Midnight Raider

by Thacker, Shelly

  He had a plan. Of course he had a plan. He always had a plan. She tried to find reassurance in his confidence. But she knew they would have no chance to get away once inside.

  She also knew how it felt to be locked in a cell—and she had no wish to repeat the experience.

  Sweat broke out on her brow as the gaoler opened the gates. The man ushered them inside with an enthusiastic greeting.

  “Damn me eyes, Alfie, Cyril.” He nodded to each of the bounty hunters in turn. “I can’t keep up with the two of ye! Before ye know it, yer goin’ to be the richest thief-takers in all of England.”

  “If anyone can do it, it’s us,” Alfie declared, motioning Marcus, Elizabeth and the third prisoner inside with a wave of his pistols.

  “Ye know I’ve still got them other four ye brought in on Tuesday,” the gaoler complained. “And I ain’t got but me and Wilton to watch ’em all.”

  They crossed a small courtyard and he unlocked a tall, ancient-looking door reinforced with iron hinges that groaned as he pushed it open. Inside, he lifted a lantern from a hook. Elizabeth couldn’t catch her breath, her legs trembling. In the flickering light, she could make out a cramped passageway, its walls and ceiling of stone.

  “The magistrate will clear ’em all out for ye when he comes for his weekly visit tomorrow mornin’.” Cyril’s voice echoed eerily. “Likely he’ll have ’em all carted down to the square for a nice public hangin’.”

  Elizabeth froze, her stomach lurching at the phrases carted down to the square and public hanging.

  Cyril impatiently waved her forward with his gun. “Move, boy.”

  Shaking, she had no choice but to stumble after the gaoler, down a staircase of slippery steps that had been hollowed out by centuries of reluctant feet. Marcus and the third prisoner were sent down behind her, the other bounty hunter bringing up the rear.

  “Ye remember to tell the magistrate it was us what brought all these coves in,” Alfie demanded.

  “Right, mates, right. Just as long as I gets my cut, is all. And a bit fer Wilton.”

  Elizabeth felt sickened to be treated as an object of casual commerce—and she felt panic rising as they descended the curving stone staircase. The underground prison bore a stark resemblance to the place where she had endured the most horrifying experience of her life.

  Fleet.

  “Three more fer us, Wilton,” the gaoler said cheerfully as they reached the bottom of the stairs.

  A thin young man came forward, lifting a heavy ring of iron keys at his waist. He opened a pair of empty cells.

  “Me and Cyril will see to the big gents,” the gaoler said. “Alfie, you lock up the lad.”

  Elizabeth watched the gaoler push Marcus toward a cell.

  “No, wait!” she begged in a low, tremulous voice. Only a short time ago—had it been only minutes?—she’d wanted to get away from Marcus. Now she couldn’t bear to be separated from him for the night.

  He turned to her with eyes full of reassurance. “Don’t worry, nephew,” he said, still using the tone of a London lord utterly annoyed at being inconvenienced. “I’ll have a chat with the magistrate in the morning. We’ll clear up this dreadful misunderstanding. Don’t you do anything reckless, now.” He emphasized the last order with a stern look.

  Before she could respond, Alfie caught the ring of keys that Wilton tossed to him and hauled her down a long corridor toward another cell.

  She felt as if she were suffocating, the stone walls and ceilings closing in on her, her heartbeat deafening in her ears. A crush of memories that she had held back for months assaulted her.

  Fleet. The darkness, the fetid air, the sobbing, the men and women crowded together, fighting one another for scraps of food… the children…

  Oh, God, her baby.

  The bounty hunter beside her wavered in her vision, seemed to change into one of Montaigne’s footmen. She could feel his hands on her, dragging her forward. Could feel the heaviness of her body.

  She had to resist. Escape. Run. If she allowed them to put her in a cell, her baby would die.

  With a jangle of keys, a door creaked open. Her hands were untied. A pistol jabbed into the small of her back. “Inside, lad.”

  She heard his words as if from far away. “I’m not going in there,” she said in a guttural voice, held fast by sheer terror. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m not going in there!”

  She had to run. To save her baby, she had to run.

