With This Ring

by Amanda Quick

  Over the years Leo had honed his ability to spot his quarry’s favored hiding places. He rarely guessed wrong. Tonight he kept watch on a thick stand of trees that inevitably appealed to every passing villain on a horse. From his vantage point on the opposite side of the road, he waited patiently for the rumble of carriage wheels. He knew the man in the trees waited also.

  There was a chill in the air. Leo thought of the warm fire and brandy that awaited him. And then he thought of Beatrice. Tomorrow he would go with her to London. Excitement stirred somewhere deep inside him.

  The clatter of wheels and the thud of heavy hooves striking muddy ground pulled him out of his reverie. He eased one of the two pistols he had brought with him out of his belt and gently tightened the reins to get Apollo’s attention. The big gray stopped dozing. He raised his head and pricked his ears.

  The carriage rounded the bend in the road, its pace slowed by the damp earth. The curtains had been drawn back from the windows. The interior lamps revealed an elderly, bewhiskered gentleman and a woman who wore an enormous gray turban.

  For a few seconds nothing happened. Leo wondered if he had mistaken his quarry. Then, with the crack of broken branches and scattered leaves, a horse and rider thundered out of the trees and took up a position in the middle of the road.

  “Stand and deliver, master coachman, or I’ll blast yer head off yer shoulders.” The highwayman wore a broad-brimmed hat. A mask fashioned out of a triangle of dirty white cloth concealed his features. He aimed the pistol with a steady arm.

  Leo pulled the collar of his cloak up around his ears and yanked his hat down low over his eyes. The shadows of night would do the rest. He prepared to guide Apollo out of the trees.

  “Damn yer eyes, man.” The startled coachman sawed frantically on the reins. “What do you want with us? I’ve naught but an old couple inside.”

  The highwayman laughed as the coach veered to a shuddering halt. “A couple of the local fancy, you mean.”

  He urged his horse past the carriage team and stopped near the door. “Well, now, what ‘ave we here? Come on out. Be quick about it and you’ll be on yer way in no time. Give me any trouble and I’ll lodge a bullet in someone’s gullet. I’m not particular about which one of ye I’ll choose either.”

  The turbaned lady uttered a high-pitched shriek that made the horses flinch. “Harold, it’s a highwayman.”

  “I can see that, my dear.” Harold leaned out the window. “See here, my wife and I have very little jewelry on us. I’ve got a watch and she has a bauble or two, but that’s all.”

  “I’ll have a look for meself.” The highwayman gestured impatiently with the pistol. “Get out of the coach. Both of ye.”

  Leo used his knees to signal Apollo. The stallion walked out of the foliage and onto the edge of the road.

  “The evening’s entertainment has come to an end.” Leo said.

  “What the bloody ’ell?” The highwayman spun around in the saddle. Above the edge of the mask his eyes widened in shock. “What d’ye think yer doin’? This is my carriage. Go find yer own. Take yerself off afore I blow a hole in yer belly.”

  “Harold, there’s another one. We are lost.”

  Leo ignored the woman. He trained his pistol on the highwayman. “I have come to tell you that this is not a healthy district for thieves. If you are not gone by dawn, you will hang.”

  The man laughed harshly. “I suppose you’re the wolf in human form they warned me about at the inn. Well, I’ve got news for ye—I don’t believe in werewolves and the like.”

  “That’s your problem, my friend. Drop the pistol.”

  “I don’t think I’ll oblige you tonight, master wolf.”

  The highwayman’s self-confidence sent a flash of warning through Leo. Something was not right. This had to be the same highwayman who had taken to his heels when he was faced with Beatrice and her pistol. It was too much to believe that there were two villains plaguing the district at the same time.

  Either Beatrice with a pistol was a good deal more intimidating than he was with his own weapon, Leo thought, or else the highwayman had a reason for his newfound boldness.

  Leo heard the crackle of a broken twig behind him a fraction of a second too late. Another horse and rider emerged from the trees. Moonlight glinted on the barrel of a pistol.

  The rider aimed and fired without hesitation.

