Midnight Raider

by Thacker, Shelly

  “We don’t have time,” Marcus said hoarsely, not taking his gaze from Elizabeth’s face. “Get us out of here, Quinn.”

  “Yes, sir.” Quinn climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  Georgiana stood and nudged Nell, who looked up in irritation, then nodded in understanding, wiping tears from her blue eyes. The two women left Elizabeth in Marcus’s care and went to sit beside Quinn.

  They were all silent as the wagon rattled toward the road. Georgiana only looked over her shoulder once—and saw Marcus kiss Elizabeth, so sweetly and tenderly that she felt guilty for ever thinking ill of him.

  But when he lifted his head, Elizabeth’s lashes didn’t open. She remained still, silent.

  Unlike the sleeping beauty of the fairy tale, it seemed a prince’s kiss wasn’t enough to awaken her.

  ~ ~ ~

  The first sensation Elizabeth became aware of was a disagreeable rolling and pitching feeling that she had never felt before.

  She tried to focus on it, use it as a handhold to pull herself out of the utter darkness that enveloped her.

  It took an enormously long time, but she gradually fought her way upward, becoming aware of other sensations: an almost painful tingling in her fingers and toes, a throbbing headache, and a heaviness in her chest. Then she noticed smells… a salty tang, like that of the sea, mingled with musty scents… wood and some kind of pitch.

  Trying to breathe deeply, she couldn’t seem to get enough air.

  “Elizabeth,” a familiar, commanding voice called to her.

  A sharp, bitter odor suddenly assaulted her nose and she choked and tried to get away from it. The smell followed no matter which way she twisted her head.

  “Stop that,” she muttered sleepily.

  This was met with what sounded like laughter, from more than one person.

  “Only if you wake up,” the voice insisted, softer now.

  “I am awake.”

  To prove her point, she slowly opened her eyes.

  It took a few blinks before she could sort out the faces surrounding her. Marcus was closest, sitting beside her on what felt like a hard and uncomfortable bed. Behind him, she saw Georgiana and Nell and a very pale Quinn, all of them standing in what seemed to be an unusually tiny room… with wooden paneling on the walls and even the ceiling.

  They were all smiling at her, especially Marcus. Georgiana and Nell hugged one another, then Nell turned around and hugged Quinn, who didn’t appear to mind at all.

  “What… happened?” Elizabeth murmured.

  Quinn came over and leaned down to look into her eyes. “How do you feel?” He checked her pulse. “Can you move?”

  Elizabeth wiggled her fingers and toes experimentally. “So… tired… and everything… aches… but I think… I’m fine.”

  “Thank God.” Marcus slid his arms around her, lifting her into a fierce embrace, his voice raw. “And thank you, Quinn.”

  Elizabeth still felt drowsy and confused. “What happened?” she repeated, her cheek resting against Marcus’s chest. All she could think of at the moment was that his warmth and his nearness made her feel ridiculously, blissfully happy.

  “How much do you remember?” he asked.

  Elizabeth furrowed her brow and tried to sift through the fragments that whirled in her memory. “I was… in the cart… drinking from the bottle of claret, just as you told me… and then we came up over the hill and… I saw the gallows.” She shivered and Marcus rubbed her back soothingly. “After that…” She closed her eyes, puzzled. “I don’t know. It’s all… blank.”

  “The drug perhaps blocked out her memory,” Quinn said.

  “Or the wine,” Georgiana added. “Or the shock of it all.”

  “Whatever it was, it’s a blessin’,” Nell said firmly.

  Marcus stroked Elizabeth’s hair. “I agree.”

  “All I know is…” Elizabeth smiled weakly. “I’ll never complain about wearing a corset again.” Opening her eyes, she looked around the small room. “Now would someone… please tell me where we are?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” Marcus offered. “I’ll show you.”

  He lifted Elizabeth out of bed and carried her out of the room, while their three friends stayed behind.

  As he stepped into the corridor, Elizabeth realized that they were on a ship. The hall was narrow and dark, but when he climbed the stairway at the far end, she saw daylight above. Then they were on deck—and she couldn’t remember the sun ever feeling so good on her face, the air so clear and so sweet.