  Panicked, she tried to break away, but rough hands on her shoulders stopped her. The man backhanded her across the face. “Stop makin’ trouble or I’ll bash ye good, boy!”

  He forced her into the dark cell, shoving her to the dirt floor.

  “If yer lucky,” he snapped as he slammed the door behind her, “ye might get some food an’ water before the magistrate arrives in the mornin’. Then again,” he added with a laugh as he locked her in, “ye might not.”

  Elizabeth lay where she had fallen, unmoving, no longer hearing him. She scarcely felt aware of the pain in her cheek, the taste of blood in her mouth.

  Lost in the turmoil in her mind, she gazed up at the dank stone above, seeing instead the earthen ceiling of Fleet that she had stared at for so many hours. The weight of it seemed to press down on her. Crushing. Suffocating. She couldn’t breathe.

  “Let me out,” she begged softly, squeezing her eyes shut. “My baby…” Tears slipped past her lashes as she curled into a ball. “My baby… please…”

  ~ ~ ~

  “I could lose me place for this,” the lad named Wilton said, keeping his pistol aimed at Marcus’s chest as he escorted him out of his cell. “But I ain’t goin’ to torture nobody. I been puttin’ food and water inside his door fer three days now, but I noticed tonight that he ain’t been eatin’ nor drinkin’ none of it.”

  Marcus kept his hands raised and didn’t make any sudden moves—yet. The magistrate’s arrival had been delayed, but Marcus would still prefer to talk his way out of here rather than risk getting himself or Elizabeth shot.

  He planned to reveal to the justice that Elizabeth wasn’t a lad but a woman, and that he was the Earl of Darkridge. He would explain that the two of them had been sneaking away to an assignation, with her in disguise to evade disapproving relatives. He and the magistrate would have a good laugh at the whole comical misadventure. And then he and Elizabeth would be off to London.

  But the magistrate had been kept away by a complex case in another town.

  And instead of being imprisoned for only a few hours, Elizabeth had been alone in her dark cell for three days.

  “They said he’s yer nephew.” Wilton led Marcus down a long corridor, unlocked her cell and pushed the door open. “So I thought ye might know what’s wrong with him.”

  For a moment, Marcus’s attention was fixed on the lad’s gun. He weighed the odds of getting shot if he overpowered Wilton, the chances of success if he and Elizabeth made a run for it. Then he glanced into her cell—and choked out a stunned curse.

  Elizabeth sat beside the door, silent and still, her arms wrapped around her knees. She was staring at the floor, her expression blank.

  “The magistrate will finally be here in the mornin’,” the boy continued. “And he’ll want to talk to yer nephew here, so ye best rouse him, if ye can. Has he done this before?”

  “No.” His heart beating strangely, Marcus stepped into the cell and knelt beside her, gently touching her shoulder. She didn’t respond, didn’t even seem to recognize him. What the hell had happened to her?

  “Looks like he’s gone ’round the bend,” Wilton said, a note of profound irritation in his voice. “And lunatics don’t fetch no thirty pounds. So get him talkin’.”

  Marcus looked up to see that the boy had exited the cell and was already closing the door. “Wait—”

  “Do whatever ye have to.” Wilton ordered as he turned the key in the lock. “Get him talkin’ before the magistrate arrives.”

  Marcus swore as the l
ad left. He doubted another opportunity to escape would present itself.

  But any concern about escape evaporated when he looked at Elizabeth again. Her face was smudged with dirt and streaked with tear tracks. He reached out to brush her tangled hair back from her forehead. “Elizabeth?”

  She didn’t speak, or flinch, or acknowledge his presence at all. His gut knotted with an unfamiliar emotion he could only describe as fear. There was a nasty bruise on her cheek, dried blood on her lip. Had someone assaulted her?

  “Elizabeth, it’s me. It’s Marcus.” He brushed his fingers over her uninjured cheek. “Tell me what happened.”

  She uttered a sound, a single word, so weak he scarcely heard it.

  “Elizabeth, talk to me,” he ordered, his fear deepening. “You have to tell me what—”

  “No…” She blinked. “Can’t… can’t you hear him?” Her voice was hoarse and dry. “He’s crying.”