  Leo threw himself to the side in the saddle, but the bullet caught him on the shoulder.

  For an instant all was chaos. The impact sent a shudder through Leo’s arm. He dropped his pistol. Apollo danced nervously and tossed his head. Leo fought to keep his seat. The woman’s scream echoed through the woods.

  Freezing fire gripped Leo’s left shoulder. It could have been much worse, he thought. If he had not shifted in the saddle, the bullet would have taken him in the neck. Every hobby had some drawback.

  The first villain roared with laughter. “As ye can see, master wolf-man, I do not hunt alone tonight.”

  The savage snarl of a great beast shattered the night into a thousand shards of moonlit glass.

  Everyone froze.

  Leo smiled faintly. “As it happens, neither do I.”

  The paralyzing effect of Elf’s battle cry wore off an instant later. With the exception of Apollo, the horses went wild. They exploded into rearing, plunging confusion.

  The coachman seized the opportunity to give his team their heads. The terrified creatures leaped forward, jolting the carriage into motion. The woman shrieked again.

  “Harold!”

  Both highwaymen were too busy trying to control their mounts to pay any attention to the coach as it sped off around the bend.

  “What in the name of all that’s holy was that?” the first villain shouted.

  “It’s that wolf the woman at the inn talked about,” the second yelled.

  “There is no bloody wolf. It’s a damned fairy tale, I tell ye.”

  Leo whistled once. Elf sprang from the undergrowth. He leaped toward the first highwayman, lips drawn back, fangs gleaming.

  “Shoot him,” the first man cried. “Kill him, for God’s sake.”

  Leo managed to wrest his spare pistol out of the pocket inside his cloak. He aimed and fired in a single motion.

  The bullet caught the second highwayman in the thigh just as he leveled his pistol at Elf. The man yelled and toppled from his horse. He sprawled on the ground, clutching his wounded leg.

  The first man finally lost the struggle to control his mount. He slid sideways to the ground. Elf leaped toward him.

  “Elf,” Leo said. “Guard.”

  The hound came to a halt. He stood over the fallen man, growling softly.

  A strange silence descended on the scene. Leo tried to shake off the unpleasant, light-headed sensation that threatened to creep over him. He was aware of dampness in the vicinity of his burning shoulder.

  On the ground, the first highwayman took his terrified gaze off Elf long enough to flick a quick, desperate glance at Leo.

  “They told us at the inn—” He broke off to lick his lips. “They said that the Mad Monk guarded only Monkcrest lands.”

  “They got it wrong,” Leo said. “The Mad Monk takes care of his own. And that includes his guests. Last night you attempted to rob a lady who was on her way to Monkcrest. Tonight you paid for that mistake.”

  “Bloody ’ell.” The highwayman crumpled back onto the ground in despair. “I knew that the woman was trouble the moment I saw her.”

  Chapter 4

  A most dangerous pact with a man who might yet prove to be the devil himself.

  FROM CHAPTER FOUR OF The Ruin BY MRS. AMELIA YORK

  Beatrice watched Leo ride back through the abbey gates. A deep curiosity had kept her awake at her chilly post in front of the window. She knew she would not sleep until she discovered where he had gone and what he had done. The man and the mystery compelled her in a manner she could not explain.

  She knew at once tha
t something was wrong. The huge stallion did not canter back into the yard. The beast walked at a steady, even pace. Elf trotted alongside, tongue lolling. Moonlight glinted on the metal studs in his leather collar.

  Leo was upright in the saddle, but he swayed slightly, as if exhausted.

  The stallion came to a halt and stood quietly. Elf bounded up the steps to the door and barked once in a demanding fashion.

  Leo started to dismount. But he paused abruptly in the middle of the fluid, practiced movement. He clutched his shoulder.

  Alarmed, Beatrice watched as he slowly kicked his booted feet free of the stirrups and slid gingerly off the horse.

  Safely on the ground, he kept his footing, but Beatrice saw him grip the edge of the saddle to steady himself. As if he sensed her watching, he glanced up at her window.

