by Sara Reinke
HIGHWAYMAN LOVER
by Sara Reinke Copyright 2006 by Sara Reinke
Previously published under the title An Unexpected Engagement
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
Chapter One
Essex County, England October 1748
“Stand and deliver!”
At this cry, Charlotte Engle snapped awake with a startled gasp. Her eyes flew wide, the last vestiges of sleepy disorientation whipping from her mind as a sharp, booming report of gunfire ripped through the air outside of the coach.
She had been on the road from London and into Essex County for little more than an hour and had not meant to doze off. However, the sun had set, leaving the carriage to darkness along the highway, with only the dim, golden glow of interior lamps for illumination and the droning, inane gossip that passed for her aunt, Maude Rutherford, the Dowager Viscountess Chelmsford’s idea of conversation for company.
Charlotte yelped in bewildered alarm as the carriage lurched and she plowed gracelessly into the side of the coach belly. She could feel the wheels skitter for uncertain purchase along the edge of the rutted highway. The horses screeched, and the carriage shifted again, listing to the right before sliding to a jostling halt. She stared across the carriage cab at Una Renfred, her maid, her eyes flown wide in alarm, her hand darting instinctively for the muff against her lap.
“Highwaymen!” she gasped, even as Lady Chelmsford uttered a low and horrified moan, her hands fluttering about her bosom.
Charlotte heard footsteps hurriedly approaching the left side of the coach, and she jerked out the loaded pocket pistol she carried tucked within her muff. Lady Chelmsford caught sight of the weapon and moaned again, nearly swooning. Charlotte drew the doghead back against her thumb and leveled the small pistol toward the carriage door just as she heard someone outside take the handle in hand. The hinges creaked and the door opened wide; Charlotte caught a glimpse of a shadow-draped figure beyond, moving to lean into the coach, and she squeezed the trigger.
The pistol bucked against her palm, the barrel seeming to explode in a sudden, bright shower of sparks and a thick, pungent cloud of smoke. She heard the man at the doorway cry out, but could not tell if she had hit him or not. The door bounced closed as he fell away, and the smoke from the gunfire filled the coach cab, choking them.
“Come on!” Charlotte cried, whooping for breath, tears springing to her eyes. She groped about blindly in the thick smoke and caught Una by the wrist. She punted the door open and sprang from the coach, dragging Una in tow. She shoved the older woman toward the trees beyond the edge of the road.
“Run, Una!” she cried, choking on smoke, struggling for breath. She turned, reaching into the carriage and seizing Lady Chelmsford by the outstretched, flapping hand. She nearly toppled backward and onto her rump as her aunt came stumbling gracelessly from the cab. “Run!” she cried again, snatching Lady Chelmsford’s redingote in her hands and offering her a hearty push toward the forest. “Into the trees! Go! Go!”
Charlotte turned to run as well, and yelped when she felt a strong arm catch her firmly about the waist. “Let go of me!” she yelled, ramming the heel of her shoe firmly against the top of her captor’s foot, drawing a surprised, pained yowl. His arm loosened about her, and she shoved her elbow mightily into his gut, plowing the breath from him. She wriggled loose of his grasp and tried to run again; the man caught her by the sleeve, whirling her around.
“Turn me loose!” Charlotte cried, closing her hand into a fist and sending it in a wicked arc from the fulcrum of her shoulder. Her knuckles slammed into the man’s cheek; she could see he wore a black tricorne hat and a heavy black greatcoat, his face obscured by a drape of black fabric. His head snapped toward his shoulder at the impact of her fist, and again his hand loosened from her coat.
She turned to bolt for the trees, and plowed headlong into another highwayman. This one grabbed her firmly by the wrists; when she tried to draw her knee up into his crotch, he pivoted his hips, struggling with her, blocking the proffered blow with his thigh. She looked up into his face, which was also hidden by a scarf, and screamed at him. “Turn me loose, you rot damn bastard!”
She could not see his eyes above the edge of his scarf because of the heavy shadows cast by the brim of his hat, but he stiffened all at once, clearly startled by her fury. She heard him draw in a sharp, hissing breath and his fingers slackened against her wrists. She wrenched herself free and staggered away from him, nearly tripping as her heels settled unsteadily in the soft loam of the road’s edge.
Before Charlotte could even regain her footing, much less her wits, she heard Lady Chelmsford utter a high-pitched, warbling wail. “Aunt Maude—!” Charlotte gasped, turning in time to see a third highwayman tussling with Lady Chelmsford. She was neither struggling, nor was he attacking as much as he had simply caught her by the arm, and she had proceeded to swoon. Lady Chelmsford was a well-endowed woman, and when her legs failed her to the vapors, she tended to take anyone not observing a safe margin of space down with her. She crumpled as Charlotte watched, and the highwayman yelped, his hands flailing as she knocked him beneath the broad basin of her pannier frame and the ballooning swell of her skirts.
