Stand and Deliver Your Love

by Sheffield, Killarney

  Two of the carriage horses lay unmoving on the ground, their harness twisted around them in tattered pieces. A large tree lay across the road, small flames still licking at the lightning-scarred trunk. He tried to gather his scattered thoughts and wits. Bloody Hell. Has God come to smote us all? A low moan from the other side of the overturned carriage drew his inspection. Making his way through the thick mud to the other side he found the coachman lying pinned from the chest down under the carriage. “Gordon?”

  The man’s eyes opened as Byron knelt beside him. “My lord.”

  “Do not try to talk,” Byron pulled out his damp handkerchief and attempted to wipe the man’s bloody face.

  The man sighed and breathed no more. Placing his handkerchief over the man’s face Byron hung his head, letting a moment of grief overtake him. Were there any other survivors? He looked around for the footman but it was difficult to see anything through the steady sheets of rain. A whinny from a nearby stand of trees drew his attention. Lurching to his feet, slipping and sliding he made his way toward the sound. A flash of lightning gave him a brief daylight glimpse of the horse. Thunder rumbled and Bacchus whinnied again.

  Byron talked low and soft to the frightened animal, “Easy there. Good boy. Whoa.”

  He managed to grab hold of the panicked horse’s bridle, patting and praising the animal until it quieted and stood. Running his good hand down the harness he found the buckles to release the horse from his broken carriage shaft. At first his fingers cold and stiff from the rain refused to cooperate. With growing frustration he fumbled with the leather.

  After a few minutes he managed to get the horse free and led him toward the downed tree. The creature snorted and spooked as they came alongside the smoldering trunk. Byron struggled to control the beast with one hand. Finally he managed to move him up to stand beside the fallen tree and then scrambled up onto the rough trunk. He patted the horse and talked to it before easing himself up across its back. The horse moved before Byron attained a secure position and as a result he was forced to use his injured arm to push himself into a sitting position. “Son of a whore!” The horse threw up his head and Byron bit his lip to smother the next curse on his lips. He held the broken pieces of rein tight, closing his eyes as waves of nausea and dizziness engulfed him. Leaning his head against the side of the horse’s neck, he retched into the mud at its feet.

  When the nausea passed he sat up and nudged the horse into a slow walk. Bacchus limped around the fallen tree and down the road in the direction of London. Icy rain ran down the back of Byron’s neck, through his torn overcoat, soaking his shirt, the warmth of the horse between his legs doing little to heat his chilled body. Only the chattering of his teeth and the horse’s limping gait kept him from slipping into unconsciousness.

  His pain fogged mind wandered. Why could I not have died? Why have I been spared death while my servants are taken away from their friends and loved ones? I have no one and I do not want anyone, yet here I am alive. Fate is cruel and unjust. I should have died. Is fate throwing my mortality back in my face? Maybe I should just get off the horse. If I lay down by the roadside and demanded fate take me now to end my heart’s pain, would whoever is in charge of life grant my request?

  As if sensing his suicidal thoughts, the horse picked up a shuffling trot making the hitch in his stride more pronounced. Byron hunched forward in pain, leaning against the animal’s neck as he struggled to keep from passing out. Bacchus neighed and quickened his trot. An answering whinny echoed from the dark roadway ahead. Byron squinted through the rain but couldn't see anything at first. Then he caught sight of a light moving toward him. As he got closer he was able to make out a coach drawn by two horses, a lantern swinging back and forth on a hook at the side. Soon the jingling of the horses’ harnesses carried over the steady pelting of the rain.

  He cupped a cold hand to his mouth. “Halloo!”

  “Hold up,” the driver shouted when he spied him. The horses slowed to a walk and came to a standstill. The coachman lifted the rifle by his side and pointed it at Byron. “Who goes there?”

  “It is I, Lord Byron Cobbett, the Marquis of Hampton.” He fumbled to keep an anxious Bacchus in check.

  “Why do you ride out without a carriage on such a devilish day?”

  “My carriage over turned a few miles back. My coachman and valet are dead.”

