She stared at him, so beautiful, so distant, no trace of devotion or fondness or acquiescence. He couldn’t tell what she felt, what she thought.
“You should go now,” she said at last.
“Will you wait?”
She looked at the house, at the conflagration that had been her home. “I’ve nowhere to go, have I?”
“Your cousin’s. Clara Patton, in London.”
With a strange shake of her head, as if clearing it of some cobwebby mist, she said, “I’ve let this happen. I’ve done this to myself. I knew. I knew. And I let it happen.”
His moment of wrath dissolved. He lifted both his hands, pressed his fingers on her cheeks, the bandage a pale shape against the shadow at her throat. He kissed her. “In London. I’ll be there.”
He felt the tears tumble down her face. They smeared on his burned fingers, cold and stinging.
“Go,” she said, pushing him away. “Just go.”
He took a step, but she twisted and turned. She dropped the water pail and strode down the hill, leaving him with only the wet trace of her tears on his hands.
He watched her until she reached the fire engine. MacWhorter met her; the magistrate looked at Leigh and then up the hill.
There was no reprieve there, only a cold stare that challenged S.T.’s lingering.
He looked over at Chilton’s body. A familiar unsheathed blade lay near it. He limped down the slope and picked up his spadroon, found his silver-edged tricorne cast in the shadows nearby. Then he pulled his cloak off Chilton’s body. They’d closed the preacher’s eyes, but his white face was under lit by an eerie copper blush from the reflected flames.
“You won’t need any extra warmth where you’re going,” S.T. muttered, taking his cloak as he turned away.
No one paid him any attention. He couldn’t see Leigh anymore among the rush of silhouettes and torches.
He turned back and hobbled up the hill into the dark.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Three months was enough. Three months of hunching over an open fire, shivering through a Scottish winter while hidden in a cave at the head of a steep and narrow glen—it was more than enough. Perhaps Bonnie Prince Charlie and his barefooted highlanders had found this sort of thing diverting, but S.T. was sufficiently poor spirited to be altogether wretched.
In former times, he would have made his way directly to London before any alarm could spread quickly enough to ensnare him, going to ground in the crowded haunts of Covent Garden or St. Giles, where he knew whom to trust and whom to avoid, and what accommodations his gold would buy. But he couldn’t take Nemo so far on a wounded leg—nor himself, not while his hands and face burned and the sword cut flashed agony up his thigh with every step that Mistral took.
He didn’t have the willpower anymore. He didn’t even have the desire.
So he’d gone north instead of south. In a cleft of rock, mantled with snow and fringed with dark pines, he and Nemo limped and groaned and curled together to keep warm, poaching heathcock and white hares and the occasional sluggish trout from a deep hole in the stream that belonged to some unknown landlord, filling out supper with oatcakes. Forage for Mistral was even harder. Beyond the oats S.T. had brought along, the horse had to nibble lichen and paw for grass and bracken beneath the snow along the banks of the burn.
S.T. was cold. He was hungry. He was lonely. He was too old for this.
He spent his time thinking. And the more he thought, the more he despaired. He couldn’t have Leigh and stay in England. There was no hope of it. Aye, he’d his safe houses, his real name, but there was always the hazard of exposure. Especially now, when Luton had seen him, knew his face and name and mask. To live a reckless life alone was one business: to live knowing that every moment he spent with her put her at risk of hanging with him was another ordeal entirely.
There was only exile—only the pointless life where she’d found him amid his half-finished paintings—and when he tried to imagine asking her to give up all her future and join him in oblivion, he knew the humiliation of it would paralyze him.
So he delayed, failing his promise, freezing and moody. When the first thaw came, he mounted Mistral and headed down the glen with Nemo trotting behind. The wolf had healed, but S.T.’s injured thigh still ached. He didn’t know where he was going or why, particularly, but he was damned if he’d cower in some freezing cave the same way he’d crawled off for safety to Col du Noir nearly four years ago.
He felt lost; pointless and gloomy. He traveled slowly, avoiding towns, crossing the border through the wild Cheviot Hills, in the country where the cattle rivers made their nighttime raids and then vanished back into the mists.