“Do not move, my lady,” said another highwayman, the first to have grabbed her. He had recovered from her blow, and managed to give Una chase. He dragged the older woman in tow, holding a dagger blade pressed beneath the shelf of her chin.
“Una!” Charlotte whimpered. Her brows furrowed, and she closed her hands into fists, squaring off against the highwayman. “Let her go, you coward rot.”
The stern measure of her voice, the baring of her fists seemed to give him pause, because she saw the edge of the knife against Una’s throat momentarily falter.
“Charlotte, do as they say,” Una said quietly. She was remarkably calm for a woman in her circumstances, and she held Charlotte’s gaze evenly. “Do not fight them. Let them take what they want and leave.”
“Let her go,” Charlotte said again to the highwayman. She stepped toward him, and when the one behind her caught her shoulder, she pivoted, drawing her fist back to strike.
“Charlotte, stop it,” Una said, more sharply this time. Charlotte’s fist paused, and she held it cocked, glaring at the highwayman.
“Step against the coach, my lady,” he told Charlotte. His voice was hoarse from gun smoke, tremulous with uncertainty. Charlotte doubted the lot of them had ever encountered a woman who would resist them before. She could not see his face or eyes, but she could tell from the angle of his head, the hoist of his chin that he was eying her readied fist with appropriate caution. “Please,” he said. “Stand against the coach.”
Charlotte and Una stood together with their backs to the carriage, watching the three highwaymen set to work. While one held a pistol on them, the other two bound Lady Chelmsford where she had fainted, with her hands trussed behind her back. Next, they dragged the apparently unconscious driver, Edmond Cheadle from the front of the coach.
“What have you done to our escort?” Charlotte demanded as they bound Cheadle. “You bastards, did you shoot him?”
The highwayman with the pistol trained at them stepped forward. “Do not fret,” he said. “Your man is clumsy, not shot. He pitched off the driver’s bench when the horses started. Knocked t
he wits from himself.” He studied her for a moment and chuckled. “He did not prove much of an escort, if I do say so, my lady.”
Charlotte glared at him. “Bugger off.”
“Such foul words from so lovely a mouth,” the highwayman said, as he laughed. He held a small black sack out toward them, not lowering his pistol from its aim. “Your jewelry and coins, my ladies,” he said. “Kindly tender them, if you will.”
Una poked her elbow firmly into Charlotte’s arm, a mute but plain admonishment: Do as they say. Charlotte opened the front of her redingote, her motions sharp and angry. As Una removed her modest and inexpensive necklace and rings, Charlotte jerked at her dress ornaments, snatching the small, diamond-studded brooches each in turn from her stomacher. She shoved them unceremoniously into the proffered pouch, and reached for her earrings, glowering all the while at the thief.
“You must feel like such a man,” she told him. “Aiming a pistol at a pair of unarmed women. How magnificently bold of you.”
The thief paused; to judge by the canted angle of his head, he looked at Charlotte in surprise. “I beg your pardon?” he said.
“I would have thought the hanging of Dick Turpin would be enough to keep the likes of you cowed,” Charlotte said, lifting her chin and pinching her brows.
“The likes of me?” the highwayman said, and he shook his head and laughed. “Have we met before, my lady? Do you know me so intimately?”
“I would as soon be intimate with a corpse,” Charlotte said, and when he laughed again, it only stoked her outrage all the more. “I have read about you. You are the Black Trio, a rotten lot of scoundrels preying up and down these highways.”
The highwayman chuckled, shaking his head again. “I think ‘prey’ is perhaps a bit strong of a word,” he remarked. “I would have you know I am a proper gentleman. The gazettes favor saying so, at any rate.”
“You have been misinformed by the gazettes,” Charlotte told him. “You, sir, are no gentleman.”
“And you, my dear, are no lady,” he replied.
Charlotte stiffened at his challenge, and Una uttered a soft groan.
“You have without question the most abrasive tongue I have ever heard from a woman,” the thief said pointedly. “You throw a punch like a man in a gin- prompted brawl. You damn near scattered the brains from my associate’s head with that little flintlock pistol you packed.”
“How dare you,” Charlotte said, glaring at the highwayman. “How dare you imply that because I do not swoon before you, quaking and pleading for mercy as you strip me of my valuables, this does not make me a lady.”