  She was free.

  Still holding her, Marcus turned so that she could see all around—nothing but ocean on every side. They had apparently left England far behind. The sails snapped in the wind and the few sailors on deck offered polite greetings before going on about their duties.

  Marcus carried her to the railing and gingerly lowered her to her feet, holding her close with both arms around her waist.

  Elizabeth leaned back against him and watched the sun melt into the waves, its fire softened and cooled by blue, the sea brightened and warmed by red. “You never told me we were leaving the country,” she said in soft surprise.

  “I did. I said that once we had whisked you away from Tyburn and revived you, we would all leave together.”

  “I thought you meant leave London.”

  “Elizabeth, there’s no safe place for you in all of England. Not anymore. Thanks to the newspapers and those sketch artists and their broadsheets, your face is too well known.”

  She nodded in understanding. “And if anyone were to discover that Elizabeth Thornhill is still alive… I’d have to spend the rest of my life running from thief-takers.”

  “I wanted you to be truly free. You won’t have to live in fear. Never again.” He brushed a kiss through her hair. “I promise you that.”

  They stood in silence, watching the gulls swoop over the waves.

  “But what about you?” Elizabeth turned in his arms and looked up at him. “You’re leaving behind so much. The life you had planned, everything you wanted—”

  He silenced her with a kiss, light and lingering and infinitely tender. “Everything I want,” he assured her in a whisper, “is right here.”

  His words filled her with the most exquisite joy she had ever felt. She felt it overflow her heart. “I love you, Marcus Worthington.” She rested her cheek on his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart as she watched the sunset. “We don’t seem to be sailing east, so I assume we’re not going to Morocco…”

  “No, we’re not going to Morocco. I may no longer be an English aristocrat, but neither am I a wandering vagabond or a desert nomad.” He chuckled. “You may invite your sister and her husband to come visit us on their travels.”

  Elizabeth smiled. “I’d like that. Although I suppose I’ll need yet another new identity.” She sighed. “Wherever it is we’re going, I won’t be able to use my real name—”

  “Of course you will,” he countered. “You’ll be Elizabeth Worthington.” He caressed her chin, tilting her head up. “Though most everyone will know you as Lady Darkridge. I may have left the rest behind, but I still hold the title.”

  She smiled up at him. “Is this a proposal, my lord?”

  He scooped her into his arms again. “What say we go find the captain and see what he calls it?”

  “Yes.” She laughed with happiness as he carried her across the deck. “My answer is yes.”

  “We’ll have to live rather modestly,” he warned her. “Quinn got a good price for the town house, and I sold my notebooks to a printer, but—”

  “Your poetry?” she gasped in amazement. He had always insisted his work wasn’t for public viewing. “You sold your poetry?”

  “It was time to let them go,” he said simply. “And the man was quite fair about it. Gave me a decent sum and said he’d print up a few and send me half the profits.”

  Elizabeth kissed his cheek. “I am perfectly happy to live modestly
, as long as I’m living with you.” It occurred to her that he had still left out one rather important detail about their future. “Do you realize you haven’t yet told me our destination?”

  His grin widened. “A place that’s perfect for a pair of rogues like us.”

  Epilogue

  Boston, Massachusetts, 1744

  Autumn leaves drifted past the hall windows on the second floor of New Worthington Manor.

  Elizabeth paused just long enough to admire the view of the bright New England afternoon before she continued down the corridor on her quest. She found the men she sought—husband and son—sprawled on the floor of the master bedroom, surrounded by discarded pieces of paper.

  Marcus lay on his back, gnawing at the end of the fancy new lacquer pen she had bought him. Their dark-haired baby slept snugly on his chest, tiny lashes lowered over his coffee-brown eyes.

  Elizabeth stood in the doorway a moment, not making her presence known, simply soaking up the inexpressible joy of the little tableau. Marcus’s strength and confidence had helped her tremendously during her pregnancy. He had patiently listened to her every doubt, no matter how wildly emotional, and had refused to leave her side for a second during the long night when their son was born.