Moving across country, stopping sometimes at a solitary farmhouse to ascertain his direction or buy some food from some taciturn housewife, he wandered as far south as the lakes of Westmoreland. He’d been traveling for a week when he rode down out of the foggy bleakness of Shap Fells into a clear twilight, saw the town of Kendal nestled in its fertile valley, and had a sudden notion to spend the night in a bed.
No one knew him in Kendal. He’d ridden through once or twice, but never stopped or used a name, his own or any other.
He whistled up Nemo, who was hunting mice in the heath. There were farms and cultivation nearby; S.T. couldn’t allow the wolf to roam free while he stayed in town. He made a collar out his much-used cravat and tied Nemo to the lead rope before he remounted.
In his black cloak and point-edged hat and sword, he’d looked gentlemanly enough, so long as no one took serious exception to the grime on his linen shirt. He pulled his lace cuffs down out of the protection of his coat sleeves, changed his mitts for his silver-studded gauntlets, dusted off his hat as best he could, and prepared to be eccentric.
Nemo displayed some reluctance to join the late straggle of traffic on the road, but with a bit of firm coaxing, the wolf consented to trail alongside Mistral on all four feet instead of being dragged on his haunches. After a half mile, when no females approached to menace him, Nemo began to relax and trot ahead as far as the lead allowed, swinging back and forth across Mistral’s path and necessitating numerous transfers of the lead rope over the horse’s ears from one side to the other.
No one among the sparse collection of pedestrians and broad-wheeled wagons seemed to take any notice of S.T. and his companion, but when they neared the outskirts of town, a stage coach came lurching along the road toward them. As S.T. drew Mistral off to the side to let it pass, someone on the roof yelled at him. All the passengers on top turned and stared through the twilight as the coach rolled past, leaning out over the Lancaster-Kendal-Carlisle sign on the vehicle’s rear wall.
Nemo took exception to the attention, and made a quick snarling dash after the receding wheels of the conveniency. S.T. spoke sharply and yanked him back, but the wolf showed no sign of remorse, only turning around and resuming his position ahead of Mistral with a satisfied air.
The neat town of Kendal was still busy, even as darkness approached. Windows in the limestone and plaster houses shone with lights reflected back by the river. Above it all, the black ruins of a castle brooded on a steep hill beyond the town. S.T. rode beneath the post horn that hung from the sign of the King’s Arms and dismounted inside the stable yard, joining the crowd lingering around the office to inquire after parcels that might have arrived on the departed stage.
An officious youngster went striding about through the waiting group, distributing a handbill and bawling, “Proclamation! Proclamation, here, sirra—Proclamation!” He thrust one into S.T.’s hand, skipping back from Nemo’s warning growl with a good-humored grin. S.T. glanced down at the paper.
For Acts of Highway Robbery, Mayhem and Murder
Sophocles Trafalgar Maitland
One Thousand Pounds
The aforementioned Highwayman being Possessed of a
Pale Gray Gelded Horse and Large Dog, this Dog
yellow-eyed, marked with cream and black, being in
S.T. didn’t stop to read more. He swallowed the curse that sprang to his lips and crumpled the paper in his hand. For an instant pure panic consumed him; he stood there in the midst of a crowd where every third man was studiously engaged in reading a detailed description of his person, from his hair to his silver-trimmed gauntlets—one thousand pounds—Almighty God—one thousand pounds!
He took a deep breath, pulled down his hat, and remounted Mistral.
Just at the moment he reined the horse left, Nemo found something to interest him to the right. The wolf crossed under Mistral’s nose, dragging the lead across the horse’s chest. Mistral arched his neck and danced in protest of the contradictory signals. S.T. forcefully urged him right, and Mistral took the impulsive cue in full seriousness: the horse shifted his weight back onto his haunches as he’d been taught and pirouetted with his forefeet in the air.
On a battlefield it would have been a magnificent move: in a stable yard it made the woman scream and the ostlers lunge, and suddenly everyone seemed to be converging; staring, shouting and pointing and waving their handbills.