“I am implying nothing,” he said. “I am simply making an observation.” He stepped closer to her, drawing so near that she could see the faint glow of lamplight from inside the coach alight against his eyes, winking beneath the shadow of his hat brim. She shied reflexively, feeling the back of her pannier frame press against the carriage, and as her eyes left his face, her gaze finding the barrel of his pistol still aimed for her, Charlotte felt the first inkling of anxious fear. Her throat tightened, her breath hitching softly, and any retort she might have offered faded from mind and tongue.
“You missed one,” he said softly, tapping the barrel of his pistol against a small brooch holding her fichu closed at the swell of her bosom. Charlotte blinked, glancing down at it, a small rosette of diamonds.
She looked up. She could see the hint of his eyes; she could discern the outline of his nose and mouth beneath the drape of silk covering the lower quadrant of his face. “I… the clasp is broken,” she said. “It… it is difficult to put on, much less remove once in place.”
When he smiled, she could see the wry uplift of his mouth beneath the scarf. “Take it off, please.”
“I told you the clasp is broken,” she said. “I do not know if I can.”
“Why do you not give it a go?” he suggested mildly, rekindling her ire.
“It belonged to my grandmother,” she said. “I would as soon keep it, if you do not mind. It is an heirloom and one of few reminders I have of her.”
That aggravating measure of his smile, only hinted beneath the scarf, widened. “In that case, my lady, I assure you I shall hold it dear to my heart.”
Charlotte blinked at him. “You are reprehensible,” she whispered. She reached for the brooch, struggling with the clasp. She could hear one of his fellows rummaging through the luggage stowed against the back of the coach. The other tromped toward them, taking Una by the arm and forcing her to sit by the wheel, where he promptly set about trussing her hands to the spokes.
“You are taking too long,” he growled.
“It is not my fault, I assure you,” the highwayman before her replied. “Our unladylike lady is distracting me.”
His friend finished with Una and stood, moving toward the rear of the carriage. “Get her jewels and come on,” he said.
The highwayman looked at Charlotte, and moved the pistol slightly in a nudge. “You heard the gentleman,” he said. “Move your hands aside. I will get it.”
Charlotte did as she was told, watching as he tucked the pistol beneath his coat, under the waistband of his breeches. He stepped near her, close enough that she felt the weight of his hips buckle her pannier inward slightly. He reached for the brooch and tried to wrest the pin loose of the clasp. After a moment’s futile effort, he glanced at her. “You were not lying.”
“No,” she said, scowling. “I was not.”
His fingertips slipped unexpectedly down the front of her stomacher, delving into the slight margin between her breasts, beneath the top of her stay.
Charlotte’s breath caught against the back of her throat, and her eyes flew wide. She had never so much as kissed a man before; the delicate friction of his gloved fingers slipping against her flesh stoked something immediate and unexpected within her. She felt her heart thrum suddenly, frantically; and she slapped at his hand, knocking him away. “Do not touch me,” she said.
“I only meant to try from the other side,” he said. “I meant no disrespect.”
“Then you should not offer it so,” she said. “Do not touch me.”
He looked at her for a long moment, until Charlotte realized he understood her innocence and was amused by it. “Am I the first to do so?” he asked. “Have none ever ventured before me, then?”
“None with teeth yet remaining intact.”
He laughed. “There is a blessing and a shame,” he remarked. “A blessing for the man who is fortunate enough to be the first in full, and a shame for the rest of us. I told you I am a gentleman. Do not worry. Your virtues are secure.”
“You will forgive me if your reassurances bring me little comfort at the moment,” she said, and he laughed again.
“If you were as you claim—a gentleman of some meritorious character—you would not resort to highway robbery,” Charlotte said, shrugging against the back of the coach to draw away from him. She hoped to bait him again, get his tongue wagging, and his attention diverted from her brooch. She had not lied; it was her grandmother’s, and an heirloom. It was the most precious thing Charlotte owned, worth far more within her sentiments than any price it might fetch at a pawnshop, and she did not intend to surrender it to him.
“How do you know I do not need the money?” he asked, feigned injury in his tone. “How do you know I am not pressed into such circumstances by dire poverty?”
Charlotte frowned. “This is your eighth robbery.
I have read the gazettes. You have made more than enough to cover any costs of your own subsistence and beyond. You wear the fine clothes of someone with a well-padded purse, and I am sure you did not walk to this site to greet us. Undoubtedly, you have a horse near at hand that you must feed and stable. You should be ashamed that you would offer such an excuse as need or poverty. You are greedy, nothing more.”
