on your list," Meg whispered as much to herself as to Kincaid.
"The last name." He hugged her. "And you know what that means. I'll take a few days to write my last satire." He yawned, closing his eyes, his voice already sleepy. "And then you and I will begin preparations for that wedding I was promised." He kissed her again. "Good night, my Meg, my light in the darkness."
Meg snuggled against him, vowing she would stay awake all night just so she wouldn't lose a moment of these last precious hours with him. But finally she, too, drifted off to sleep.
"Are you certain you should go without us?" Meg stood in their bedchamber, still in her dressing gown. She'd woken at dawn in a fit of morning sickness and had only finally just gotten out of bed half an hour ago.
He eased her into the chair and went back to tying his cravat. "I can go it alone. A simple task. I'll rob the man of his coin and jewels, bowl with the king, and be home by supper."
Meg took a sip of the tea Kincaid had brought her, unamused by his joking. She was too concerned for his safety. "Why not wait for Monti's return? If you saw him last night, surely he knows you planned on leaving first thing this morning. I'm certain he'll be home soon."
"It can't wait, Meg. If I don't catch Gilbert on his way out of the city, I'll not get him this trip. How could I possibly know when he'll be returning from his wife's family estate? If I don't go now, this could set us back weeks."
Meg toyed with the Brussels lace tie of her wrapper. She didn't want him to go. She'd said goodbye once. How could she do it again?
"I'll be home by late afternoon . . . in one piece. I swear it." He reached for his plumed cavalier's hat, left on the end of the mantelpiece. Now why don't you get into bed and go back to sleep? If you're not feeling better by this afternoon, I think we should call the physician."
She smiled weakly, rising. "I'm fine. Really." She rubbed his arm, feeling the strength of his muscles beneath the rich woolen coat. "Will you promise me you'll be careful?" She looked into his green eyes, swearing to herself that she wouldn't cry. She'd not have him remember her that way.
"I promise." He kissed the tip of her nose. Then he walked to the bed and lifted the counterpane. "Now lay down and let me tuck you in."
Not having the energy to argue, Meg climbed into bed and let him cover her to her chin. The bed linens still smelled of their lovemaking from last night.
"Go to sleep. I'll be back in no time." He gave her a husbandly peck on the cheek and then sauntered out of the room, his best highwayman's grin on his face.
"Goodbye," Meg whispered to the empty room. "I love you."
Then she slept, too spent for tears.
Someti
me mid-morning, closer to noon, Meg woke to hear the front door open. "Kincaid?" She blinked away the sleepy cobwebs from her mind. It couldn't be him again, could it? How would she ever get away if he'd not leave the apartment?
"Kincaid?" She got out of the bed and padded barefoot down the hallway. She found Monti in the front withdrawing room pouring himself a brandy. "Oh, it's you."
He glanced up, a strange look on his face. He looked surprised to find her still here. "You didn't go yet?"
"No. Kincaid returned home early." She leaned against the doorjamb. "But now he's gone again. Gilbert." She frowned. "But you knew he was going. He said he met up with you last night."
"He said that?"
"Yes." She stared at him, uncomfortable, not knowing why. "So why weren't you here this morning? You were supposed to go with him. He waited for you but you didn't come."
He looked at her in her dressing gown. "I'm so glad you didn't go." He squinted. "Why didn't you go? Are you planning to go to Saity's this morning?"
"I was sick, but yes, I am leaving this morning. I want to be gone before Kincaid returns."
Suddenly he appeared concerned. "You all right? The baby?"
Without thinking, she brushed her hand over her flat belly. "Fine. Just morning greenness. But, Monti, you didn't answer my question. Why didn't you meet Kincaid this morning?"
Monti tipped back his head and drank the brandy in a single swallow. He reached for the bottle to pour himself another. "I . . . was detained."
Meg didn't like the sound in Monti's voice. Something was wrong. "Monti?" She stepped into the withdrawing room. She saw his hands shake as he poured himself another drink. "I said, what's wrong?"
He only shook his head as if he didn't want to say.
Meg's heart skipped a beat. "Kincaid? Is he in danger?" She didn't know what made her say it. Gut instinct.
When he didn't answer, she grabbed the sleeve of his coat. "Monti! Tell me Kincaid isn't in danger."
When he looked at her, his usual ruddy face was as pale as a dead man's. His lower lip trembled as if he were going to burst into tears.
The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Page 27
