But marriage to Percy would never, ever happen. Percy Harrow was crafted in her dear uncle’s likeness and brutality. The man made her ill. His first wife had died in mysterious circumstances. A fall down the stairs, so he’d said, though Tess had seen her several times at church, her bonnet pulled so far forward it was barely possible to see her face. She had noticed the black eye and the purple-black bruise across the woman’s cheek—more than once. The man was a brute hiding behind his church robes.
Forced to live under her aunt and uncle’s roof for nearly eight years after her parents’ death, Tess had witnessed Luther’s brutality to her aunt, and for those eight years had also been a victim of his sly assaults. Recently, the pinches and the bruising had increased and she now lived in fear of more obvious abuse.
But she refused to be forced into a marriage to a man like Percy, a man in the same image of her uncle.
…
Despite his affliction, the stranger lifted himself easily onto the horse and came up hard behind her. He linked his arms around her waist.
His warm breath wisped across her neck and a shiver inched its way up and down her spine. Uncertainty tangled with desperation, but she did not move nor utter a word, fearful he would find what she so desperately tried to conceal. She was no lad hiding beneath the rags of a groomsman.
“Do you think you may fall off?” she finally asked, glancing at him over her shoulder.
“A precaution.” He smiled, dimples creasing either side of his full mouth and something inside Tess spun around and around.
Her gut tightened at this strange reaction. “Then I suggest, sir, if you think you are about to fall that you let go of me. I do not want to go with you.”
His brows cocked over unseeing eyes. “A brave lad taking to the highways and yet scared of a fall from a horse?”
Tess harrumphed. “I did not say I was scared.” The truth was she had been terrified, though now with the stranger beside her that terror had diminished somewhat. She had no idea why. Just that it had.
“Nay, you did not admit to fear, though perhaps foolishness could be a more apt description,” he said.
“A tag that could fit both of us, it seems.” Tess twisted away from him. “Where to?”
“Find the nearest village. That’s our best chance.”
With a click of her tongue, Tess urged the horse forward, oak and yew quickly crowding around them as they entered the track through the forest. Hellebore lined the sides of the path, but after some time it widened and the trees thinned to allow the warmth of the sun to visit the earth. Tiny clumps of asters grew, their flower head faces raised to the sun. At any other time the setting would have delighted Tess. Now, all that mattered was freedom.
Slumped against her back, her passenger remained silent as they made slow progress. At least it gave her time to ruminate on the current turn of events.
Twenty-four hours ago she had been a niece about to be affianced. Now she had transgressed to the pathway of highway robbery.
Better that, she thought with conviction, than being a chattel to a brute like Percy.
With her determination set, she concentrated on riding and keeping her distance from the man at her back. Thankfully, after what seemed an eternity, with the sun now high in the sky, they came to the outskirts of a village.
“We’re here.” Tess urged the horse from their hidden path only to have her passenger grab at the reins.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“Exactly as you said.”
“Did I tell you to ride straight into the village without a by-your-leave? A surefire way of getting the Redbreasts’ rope around your neck, and mine.”
“So what do you suggest? We cannot stay in hiding all day. You’ve a wound that needs tending.”
His gaze narrowed on her. It was a strange sensation being scrutinized by one who was blind, albeit, she prayed, only temporarily.
“How old are you?”
“Fifteen,” she lied quickly.
“Well, lad, if you wish to make your next year, ’tis necessary we move carefully. Wait a bit. See who enters the village, and who leaves.”
“Of course. I am no fool.” She had gotten this far without his help.
His mouth curved into a slight smile that tugged suddenly at her conscience and her heart.
You are a fool, Tess. He is a highwayman, not a character from a frivolous romantic novel.
“No, perhaps not, but if you are to continue on this road then you must learn the ropes. Caution at every turn, young man.”
And so they waited, hour upon hour.
“All clear?” he asked at last, his voice close to her ear. In fact, too close. He leaned hard against her back and though she tried to create some space between them, he didn’t move.
She stole a look at him over her shoulder. All color had drained from his face, his eyes resting closed, the ebony slash of his lashes a stark contrast to the dark blond hair plastered to his scalp.
“There is no one,” she whispered, “though if the Redbreasts come around the corner we’ll have scant time to take cover.”
“A risk we must take.”
With nerves ricocheting in her belly, Tess flicked the reins and guided the horse forward, straining to hear any sound coming their way.
Only silence returned, along with the call of the birds and the tread of her horse’s hooves on a land braced for winter.
This was not how it was meant to be. In her books, freedom on the road offered romantic adventure, not fear, hunger, and desperation.
Had she not learned that those stories were simply fantasies?
Shame washed over her, grinding deep into the recesses of her mind. Shame and guilt and sadness. How different would her life have been if her parents had not died?
If only…
She shook her head and tried to eradicate the sadness, only to have her cap tilt askew and her hair tumble around her shoulders.
A sharp breath expunged from her lungs as she snatched at the tattered tweed headpiece and waited for the man’s reaction.
It was silent for a heartbeat. Then another, and another, and suddenly it dawned on her once more that he truly could not see.