They recognized him. One moment he’d been just another traveler in the bustling yard; the next he was the highwayman.
S.T. put his hand on his sword. But he didn’t draw it, not in a crowd of townspeople. The rope tightened around his fist as Nemo flew into a fury, sensing the threat and the excitement, snarling and lunging the length of his lead, flinging his full weight against S.T.’s arm. S.T. wrenched the lead forward, dragging the furious wolf back, driving Mistral toward the arched gate amid the commotion.
Bystanders who’d moved into his path to block the quarry suddenly lost their courage as Mistral plunged ahead. But Nemo’s repeated leaping attacks sent shocks of contrary force against S.T.’s body, a hundred pounds of flying wolf enough to throw his control into disorder.
Mistral reared in alarm. S.T. felt him flailing, tipping under the unbalanced load. A sea of people seemed to surround them. In a split second between allowing Mistral to fall and holding Nemo, S.T. flung himself forward onto the horse’s neck and released the lead.
Mistral came down on his forefeet. S.T. slewed around in the saddle to call Nemo, desperate, his chances evaporating by the moment as ostlers and postilions stretched to seize his bridle. The wolf made a wide swing, snapping and snarling. The shrieking spectators shrank back, and in that instant S.T. collected Mistral, looked forward and saw his path blocked by an empty phaeton as a crowd of boys dragged it across the arched entrance. He didn’t think; he put his spurs to the big horse and drove on, mind and body and heart all focused on the dark opening above the vehicle that was freedom.
Mistral made two galloping strides, all he had room for, and launched into the air. Light became shadow; S.T. leaned back with the impulsion, flying, an instant of unnaturally slowed perception in which he saw the seats of the phaeton below Mistral’s shoulders and the black loom of the arch like a grasping hand above—and then they were down, with a heavy jar and a splash in the puddle under the arch.
Another bound took them into the street, with S.T. reining back, asking Mistral’s best and getting it, going from full gallop to collection and turn in three strides. He saw Nemo come racing out from beneath the phaeton. For an instant he thought they would make it; he shouted to the wolf and leaned back over Mistral’s neck—but then Nemo’s head jerked backward. The wolf flipped, spun by the dragging lead as it jammed under the phaeton’s rear wheel.
Nemo went sprawling on his back in the mud puddle. S.T. reacted in a frenzy, barely aware of the gathering tumult in the street, spurring Mistral back toward the arch as the wolf scrambled up and threw himself forward. One of the postilions jumped up over the phaeton and grabbed the rope. With Nemo straining after S.T., the boy knotted the end of the lead around a wheel spoke.
S.T. rode into the arch, driving the postilion back with a wild swipe of his sword. He leaned down, trying to cut the rope with his broadsword, hindered by Nemo’s confused circling, trying vainly to free the wolf even while the crowd sealed his path to liberty; trying and trying as Mistral’s hooves echoed with the shouts inside the arch; trying still as the trap closed, as Nemo abandoned his belligerence and attempted to jump up and lick S.T.’s hand; as someone took a hold of Mistral’s bridle, as pistols and a fowling piece leveled from the crowd… still leaning over, his arm slack, his sword suspended, burying his face in Mistral’s mane.
For the first time in his life, S.T. was imprisoned. It could have been worse, he knew that much. Far worse. The Quakers who ruled Kendal kept a gaol as neat as their prosperous town; they brooked no taunting or throwing of dead cats, and neither were they pleased by singing of chants in support of the prisoner. S.T.’s arraignment and detention were uncommonly peaceful.
They allowed him to keep Nemo in his cell, and even authorized two daily walks for air and exercise for both S.T. and the wolf. Nemo was muzzled and S.T. shackled for these expeditions, a mortification that would have been unbearable if not for the townsfolk’s friendly attitude. Escorted by two constables and the wolf, S.T. walked the length of the high street, stopped at the King’s Arms and visited Mistral, and walked back, returning the frequent civil salutations with a genteel nod. His apparent popularity might have been somewhat more gratifying had S.T. not known that his thousand pound prize was to be awarded to the whole town of Kendal, and the city fathers had agreed to use the plunder to convert a town house into public assembly rooms for the entertainment of the good citizens at cards, plays, and balls.