  She stepped quickly back from the glass, whirled, picked up a candle, and hurried toward the door. Whatever Leo had been about, he had managed to injure himself in the process. She wondered if he had been thrown from his horse.

  But that possibility left the most important question unanswered. What had lured the Mad Monk of Monkcrest out in the first place?

  She made her way to the top of the staircase just as voices rumbled up from the hall.

  “Stop fussing, Finch. The bastard only singed me a bit. I’ll live. It was my own bloody damn fault.”

  “M’lord, I must take the liberty of telling you that at your age a man really ought to cut back on excessive excitement.”

  “Thank you for the advice.” Leo said in tones that would have frozen the fires of hell.

  “Sir, you are bleeding. The wound must be bandaged.”

  “For God’s sake, man, keep your voice down. We don’t want to awaken Mrs. Poole. She would demand explanations from now until sunrise.”

  “Yes,” Beatrice said as she came down the steps. “Mrs. Poole will most certainly demand some answers. What in heaven’s name is going on here? As a guest in this household, I have a right to an explanation.”

  Leo groaned at the sound of her voice. He did not turn around. “Damnation. One would think I’d had my share of bad luck tonight.”

  Beatrice reached the bottom step. “What is wrong with your arm, Monkcrest?”

  He paused at the door of the library and looked at her over his uninjured shoulder. In the glow of the hall lamp his saturnine features appeared even more forbidding than they had earlier in the evening. Pain and bad temper had fused into a dangerous flame in his eyes.

  “There is nothing wrong with my shoulder, Mrs. Poole.”

  “Rubbish.” She set the candle down on a table and crossed the hall to where he stood. “That is blood on your cloak, is it not?”

  “I recommend that you go back to your bed, madam.”

  “Don’t be absurd. You require assistance.”

  “Finch will deal with my shoulder.” Leo stalked into the library. Elf hovered close on his heels, whining softly.

  Finch hurried after him. “Really, m’lord, this sort of thing must cease. It was one thing when you were a young man of twenty, but quite another now that you’re forty.”

  “I am not yet forty,” Leo growled.

  “As near as makes little difference.” Finch lit a lamp and rekindled the fire.

  Beatrice stood in the doorway. “I have had some experience with this sort of thing, Finch. Please bring clean linen and hot water.”

  “Ignore her, Finch.” Leo sank wearily down onto a stool in front of the hearth. “If you value your position in this household, you will pay no heed to Mrs. Poole.”

  Beatrice assumed her most reassuring smile and turned it full force on Finch. “His lordship is not himself at the moment. Do as I say. Quickly, please.”

  Finch hesitated briefly and then appeared to come to a decision. “I shall return in a moment, madam.” He rushed off in the direction of the kitchens.

  Beatrice walked briskly into the library. Elf rested his head on Leo’s knee and watched her with an intent gaze.

  “Let me see your shoulder, sir.”

  Leo glowered at her. “Do you always get your own way, Mrs. Poole?”

  “When the matter is sufficiently important to me, I insist upon it.” She eased the cloak off his shoulder and tossed it aside.

  Leo clenched his jaw but he did not resist. Beatrice caught her breath when she saw the blood on his white linen shirt.

  “Dear heaven.”

  “If you intend to faint, Mrs. Poole, kindly do it somewhere else. In my present state, I don’t think I can catch you.”

  “I have never fainted in my life.” She was relieved to see that the red stain had already begun to dry. “You are fortunate. The bleeding appears to have nearly stopped. I shall need a pair of scissors to cut the shirt away from the wound.”

  “In my desk. Top right drawer.” Leo reached for the brandy bottle with his right hand. “What experience?”

  She went quickly to the desk. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You told Finch you’d had some experience with this sort of thing.” He splashed brandy into a glass, tossed it down in a single swallow, and refilled his glass. “Considering the fact that you have forced me into the role of your patient, I think I have a right to know the extent of your medical expertise.”

  “My father was a vicar before he retired.” Beatrice opened the drawer and found the scissors. “My mother was, of course, a vicar’s wife.”