Relieved, she quickly gathered her hair up and tucked it beneath her cap once more. A moment later they rounded the bend and rode into the village.
Everything seemed so normal. Children played. Dogs scampered about, rummaging in piles of rubbish, and thankfully no one took much notice of them as they made their way toward the village square.
It was a typical country scene with stallholders lining one side of the marketplace, a stable opposite, and the ironmonger next to it.
“Go to the inn. They’ll have a room,” her companion said.
“A room? I do not have the funds for such luxuries. Besides, I need to leave and find a buyer for my…” A lump formed in her throat.
“Trying to off-load your takings too soon is foolish.”
So what was she to do? And how did one sell stolen property anyway?
“A few days, a week, then it will quiet down and you’ll be able to find a buyer.”
“That long!” Panic resurfaced. “I don’t have that long, not if I…” She clammed up. Better she keep her story to herself. She eyed the inn at the far end of the square and made for it. “I will ensure you are safe and are attended to and then I will leave.”
Dismounting, she turned and reached for her passenger as he slid from the horse. His fingers clasped her forearm, warmth eliciting from their tips and burning her flesh. She yanked free and nervously tugged at her tunic as she tried to gather her wits.
Her passenger stood tall, foreboding, his eyes hollow and unsighted. She noted, however, that his right hand rested on the hidden hilt of his pistol.
“Wait here. I’ll go inside and see if there are rooms,” she stated.
“No. Best we go together.”
He rested his free hand on her shoulder and again heat raged a ragged path
through her body, making her cheeks burn. Tess tugged her cap down over her eyes, wishing the sudden emotions careering through her would abate and her body not betray her so.
With his hold on her, they walked side by side into the inn. The room silenced, all eyes turning to focus on the newcomers. The stench of unwashed bodies and ale forced Tess to inhale one long deep breath and try to hold it.
“Do not look at any of them. Eyes straight ahead,” her passenger instructed. He nudged her forward.
“Innkeeper?” she called out. “We need a room to rest up a while.”
A redheaded man, his curls thinning and cheeks ruddy, stood behind a counter. He glanced up at them, nodding. He wiped his hands on an apron that had already seen many days, if not weeks, of grime. “And a doctor too, please,” she added.
“Aye, it looks like ye taken a tumble.”
“My wife and I were venturing to London when my horse was spooked and I hit my head.”
Wife?
A furious heat scalded her cheeks.
He knows!
She jerked round to face him and witnessed the flicker of a smile and, yes, even the glint of humor in his shadowed gaze.
Anger burned low in her gut and she fisted her hands, though she desperately wanted to slap the smug look off his face.
He knows! What now?
“Ye wife, eh?”
The innkeeper’s blatantly salacious gaze slid the length of her in her men’s attire, adding further shame and fury. As she was about to speak, the wounded stranger’s hand stilled a single syllable as he squeezed her shoulder. She gritted her teeth and said nothing.
“Whatever takes ye fancy, I suppose,” the man grunted. “This way.”
Her stranger took a step back. “After you, m’dear.”
Tess wrenched from his hold. “Don’t you dare touch me.”
“Why not? We are married.”
Tess leaned toward him, ignoring the flourish of body heat between them, and hissed. “We are nothing of the kind. You, sir, are a scoundrel.”
“And you, madam, are a highway robber. How would you like that broadcasted to the entire village?”
Her jaw dropped, mouth opening and closing.
“No, I did not think so,” he answered at her hesitation. “However, you need to understand that acting as my wife is far better than what would become of you if these men realized you were scandalous enough to wear men’s clothing. They would also presume other things. You have no option. Either play along with me or play with the men at the inn.”
A glance toward the patrons of the none-too-salubrious watering hole and Tess quickly saw his truth. Damn. She sniffed her disgust at his trickery. “Just for now, and not for long. Soon I will be gone and you, sir, can rot at the end of a Redbreast’s rope, for all I care.”
Chapter Two
A rake, a rogue, a lady and damsel in distress
All is not what it seems
Mirabelle’s Musings
October 1813
“Funny how when you have no sight everything is intensified,” Aiden quipped as the door closed behind them.
“Funny? There is nothing funny about this. You’ve coerced me here under false pretenses.”
“What is false about being blind? Besides, it is not false. I cannot see a damned thing.”
“You can see me!”
He wished he could, for there was a tinkling lightness to her voice, and though it bristled with indignation, Aiden couldn’t help but wonder if her voice matched her appearance.
The truth was, everything was still hazy as if coated by a thick fog. He could sense her fear, however, and heard the creak of the floorboards as she shifted from foot to foot. But it was her fragrance that captured him—the fragrance of lavender and roses.
“Only partially,” he at last admitted with honesty.
“For that I can be grateful.”
He heard her sudden movement and followed it with unseeing eyes.
“You knew I was a woman, yet you said nothing.”
“I did on both counts. You do not smell of hours spent on the road but of a lady of the parlor. Perhaps you would have preferred I shouted to the coach driver and his passengers that the ‘lad’ holding them up was none other than a weapon-brandishing female. What do you think would have happened then?”