  “Who?” Marcus cupped her cheek in his hand, tried to turn her face toward him. “Who’s crying?”

  “Liam.” She resisted his touch. “He’s not dead. I can hear him. I-I have to get help because he’s so small.” She began shaking like a fragile branch caught in a storm. “He’s crying and no one’s coming and he’s going to—”

  “Elizabeth, calm down.” He tried to ease her into his arms.

  “No!” She fought him, becoming frantic. “I have to help him. I have to help him! If I… if I can’t get out…”

  “Shhh.” Marcus drew her toward him, holding her against his chest. “You’re all right—”

  “But he’s still alive… he’s still… he’s…” She shut her eyes.

  Her lower lip began to tremble.

  “Oh, God, he’s gone.” Suddenly she went limp. “Liam…”

  A pair of tears slipped from beneath her lashes and she began to weep, silently. Then her arms went around Marcus, clinging with desperate strength. Something seemed to break within her and she gave in to anguished sobs that echoed from deep in her chest.

  Marcus felt helpless, stunned by the intensity of her sorrow. “Elizabeth… sweetheart,” he whispered, not sure what he could say to comfort her. He wasn’t sure there was any comfort for a grief as profound as what she obviously felt. All he could do was hold her, slowly stroking her hair, her back.

  He didn’t know who Liam was. But the sound of her crying made something knot up painfully in the middle of his chest. He wished he could will his own strength into her shivering form.

  After a time, her tears ebbed to harsh breathing… then, gradually, she became quiet, her cheek still pressed against his chest, her eyes still closed. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask her for explanations. He just held her, moving his hand over her back soothingly. A long while later, he thought she might have fallen asleep.

  Then her voice startled him.

  “I… I wanted to be such a good mother to my son.” Her words were aching, hollow. “He took that away from me, forever.”

  At the words mother and son, Marcus began to understand. “Liam… was your son?”

  She nodded into his shirt.

  He shut his eyes. “Who took him away?” he asked gently, already guessing at the truth.

  “Montaigne.” She said it without malice, without any emotion at all.

  Marcus felt a new surge of hatred toward his longtime enemy, knowing that he was the one who had caused Elizabeth such suffering. “How?”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment. When she finally answered, she sounded exhausted, resigned, her voice worn thin from crying. “He had me committed to Fleet. I owed him seven shillings, and he had me imprisoned because I couldn’t pay.”

  The fragments of her past that Marcus already knew began to fit together in his mind. “How did you come to owe Montaigne money?”

  “It was my husband’s debt,” she said wearily. “Geoffrey wasn’t a London lord. He was a tailor from Coventry, a friend of our family. My father thought Geoffrey would use my marriage portion to set up his own shop… but Geoffrey wanted to live in London. We used my money to travel to the city and let a small flat. But he couldn’t find a position anywhere. There were so many tailors already, and the guild wouldn’t admit an outsider. He started drinking. And then I… I…”

  “What?” Marcus asked softly.

  “I found out I was expecting a baby.” Elizabeth’s tears began to fall again. “I begged Geoffrey to return to Northampton, but he said he would rather die than return home a failure. And he wouldn’t let me go alone, because he said it would make him look as if he couldn’t take care of his wife.”

  Marcus clenched his jaw, feeling a burning anger at the selfish idiot. Any man who would show so little concern for his pregnant wife didn’t deserve to have a wife. But he kept his opinion to himself.

  He encouraged Elizabeth to keep talking, because it seemed to be helping her. “How did you come to be imprisoned?”

  Bitterness crept into her tone, edging out even her grief. “Geoffrey was killed in a brawl at a gin-house in St. Giles. By then it was too late for me to go home. It was November, and I was so far along, I didn’t dare travel. I-I didn’t realize how bad things were until Geoffrey’s creditors began coming to the door. I sold everything I had to pay them. My wedding ring, my clothes—”

  “Your hair?” he asked softly, threading his fingers into the black tresses that barely reached her shoulders.