  The man lowered the gun, motioning for Byron to come forward and repeated the tale to the occupant of the coach.

  Byron eased off the reins and rode up alongside. Weary and cold to the bone he leaned his head on Bacchus’s neck. “I have been hurt and ask for assistance, good sir, for I fear I cannot dismount on my own.”

  The door to the coach swung open and a woman’s voice called from within, “Samuel, help his lordship down and bring him in out of the rain.”

  “Yes, Lady Willbrook.”

  Before the servant could do as he was bid the roadway filled with commotion. Half a dozen horses and riders burst from the bushes and surrounded the coach. The riders were dressed in black, cloths tied across the lower part of their faces. They pointed their guns at Byron and the coachman.

  “Stand and deliver!”

  Bacchus spooked and Byron struggled to control the horse with one hand. The driver of the carriage swore and whipped his horses. They bolted forward, galloping off down the road in a spray of mud. Warning shots rang through the air. Bacchus bolted in the opposite direction and jolted Byron loose from his precarious one handed perch. He fumbled in desperation to keep his grip on the wet reins but his hands slipped from the slick leather. It took but a second before he hit the ground on his side. His breath fled his lungs. Mind engulfing pain shot through his shoulder and everything faded to black.

  * * * *

  Something cold pelted his cheek. Wet goop oozed into his clothing, nose and mouth. He registered a gritty, earthy flavor on his tongue. Am I alive or dead? The wretched uncomfortable position he lay in convinced him was not in heaven yet. No, heaven will not want me. This must be hell. I thought the underworld is supposed to be hot? Voices rose and fell against the background of wailing wind. Keeping his eyes closed he sought to make out the words.

  “Did you shoot him?”

  “Nay, I did not.”

  A feminine voice cut in. “What is the matter with him then?”

  “Not sure.” Someone nudged him, “In his cups, I’d say.”

  Byron groaned and eased open his eyes. Three figures dressed in black stood in the rain looking down at him.

  “Who are you?” one of them asked.

  Byron blinked and turned his head. Was he imagining it or did he really hear a woman’s voice?

  “Who are you?” the dark figure repeated.

  Byron rubbed the rain and mud from his eyes and contemplated the one who spoke to him. The figure was dressed in black the same as the other three, but the voice was definitely lighter and softer.

  “I am … Lord Byron Cobbet t… the Marquis of Hampton…. Who are you?”

  “That is none of your concern. What are you doing here?” The slight softening of her tone was not lost on him. “My carriage overturned … I am hurt … I was looking for help.” The woman knelt down beside him and touched his shoulder.

  Byron clenched his teeth, letting a tortured groan hiss from his lips. “Bloody hell … do not do that!”

  The woman straightened and motioned to the man next to her. “Help him up. His shoulder is injured.”

  The men grasped Byron’s arms and hauled him to his feet, their callous treatment wrenching a cry from his lips.

  She held up a hand. “Have a care, men. Now let us get out of here before Lady Willbrook sends for the constables. Bring me my horse.”

  “What do we do with the lord’s horse?” one of the men asked.

  “Bring him along, but put the marquis up behind me.”

  The man holding Bacchus shook his head. “Begging your pardon mistress, but what if his lordship here should try to hu
rt you?”

  “Then I shall hit him in his sore shoulder.”

  Though Byron could not see the look she cast him, the warning in her tone was clear.“I think we should tie his hands and blindfold him,” another man suggested.

  Byron made an effort to go limp in their grip. “I assure you … I mean the lady here no harm.”

  She shrugged. “Tie his hands and blindfold him then, if it so pleases you.”

  Byron struggled to throw the men’s hands off as they wrestled him to the ground.

  “Knock him out, Bert!” one man grunted when Byron caught him in the shin with his boot.

  Before Byron could duck his head the man named Bert swung his fist. It connected with astounding force to his jaw. The scene blurred, slipping from his sight as his mind dulled.

  Chapter Three

  Sarah frowned as the men bound Lord Cobbett’s hands behind his back. “Not too tight fellows, I would not like to be responsible for any further damage to his shoulder.”