“Greedy?” he asked. “You speak as though I run amok, robbing tithe bowls or convents. I am pilfering spare change and paste jewels from aris
tocrats so bloated by their own perceived self-importance that they can scarcely sometimes fit through their carriage doors. If I did not take it from them, they would only squander it at card tables or on courtesans—or perhaps in your circumstance, my lady, on season tickets to Vauxhall.
That seems more your fare than a brothel.”
Charlotte blinked, caught completely off guard by his rebuke. Her surprise proved only momentary, as her fury restored and her brows narrowed again. “The operatic season is scarcely a squandering of money,” she said. “And it is my money to spend as I please. I did not steal it from others.”
“Oh, no,” he said with a laugh. “You get it from your parents, I am certain. A modest allowance that you might enjoy that fair lifestyle to which they have seen you so accustomed.”
“I earn my own money,” Charlotte snapped, balling her hands into defiant fists. “I do not need any allowance. I write essays for what is mine.”
“Essays?” he scoffed.
“Essays and chapbooks, yes,” she replied. “And let me guess, flowery verses of delicate prose,” he said. “Something inane and idle, chirping about true love and rose gardens.”
Charlotte planted her hands against his chest and shoved with enough force to send him stumbling back a step. “I write about social ills,” she said. “About how people suffer needlessly in our society because of scoundrels like you who think wealth is something one is entitled to—whether by birth or force—rather than something attainable through hard work and education. Things you obviously know nothing of—you have likely never tendered a day’s effort at anything in your life, save for crime. The only greater shame you should know is that the gazettes have made heroes out of you and there are poor children who learn of it, and aspire to nothing greater than your pathetic measure.”
He stepped near her again, pressing himself so closely she could draw his fragrance from his coat against her nose, an intermingling of pinesap and wood smoke. She struggled to lift her chin, to offer him some challenge with her eyes, the set of her brows. “If you were a man of any merit, even one somehow forced into crime at the start, you would take the proceeds outside of your own subsistence, and you would give them to those in need,” she said.
“And who might that be, my lady?” he asked. “These poor children upon whom I am such a bad influence?”
“Exactly. Yes,” she said. “England is full of charity schools. There are some that are splendid. St. Bartholomew’s in East London, for example. They are good people doing God’s work and helping poor children learn to read, write, cipher. They impart skills that will help them find work and make wages to see them out of poverty one day.”
“That would please you?” he asked. “If I gave my proceeds to a charity school?”
She raised her brow. “That would shock me,” she said.
He reached for the brooch again, and Charlotte jumped, bewildered, as she felt him draw the flaps of her redingote together against her bosom, hiding the pin. “Do not let the others see,” he said softly, little more than a hushed breath.
He stepped back from her, leaving her blinking at him, confounded. “Sit down, my lady,” he said. “Against the coach wheel, if you would be so kind.”
Charlotte lowered herself warily to the ground, the skirt of her manteau swelling about her pannier and hips. The thief genuflected before her, drawing a length of rope from his coat pocket. He leaned toward her, binding her wrists together behind her back, trussing them to the wheel. She did not say anything as he worked; she did not know what to say. She was acutely aware of his breath against her skin as he leaned over her shoulder. She could cant her head ever so slightly and feel his hair, protruding from beneath his hat against her face.
He leaned back once her wrists were securely bound. Charlotte tugged against her ropes, feeling the bonds draw against her skin. She realized he had left her some wiggle room; not much, but enough that with a few moments of concerted effort, she would be able to work the knots loose and free herself. “I suppose you think I should be grateful to you,” she said.
“For what?” he asked innocently, rising to his feet. He shrugged his shoulders, drawing his greatcoat off. She blinked in new surprise as he offered it to her, tucking it about her shoulders to help hide the fact her brooch remained in place. She could feel his residual warmth in the wool; she could smell his fragrance in the fabric.
“I suppose you think this offers amends,” she said. “That you have proven yourself a gentleman to me, that I should feel all aflutter at your kindness.”
He laughed, stepping back from her. “Aflutter,” he said. “I like that. Are you not?”
“Not in the least,” Charlotte replied, her brows drawn.
“You would make me try more than this?” he asked. “All right. Fair enough. I will donate my money to St. Bartholomew’s.” She stared at him, startled. “Would that demonstrate some caliber of character in your regard?”
“I…I cannot see how my regard should scarcely matter,” she said.
“It matters to me,” he replied, and she blinked at him, puzzled.
“Why?” she asked, frowning.
He was quiet for a moment, his mouth outlined in a smile beneath his scarf. “Because you are quite possibly the most extraordinary woman I have ever met,” he told her, and her frown deepened. He was taunting her; no different from any other man with whom she had ever shared her opinions.
“You should venture outside of Essex County more often,” she said, trying in vain to punt him in the shin.