  She nodded into his shirt. “Montaigne was the last of Geoffrey’s creditors. And it was only seven shillings. But he didn’t want to hear about how desperate my situation was. He didn’t care about anything but his money. He sent me to Fleet… and…”

  “Your son was born in prison.” Marcus understood now why she had suffered so badly after being alone in the cell for three days.

  It was a long moment before Elizabeth could answer. She nodded, crying again. “Liam didn’t live beyond his first hour,” she whispered. “He never had a chance. He was gone before I ever knew him.”

  She closed her eyes and fell silent again, crumpled in Marcus’s arms, as if she didn’t even have the strength to weep anymore. He cradled her against his chest, engulfed by emotions—sorrow at her loss, anger at such pointless suffering, fury at Montaigne.

  And a protective tenderness for Elizabeth, beyond anything he had ever felt in his life.

  “I promise you,” he told her in a taut voice, “I will make Montaigne pay.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I need to make him pay. I want to be there. I want to—”

  “Shhh.” Marcus eased her away from him, cupping her face in his hands, his fingers large and dark against her pale skin. “I’ll take care of everything.”

  A fresh tear slid down toward his thumb. “Marcus, I can’t let you take care of everything for me,” she said with soft vehemence. “I can’t… I won’t be dependent on a man again.” She sat up, shifting away from him. “I obeyed my father and married Geoffrey, because that’s what my father said was best. I obeyed my husband and stayed in London, because that’s what he said was best. And those choices cost me everything.”

  “Elizabeth…” When he reached for her, she flinched away.

  “I should have been stronger.” Tears shone in her eyes, but this time she wiped at them angrily. “I should have left Geoffrey when I had a chance, but I didn’t. I was too soft.” Her voice wavered. “Too weak to protect my son. But I’m not the same girl I was when I arrived in London. I’m stronger,” she said adamantly. “And I decide what’s best for me now. No one else. Me. I want every last bit of gold Montaigne has—except for seven shillings.” With one hand, she made a trembling motion as if counting out the coins. “I want to leave him exactly seven shillings. Lined up across the bottom of his fine coach.”

  Marcus felt a chill at the tone of her voice. He resisted the instinct to reach out again, to try and soothe her with his touch.

  “I couldn’t save my baby.” She pressed her back against the wall again, trembling, her gaze defiant. �
��But I can help save other women and their children. And that’s what I’m going to do. I’ll accept your help, Marcus. I’ll be your partner. But I won’t accept you taking over.”

  Her strength and stubborn independence filled Marcus with a frustrating mix of admiration and concern for her safety.

  “Why,” he asked gently, “do you help only women and children with this charity of yours? Are not men in need as well?”

  “Men always seem to find their way out of trouble on their own. Or they disappear and leave it in the lap of some poor woman.”

  “The way your husband did?”

  “Yes,” she said bitterly. “When I learned that Geoffrey had died in that brawl, the first thing I felt was…” She hesitated. “Relief.” She pulled her knees up to her chest again, wrapping her arms around them. “Because at least I wouldn’t have to put up with him demanding his ‘husbandly rights’ anymore.”

  The impact of what she was saying hit Marcus like a fist in the gut. “Elizabeth, whatever he did, the way that drunken oaf treated you—”

  “It was… it was suffocating. He would come home late at night, reeking of gin. I would wake up to him pawing at my nightdress, and then he would just… climb on top of me and… push me down… .”

  Marcus shut his eyes, not wanting to imagine what she had endured.

  He felt a grim satisfaction that the worthless clod had gotten the ignominious death he deserved.

  Looking at Elizabeth huddled against the wall, he wanted to hold her, to kiss her fears and bleak memories away. But that was clearly the last thing she wanted or needed. “Sweetheart, the way your husband treated you was wrong, and it wasn’t lovemaking—”

  “But I don’t want to ever… do that again. I-I couldn’t risk…” She covered her face with her hands. “If I lost another baby, I couldn’t bear it. I think it would kill me.”

  It took every ounce of will Marcus possessed not to gather her into his arms to comfort her. “There are ways to avoid the risk,” he assured her quietly. “And it would be entirely different, my sweet lady, between us.”