  Bert tied his bandana across the lord’s eyes. “Why not leave him here? Someone is bound to come along soon.”

  She shot Bert a dirty look. “He will surely die left here to the elements if someone does not come along soon. I may be a thief but I am not a murderer!”

  A couple of men lifted the unconscious man up and slung him over the saddle of her horse. With a practiced leap Sarah jumped up behind, perching on the horse’s soft wet loins.

  The old sailor grasped the horse’s headstall. “You cannot ride like that, ‘tis not decent!”

  “Why not? I did as a child. Besides, Shadow will not mind. Will you, girl?” Sarah patted the mare and gathered up the dangling reins. Resting her wrists on the injured man’s back, she clucked to the horse to move down the muddy road. A quick glance behind reassured her the band of men followed. They made their way back the way they came at a painstakingly slow pace. Despite her urge to flee, the treacherous footing from the storm and the wet form across her horse made speed impossible. Before long they turned onto the narrow deer trail leading to an abandoned cottage further back in the woods.

  Once they entered the dark canopy of the forest Sarah breathed a mental sigh of relief. The boughs overhead now sheltered them from the worst of the rain. The path here was drier and carpeted with pine needles muffling their horses’ footsteps. As the path narrowed, Sarah’s horse brushed the wet branches causing water to sprinkle onto the limp man’s head and back. He moaned but didn't stir. Sarah said a quick prayer he would remain in a stupor until they reached the hideout. Her teeth began to chatter and she pulled her soggy cape tighter around her, hunching forward in a futile attempt to keep warm. Closing her eyes she slackened the reins, giving Shadow her head, confident the horse knew the way.

  A rustling ahead made her sit up and peer into the brush. Relief relaxed her limbs when a large buck appeared. It paused, in midstep, watching them with aqueous ginger-colored eyes.

  “Bert,” Sarah whispered, stopping her horse for a moment to admire the delicate form. “Can you get a clear shot?”

  It grieved her to see the beautiful creature killed, but they needed the meat. To add poaching to their already failed robbery attempt didn't seem anything to concern herself with. One did what they must to survive.

  The slight scrape of wood against leather confirmed Bert had taken his rifle from its holster. The deer’s ears twitched at the tiny click as the gun was cocked. There was a moment of calm silence before the rifle exploded just behind Sarah’s right shoulder. Her horse and the deer jerked simultaneously, the latter taking two steps and dropping to the ground.

  She smiled. “Nice shot, Bert. Some fresh venison broth will help his lordship’s recovery.”

  He rode forward re-sheathing his gun, “You aren't seriously considering nursing the man back to health?” He gave Sarah a hard look and glanced down at the form draped across her saddle. “He might be able to identify us.”

  “Nonsense. He has not seen any of us without our masks so he will not know who we are.” Sarah wasn't so confident but she wouldn't let the men know it. She rode around the fallen deer and continued down the trail. “Clean the deer and bring it back to the cottage.”

  The man lying across her saddle shuddered. Touching his back she discovered he was shivering. Pulling her cloak forward she covered as much of him as possible, trying to keep herself protected at the same time. What is he doing out in the rain on such a volatile day? He was certainly the last person she expected to see. According to rumor, he had been a key figure in the military at one time. All recent accounts she heard however suggested he was a virtual recluse, a hermit of sorts. She couldn't remember why he retreated from the London social scene. Does his return to the city mean he is involved in some important military matter? Sarah sighed and wiped the ribbons of rain from her face with a saturated sleeve. What does it matter? The blasted man has cost me a good deal of jewels and now I will have to nurse him back to health before I can be rid of him. Nothing seems to be going my way these days. Between the bill collectors and the sudden absence of aid from her long time anonymous benefactor, she was hard pressed to keep a roof over the children’s heads. Maybe she should have left the man by the roadside. If he identified her or the men, they would spend the rest of their lives in prison and all those who were counting on her would suffer. A sick feeling welled up in the pit of her stomach. What was I thinking? She had not thought at all it seemed….