  Now, four months later, she was finally learning not to worry every moment her son was away from her side. Everyone in New Worthington Manor treasured him as much as she did. Marcus most of all.

  His hand looked so large and powerful and gentle on little Thomas’s back. Elizabeth loved seeing it there, or sweeping a pen across a page in a flurry of poetic inspiration. It had been a long time since she had seen those fingers curled around the grip of a pistol. God willing, she would never see that again. Those days were behind them. Lord and Lady Darkridge were the most law-abiding of citizens, now and forevermore.

  “I hate to interrupt the artistic process,” she whispered, “but I believe you’re getting more ink on Thomas than you are on the paper.”

  Careful not to disturb the baby, Marcus looked her way and took the pen out of his mouth. “It’s never too early to begin the boy’s education.”

  Elizabeth tiptoed across the thick Wilton carpet. “Trying to turn him into a writer already?”

  “Actually, I’ve a feeling he’ll be a seafaring man.”

  “Because we live in Boston?”

  Marcus flashed her a wicked grin. “Because he was conceived on board a ship.”

  Elizabeth felt a blush rise in her cheeks. “It’s time for his nap.”

  “He’s enjoying his nap quite well. So am I.” Marcus reached out and caught the hem of her peacock-blue silk gown. “Why don’t you come down here and we’ll all enjoy it together?”

  Elizabeth sat on the floor beside them. “Actually, I’ve come with news.” She held up three letters. “The weekly post just arrived, and I received a reply from Mrs. Sinclair.”

  “That firebrand who’s married to one of Boston’s most influential politicians?”

  “Yes, and she likes my suggestion.” Elizabeth smiled triumphantly. “She agrees that our city needs a commission on women’s issues… and she’s invited me to tea next week to discuss how we might proceed.”

  Marcus looked a bit wary at the idea of having a political wife. “Try not to get into too much trouble, my darling. I suppose that letter with the foreign stamps is from your sister? Are they still in Greece?”

  “No.” Elizabeth leaned down to kiss her son’s rosy cheek, sighing at his sweet scent. “Greece was after Morocco, but before Portugal.” She sat up. “And now, Emma has…”

  “What?”

  “Well… she’s left him. He’s decided to travel the Silk Road to the Orient. Emma has decided that she’s had enough. So… she’s on her way here. We have room, don’t we?”

  “For a runaway wife? Isn’t that a bit scandalous, even for us?”

  She quietly thwacked him on the shoulder with the letters. “She’s my sister.”

  “Of course we have room,” Marcus said indulgently. “Does the third envelope hold news that will be a bit more pleasing to the lord and master of the house?”

  “Yes,” she laughed. “This one is from England. Another payment from Mr. Whitwell.” Elizabeth let her pride show in her smile. “The largest yet, in fact.”

  “We’re going to have the devil of a time thinking of ourselves as rustic colonials if we’re going to be rich.”

  “Mr. Whitwell also enclosed a note. An Anonymous Poet in London has just achieved the singular honor of becoming the most popular book in London since Gulliver’s Travels.”

  Marcus’s tone was gruff though his pleasure was obvious. “And I suppose he wants to know when An Anonymous Poet in the American Colonies will be finished?” He cast a frown at the papers scattered around him.

  “Mmm-hmm.” Elizabeth nodded, brushing her fingertips through the baby’s downy hair. “I certainly think you’ve more than enough poems finished. Although I still wish you would include my favorite.”

  “I’ve already explained, love, why I don’t think it’s a good idea to let them print the one about you.” Marcus reached up to touch her cheek. “No one who’s ever seen those eyes of yours could mistake whom I’m describing. ‘Not amethysts, nor damsons rare, nor spring’s first lilac days, could e’er match the love so radiant in my lady’s gaze.’”

  Elizabeth blushed and her lashes drifted downward. “Not the one about me,” she corrected gently. “The one about your father.”

  Marcus looked uncomfortable. “That one isn’t meant to be read by anyone outside the family.”

  She caressed his beard-stubbled, tanned jaw, trying to soothe his frown away. Elizabeth felt deeply pleased that Marcus had finally gotten past the resentment he’d felt toward his father, at least enough to write about his feelings. “It’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever written.”