She said nothing, and Aiden cursed silently. He truly wanted to see her.
She’d been hidden from him mostly, until she’d wiped a pale hand across her face and the shadowy form of her tapered fingers had captivated him.
“I cannot stay here.”
“Why the devil not?”
“You know why. We are not married.”
“But you came upstairs, nevertheless, and you never corrected my claim to the innkeeper.”
“You didn’t leave me much option, and you were bleeding—still are—but then what do I care if you bleed to death?”
“Ah…but that’s the rub, I think you do care, otherwise you would have left me to rot on the forest floor.”
“I should have, it would have meant less trouble.”
“You said you would take me to a safe haven, so that makes you a robber with a conscience. That is unique.”
“More fool me,” she countered tartly.
But Aiden wasn’t concentrating on her bitter retort. His head ached sorely, the buzz between his ears escalating by the second. Fumbling behind him, he found the bed and lowered himself down. “Since we know exactly where we stand with each other, could I bother you to fetch me some water and a cloth? I do not want to seep blood onto our bed, m’dear,” he said, unable to keep the mirth from his voice.
“That you find humor in this predicament is a clear indication the bump on your head has certainly addled your brain.”
She stepped away and Aiden followed the sound of her footsteps, heard the water pour from the jug to a bowl. Then nothing. She remained silent, though he felt her close by. Felt her fear, too.
“You do not need to be afraid of me,” he said.
“I’m not.” Her trembling voice belied the truth.
He reached out for the basin, fingers brushing her hand. They were chilled to the bone. “You are cold.”
“I’m not,” she repeated.
“Not cold. And not afraid.” Aiden understood her fears. She was a woman alone and yet she was strong enough to resist running from him. But why take to the roads?
He inched his fingers along hers until he came to a bunched up rag. Taking it, he dipped it into the water and then dabbed at his temple. The icy water stung against the gash and he winced.
“Baby.” She snorted. “Let me.”
Aiden offered a wry smile. She may have been fearful and angry at his outing of her disguise, but there was compassion, too.
She took the cloth from his fingers and with gentleness tended his wound. “It bleeds a lot, but it is not deep and will heal well.”
“And my sight?”
So far, he hadn’t had time to be afraid. To be blind was an affliction he would not wish on his worst enemy. To be blind and away from home, with his enemy close by, could for certain be detrimental to his wellbeing.
“There is great bruising and the skin around the wound has turned a vicious purple-black. Perhaps when the bleeding is completely stemmed and the bruising lessens, your sight will return. Do you still have the blurring?”
Lost in the morass of what he could see and what he could not, Aiden simply nodded, though one part of him believed he could see more. A flicker of light. A shadow. He had to believe that, because right now all he had left was belief, and hope.
And fear.
What use was he right now? A blind man against a bastard who would kill him in a heartbeat. Realizing his predicament, and safety paramount, he’d given his name to the innkeeper as Martin. Right initial. Wrong name. Better safe than sorry.
A knock sounded at the door and the girl’s tending ceased.
“See who it is,” he instructed as he fumbled
beneath his cloak for his pistol.
She rested the bowl on the floor beside the bed and with quick, precise steps walked to the door and opened it.
“A meal for you both,” the innkeeper intoned. “Ye looks like you’ve had a rough time of it, so I asked me wife to slice a bit of meat and bread for ye. It ain’t much, but it tastes good.”
“I’m sure.” To his ears, his voice sounded cool and calm, while his gut churned.
As the reality of his predicament set in, the defenselessness of being without sight shredded his normal calm demeanor and the swirl of fear built. He kept his pistol close, but how did a blind man shoot to save himself?
With the innkeeper gone, Aiden heard the young woman carry the food across the room. God, how he wished he could see. Anything was better than the blur before him.
He also wanted to confirm what he’d seen as he’d been hidden beneath the leafy canopy. She had been a comely lad, but he was sure she would be a stunningly beautiful woman.
“There is food,” she said from across the room. “Would you care to join me?”
He offered her a smile. Pushing himself from the bed, he went to take a step and then hesitated.
How did a blind man walk?
Sweat beaded his brow and he squeezed his eyes tight, scrubbing a hand across them to swipe away the salty sweat.
He heard her move toward him, but he held up his hand. “No. I must make my own way.” He took a tentative step over the rough-hewn floorboards, then another and another, holding his hands out in front of him, for his balance seemed to have evaporated as well as his sight.
“Nearly there,” she said by way of encouragement.
His jaw clenched. God, how he hated being dependent on someone. At last his fingers slid across the back of a chair and he sank gratefully into the seat.
“The plate is in front of you,” she said.
Fingers crab walking across the table, he fumbled until he found the plate, suddenly aware he had not eaten since dawn the day before. Finding the meat, he succored his hunger, but not his need to know about his companion.
“So why were you out on London Road intent on stealing from the rich? Was it to give to the poor, for perhaps you are a womanly reincarnation of Robin Hood?”
The Highwayman's Bride Page 2