  A splatter of cold water from a low hanging branch roused her from her thoughts. She guided her mare into a barely noticeable hole in the thicket. The brush gave way to a small clearing, in the center of which stood a cozy cottage and rough lean-to. She sniffed. The light scent of smoke hung in the air. Dickie had kept the fire going. A shiver in anticipation of its welcoming heat coursed through her stiff limbs.

  “Friends of the children,” she called out. A minute later a candle flickered to life in a window of the little cottage and then the door was flung open. A young tawny-haired boy hurried out and held her horse’s head so she could dismount. She smiled at him. “All is well, Dickie.”

  The boy cast a wary look at the man on her horse. “Who is he?”

  “He is a marquis. He was injured. We found him by the roadside.”

  Bert rode into the clearing. “The others should be here soon with a deer,” he told the boy sliding from his puffing horse. She ruffled Dickie's hair. “Can you help me get Lord Cobbett down and into the cottage?”

  Bert snorted. “You should leave him in the lean-to with the horses.”

  “He will surely die of exposure if we do that. Help me get him into the cottage where it is dry and warm.” She flipped her hand in a curt backward gesture to end the discussion.

  Bert shook his head but did as she asked. Mumbling under his breath, he slid the man down and threw him over his shoulder like he was nothing more than a cumbersome sack of grain. Sarah grinned, hurrying after the portly man as he stalked into the cottage.

  “Lay him on the bed then go help Dickie put up the horses.”

  She untied her wet cloak and hung it on the peg just inside the door as he dumped the man unceremoniously onto the bed, shook his head again and then stalked out the door. Satisfied with the sailor’s disgruntled compliance, she crossed to the fire place and added a couple small logs to the fire’s low flame to get it crackling. Under all Bert’s gruffness lurks a big heart despite his demeanor but I wish he would worry about me less.

  The big copper kettle over the fire was full of hot water, so she used the corner of her shirt to pull it to one side of the hearth. Picking up the ladle, she scooped some of the hot water into a clean pot sitting beside the fire and took it to the bedside. After retrieving the canteen of cool water hanging on a peg on the wall she added some cold water to the hot and stirred until she was satisfied it would not scald the man’s skin. The man groaned but did not awaken as she ripped a strip off one of the towels slung over the back of a chair near the table and dropped it into the w
arm water.

  Arms akimbo, she studied the figure on the bed, unsure where to begin. Perhaps she should start by taking off his muddy boots. Crossing to the end of the bed she sat on the floor, grasped the first boot and pulled. It budged but wouldn't come off. Bracing her feet against the bed rail she tried again. It slid off this time with a wet sucking sound. A small amount of muddy water trickled out of the soggy leather as she dropped it to the floor. Sliding over, she repeated the procedure with the second one, tossing it to the floor beside its twin when the stocking clad foot finally emerged from the ruined boot.

  Pleased with herself she moved to the side of the bed. The man still shivered, his lips a pale bluish pink. There was nothing for it but to get him out of his wet clothes, but how was she to accomplish such a feat with any sort of modesty? If she waited for Bert to come back in from the rain the man might get pneumonia. Never having seen a man’s private parts before, she wasn’t sure what to expect. She bit her bottom lip as she considered her dilemma. If only the good nuns from St. Mary’s could see me now. Wouldn’t they be shocked to see me standing here trying to figure out how best to unclothe a man? A tiny snicker eased past her lips breaking the uneasy silence. A very handsome man…. Her face grew hot at the thought of his naked body being exposed to her virginal eyes. Clearing her throat she tried to look at the situation in a more objective way. If she could cover him, maybe she could slip his wet trousers off without viewing his bare form.

  Grasping the edge of the quilt she flicked it over the man’s groin area. Grimacing she reached under the blanket feeling for the buttons on the man’s dirty trousers. He moaned again as she fumbled, trying to unfasten the buttons at his hip. Her cheeks burned as she scrutinized his face. Was the man still unconscious? Since he didn't speak she had to assume so. When she finally got all three buttons undone, she tugged on the material. The trousers didn't shift. There must be more buttons on the other side of his hip. She slid her hand across his groin, her heart leaping in her throat as something swelled and moved under the wet material.