  “It was pure hell to write it,” he said grimly.

  “But you feel it was worth the effort.” Elizabeth didn’t phrase it as a question.

  He sighed deeply, the baby rising and falling on his chest. Looking at his son, Marcus couldn’t hold back a smile. “Yes, it was. When I put my mind to it, I was able to remember him as he used to be, when I was young. I realized he never intended to desert my mother and I. He was just a desperate man in a desperate time… and who am I to set myself up as worthy to judge him?”

  Elizabeth looked at her sleeping son, thinking of the fears and bitterness that used to haunt her, feelings that were now only faint memories. “Time heals all wounds.”

  “No,” Marcus said softly, reaching up to wrap his fingers in her long black hair. “Love heals all wounds.”

  He was pulling her down for a kiss when Nell’s voice sounded in the hall. “Bess? Where have ye got to? I’ve another idea fer ye.”

  Elizabeth sighed and sat up. “In here, Nell.”

  Nell peeked around the corner. “I should’ve known.”

  “And good day to you too, Nell.” Marcus frowned at her.

  “What idea?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Georgi thinks I’m ready fer the madhouse.”

  “I never said that,” Georgiana said, coming up behind her in the corridor. “I said this idea of yours would land us all in whatever passes for a gaol in this uncivilized city.”

  The baby started to stir at all the noise. Marcus stood up and patted little Thomas’s back to quiet him. “Don’t just stand out there in the hall, ladies. Do come in.”

  Elizabeth gave him a quelling look. Maintaining a measure of tranquility between Nell and Georgiana had always been a challenge, but adding Marcus to the mix made it an impossible task.

  But no matter, she thought with a smile. Too much tranquility made for a dull life. “What idea?” she repeated.

  “I want to sell patterns fer breeches in me shop,” Nell said brightly, folding her arms over her chest. “Breeches fer women.”

  “Of all the addlepated—” Marcus managed to choke back the rest of his opinion
. Crossing to the window, he opened it and stuck his head out. “Quinn! Would you come and collect your wife? She’s regaling us with another of her ideas.”

  Nell looked miffed. “Theodosius thinks I’m barmy-brained, too. That’s why I’m askin’ what Bess here thinks.”

  Elizabeth winced for Quinn’s sake. He and Nell had spent the entire first week of the voyage to the Colonies fighting like dog and cat. The second week, no one had seen much of them. By the third week, they had asked if the captain wouldn’t mind performing another shipboard wedding.

  Of course, Quinn had to use his first name when saying his vows, and Nell had insisted on using it ever since. She thought it adorable, much to her husband’s chagrin.

  Quinn, arriving from his and Nell’s shop downstairs, stuck his head in the door. “And what are you concocting now, my good wife?”

  Marcus waved him inside. Quinn came to stand behind Nell and slipped his hands around her waist. She sighed but kept her arms stubbornly folded. “I wanted to see what Bess thought of me idea. Everythin’s new in New England. Why not new fashion?”

  “Actually, Nell,” Elizabeth had to admit. “I rather think the world’s not ready for women in breeches… not just yet. Not even the New World.”

  Nell raised her chin. “I think they’d sell like cold ale on a hot day.”

  “Or land us all in trouble with the authorities,” Marcus muttered.

  “Precisely,” Georgiana agreed.

  “I should think,” Quinn said, giving his wife a squeeze, “that being one of the most popular drapers in the Massachusetts Colony would be enough for you, my dear.”

  “Me customers come to Mrs. Quinn’s wantin’ new ideas,” she insisted. “I have to keep surprisin’ ’em.”

  “She does have a point,” Elizabeth said thoughtfully. “And breeches are rather comfortable.”

  Marcus looked down at his yawning son. “What are we going to do with this houseful of radical females?”

  “My dear, what say we discuss your idea elsewhere?” Quinn suggested diplomatically, pointing Nell toward the door. “Say in our own apartments?”

  Nell grumbled a bit, but Elizabeth heard a girlish giggle when the pair was halfway down the hall.