He didn’t doubt they’d attend his execution with the same enthusiasm—but that awaited the county assizes and his trial.
It all seemed fitting, in its way. He was a favorite even in his downfall, a properly dashing fellow who didn’t give a fig for his circumstances. S.T. knew how to play the part. He’d played it for years.
For three weeks he waited, until a constable came one morning and said there was a gentleman to see him. The tardiness of the summons was unsurprising. Upon his arrest, S.T. had sent a letter to his father’s elderly lawyers soliciting the favor of their counsel. Since they’d already looked upon him askance when he’d only been the disreputable heir to a dwindled estate, he hardly expected to find them enthusiastic about defending a prince of the highroad. But he’d an added intent: he wanted Nemo and Mistral provided for. He had worried over that the most, lying on his cot at night and staring at the ceiling, stroking Nemo’s head as the wolf lay on the floor next to him.
The only person he trusted to take care of them was Leigh. That much she owed him. He’d thought on it long and hard, tried to imagine her so cold as to give his full name to the Crown’s authorities… and wasn’t certain. But he had no one else. He’d already committed Sirocco to her care when he’d slipped back to the Roman ruin that night and traded horses, sending Chastity and Sweet Harmony and Dove to Heavenly Sanctuary on the black to entrust themselves, also, to Leigh’s practical good sense.
He believed in her. He tried and tried, and could not imagine that she would betray him.
Not Leigh. She did not have dishonor in her.
So now she was going to find herself appointed executor of the last will and testament of Sophocles Trafalgar Maitland, and heir to a wolf, a horse, assorted half-finished paintings, a ruined castle in France and bank accounts in fifteen towns scattered all over England—if the Crown didn’t seize the funds as forfeit.
Remember me, he thought. Just remember me now and then.
When the constable came, S.T. reached in his pocket for the folded scrap of paper where he’d written down all the banks, allowed himself to be handcuffed, spoke firmly to make Nemo stay, and followed the man outside the cell. He’d expected to meet the solicitor in the constable’s office at the gaol, but instead he was taken outside, escorted by both officers, across the street and into an alleyway past stables and garden gates, and finally down the steps into the servants’ entrance of a substantial home.
&nbs
p; The cook and scullery maids all lined up, wide-eyed, as S.T. and the constables passed through the kitchen. “Mind you don’t be catching flies on yer tongue, Lacie,” one of the constables growled, giving the youngest maid a friendly cuff.
She dropped a curtsy. “No, sir, Mr. Dinton! No’ me, sir!”
S.T. glanced at her as he passed. He smiled from the corner of his mouth. She giggled and curtsied again, and Cook hissed an order to get back to work.
The constables clumped up the narrow stairs with S.T. between them. They met a stem-faced housekeeper on the landing. “This way,” she said grimly, and opened the door to a comfortable library. The street-side curtains were drawn shut, the red brocade allowing only a sliver of daylight through, but a fire blazed in the hearth and a generous set of candles lit the room.
“Mr. Dinton and Mr. Grant are to wait across the way, in the small parlor the housekeeper announced.
“What—and leave ’im here alone?” Dinton objected.
“You are instructed to chain him to the table,” she said, her nostrils flaring as if merely repeating the order offended her. She waited until the muttering peace officers had seated S.T. and locked his wrists together around the table leg.
“I only want to make a will,” he murmured. “I don’t see what all the kick up is about.”
The housekeeper looked down her nose at him and ushered the constables out, closing the door with a thump. He heard their footsteps cross the hall, and then another door shut. The housekeeper’s shoes clicked away.
He waited. This seemed a monstrous amount of trouble for a common prisoner and his disinclined defense counsel.
Another set of footsteps approached the door, ponderous squeaks along the floorboards in the hall. S.T. leaned back against his chair with his shoulders straight, feeling tense and embarrassed and determined not to show it.
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