  “Meaning?”

  Beatrice started toward him with the scissors. “She took her responsibilities very seriously. She not only involved herself in acts of charity, she frequently assisted the village doctor and the midwife.”

  “And she taught you what she learned?” Leo eyed the scissors warily.

  “When I was old enough, I accompanied her whenever she was called out to attend the sick or injured.” Beatrice clipped the shirt away from the wound with swift, careful movements. “I naturally learned a great deal.”

  “Your mother is, I take it, the irritating sort who devotes herself to good works?”

  Beatrice smiled slightly. “My mother, sir, is the sort who takes command of whatever project she feels requires her attention. If she had not married my father, I expect she would have busied herself giving advice to Wellington during the war.”

  “You have obviously inherited her talent for assuming command.” He drew a sharp breath as she peeled away the last of the linen. “Have a care, madam. That shoulder has already suffered enough tonight.”

  She surveyed the raw, red crease, relieved to note that it was superficial. “I have seen one or two bullet wounds.”

  “You appear to have led an adventurous life, Mrs. Poole.”

  “They Were the result of hunting accidents. Such injuries can be quite nasty. But in this case the ball appears to have merely grazed you on its way past. Had it struck you a couple of inches lower—”

  “I had some warning.” He turned his head to examine his shoulder. “I told you it was not serious.”

  “Any injury such as this can become serious if it is not properly attended.”

  Finch loomed in the doorway. “The fresh linen and water you requested, madam.”

  “Bring them here, please. Then you may fetch his lordship a clean shirt.”

  “Yes, madam.” Finch set the tray down on a table and hurried away once more.

  “Poor Finch,” Leo muttered. “I fear he’ll never be the man he once was. You have quite vanquished him, Mrs. Poole.”

  “Nonsense. He is simply displaying common sense, which is more than I can say for you, sir.”

  Beatrice put aside the scissors and reached for the brandy decanter.

  Leo looked grimly amused. “Do you need to fortify yourself for the task, Mrs. Poole?”

  “I do not intend to drink the stuff, sir. Brace yourself.” She poured the spirits into the open wound before he guessed her intention.

  Leo sucked in his breath. “Damnation. Waste of good brandy.”

 
“My mother believes very strongly in the value of cleansing wounds with stout spirits.” Beatrice set the bottle aside. “She got the idea from one of the books in my father’s library.”

  “Where do your parents live?”

  “They have retired to a pleasant little cottage in Hampshire. Papa has his books and his rose garden. Mama has organized a school for the local village children. She is a great believer in the value of an education.”

  “Tell me; Mrs. Poole, are your parents aware that you interest yourself in such pastimes as investigating murders and searching for dangerous antiquities?”

  “I have not as yet had an opportunity to write to them about my current project.” Beatrice trimmed the linen bandage. “But I shall get around to it after I have resolved the matter.”

  “I see.” He watched morosely as she tied the ends of the linen. “Will they be surprised to learn of your activities?”

  “I’m sure they will understand that under the circumstances I had no choice but to search out Uncle Reggie’s murderer and recover Arabella’s inheritance.”

  “Naturally. All in a day’s work for a reader of horrid novels, eh, Mrs. Poole?”

  “One does what one must.”

  Leo grunted and took a mouthful of brandy. “How long have you been a widow, Mrs. Poole?”

  She was startled by the question. Then she realized that Leo was no doubt attempting to focus his attention on something other than the pain of his wound.

  “I was married for three years, sir. I have been widowed for five.”

  “At what age were you wed?”

  “One-and-twenty.”

  “So you are now twenty-nine?”

  “Yes.” She wondered where this was all going.

  “Damn near thirty.”

  “Indeed, sir.” She tugged very firmly on the bandage.

  He gritted his teeth and took another swallow of brandy. “Any desire to remarry?”

  “None.” Beatrice smiled coolly. “Once a woman has known the metaphysical perfection of the most harmonious union possible between a man and a woman, once she has tasted the ambrosia of physical, spiritual, and intellectual communication with her true soul mate, she can never be content with anything less.”