Highwayman Lover

by Sara Reinke

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Charlotte broke away from the archbishop and raced toward Will, shouldering her way through the crowd as Linford escorted James from the ballroom. James accompanied him willingly, with no irons placed upon him, but his face remained infused with outraged color. He glanced over his shoulder as he and the sheriff ducked into the foyer, and he did not miss Charlotte throwing her arms around Will’s neck, leaping into his arms.

  She laughed, kissing Will, trying to remember not to cry out his name in her overwhelming joy, reminding herself that among society, he was Kenley Fairfax. “You came for me!” she cried, pressing her mouth against his and kissing him deeply.

  Will held her tightly against him, lifting her off her feet and spinning her in a circle. She was torn between laughter and tears as he set her gently aground once more. He took her face between his hands and let his lips settle sweetly against hers, lingering. “I will always come for you,” he breathed, smiling broadly at her, letting the tip of his nose brush hers. “I will never leave you again. Never, Charlotte. I swear to you.”

  The crowd swarmed about them, and they lost sight of Reilly and Lewis. Will caught her hand and moved, leading her in tow as he shoved a path through the throng toward the foyer. “Where are we going?” she cried out, laughing.

  They stumbled into the foyer together, and Will broke into a run, still clasping her hand and forcing her to snatch her skirts in her fist lest she trip as she matched his pace. “Wait!” she laughed. “What about Reilly and Lewis? Lord Essex?”

  “They will speak with the sheriff,” Will called back, looking over his shoulder, grinning broadly as they dashed down a corridor together. He looked around ahead of him, pausing long enough to open doors here and there, finally settling on a vacant parlor. He swept Charlotte inside, both of them laughing. He was against her immediately, punting the door closed behind them with his boot heel, drawing her near, kissing her mouth, her throat.

  “Will…” Charlotte said, touching his shoulders and giggling. “Will, the windows… people will see…”

  Will glanced over her shoulder, toward the broad windows flanking the room. The grounds beyond were swarming with displaced wedding guests, and more than a few had taken inadvertent notice of the couple through the glass. Charlotte peeped over her shoulder, feeling color rise brightly in her cheeks as Will’s hand slipped against her breast, as his lips tugged lightly, playfully against her ear. “Let them see,” he whispered.

  He raised his head and smiled at her. The people beyond the glass faded at this, as did the muted voices through the windows and walls. All at once, in that moment, there was only Will, and nothing else mattered in the whole of the world.

  “Yes,” Charlotte whispered, smiling. “Bloody let them.” She tangled her fingers in his hair, lifting her chin eagerly to accept his kiss, opening her mouth, drawing his tongue against hers. She felt something hard poke against her above her pannier, and she glanced down, seeing the brass-capped butt of a pistol tucked into his pocket.

  “Expecting trouble, Lord Theydon?” she asked.

  He followed her gaze and laughed, slipping the pistol out of his greatcoat and cradling it against his hand. He glanced at her, his brow lifted. “I would not see you marry that rot, even if I had to shoot someone to prevent it,” he said.

  Charlotte laughed and kissed him again. She would never grow tired of this, she decided; she would never weary of his mouth, his touch, his fragrance. “I love you,” she said, her lips dancing against his, lifting in tandem to match his smile.

  The door to the parlor flew open behind them, banging into the wall with a sharp, startling report.

  Charlotte’s head jerked up at the sound; Will whirled, his eyes flown wide, and between them, they had less than a second to realize James loomed upon the threshold, his brows furrowed, his face twisted with rage. Somehow, he had come to grasp a pistol in his fist—a pistol he leveled with murderous intent at Charlotte.

  Will shoved himself protectively in front of Charlotte. She caught a blur of motion as his arm swung upward, his pistol rising in his hand; sunlight winked off brass, and overlapping, thunderous booms shuddered the glass panes in the windows, nearly deafening her. A blinding flash of dazzling sparks and a sudden, choking cloud of smoke filled the narrow confines of the room.

  Will slammed hard against her, knocking her backward and off her feet. She crashed to the ground in a tangle of petticoats, and Will fell clumsily atop her, pinning her to the floor.

  “Will!” she screamed, whooping for breath, her eyes smarting with tears from the smoke. She struggled to sit up, gasping and coughing. Will did not move; he lay sprawled and motionless against her, and she screamed in horror, clutching at him.

  “Will!” she cried. She could not see much for the smoke, but she felt a rip in his coat above his breast; the ragged edges of the pierced fabric still smoldered, and were crisp against her fingertips. “No, no!”

  He had been shot; shot through the heart. “No!” she shrieked, as the smoke waned and the burned, tattered pellet hole came into her view. “No, Will! Answer me! Answer me!” Charlotte seized him by the lapels, shaking him furiously. “Answer me!” she cried. “Will, do not leave me! You promised you would not! You promised me!”

  Will uttered a low, gasping moan, and touched her face, brushing the cuff of his fingers against her cheek. “I… I am not going anywhere…” he groaned.

  Charlotte cried out happily, and clutched at him. “I thought you were dead!” she cried. “The pellet caught you in the chest… your heart, and I… I thought…”

  She helped him sit up. He moved slowly, grimacing and coughing to clear his lungs of smoke. He reached beneath the flap of his greatcoat lapel, and pulled his silver snuffbox from the inside breast pocket. Charlotte blinked at it, stunned; the round from James’s pistol had struck it squarely and it had crimped at the forceful impact, nearly crumpling inward on itself.

  She looked at Will and they both stared at one another, trembling and ashen with mutual shock. “I… I should thank your father for his kindly advice on where to stow this,” Will said, shakily.

  Howard Linford charged through the parlor doorway in a sudden, startling clamor of heavy boot stomps. His hair was now unfettered from any semblance of a tail, swept about his head in a manic, disheveled halo. “Ho!” he cried, stumbling clumsily.

  “Ho!” Will yelled, jerking himself in front of Charlotte.

  “Ho!” Reilly and Lewis hollered, their voices overlapping as they, too, rushed through the doorway, holding pistols and in turn knocking roughly into Linford. The three men danced and staggered before reclaiming their respective footing, and everyone blinked in mutual confusion.

  “What in the bloody hell is going on?” Lewis yelled. He looked down at his feet, and his eyes widened. “Hullo…”

  Charlotte followed his gaze and realized for the first time that James lay sprawled and still against the rug. “James!” she gasped, shying against Will. “Is… is he…?”

  Linford squatted, balancing his weight on his toes.

  He reached down, running his fingertips along James’s neck. He glanced at Charlotte and Will. “Quite so, yes,” he said. “Squarely, even. He has a space where his nose ought rightly to be, and is not anymore.”

  As the sheriff leveled his sharp gaze at Will, Charlotte scrambled to her feet in alarm. “He attacked us, Mr. Linford,” she said, stepping in front of Will. “He burst through the door with a pistol in hand and he shot at us! Will was only… I… I mean Kenley was defending himself and me! Look, sir—look at Kenley’s snuffbox. He would have been killed if he had not kept it in his breast pocket!”

  She snatched the snuffbox from Will and marched toward Linford, holding it out against her palm. Linford stood, studying the box for a long moment. He glanced at Charlotte, his brow raised, and at Will. “I know he shot at you,” he said. “It was my gun that he used. Gave me a shove and a clubbing for good measure.”

  Th
e corner of Linford’s mouth hooked in a wry smile. “Of course, my wife might have told him that was useless. He hit my head. To hear her tell of it, there is naught but rocks rattling around up there, anyway.”