The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (19 page)

“No! You want an illusion, Bess.”

“Love isn't an illusion. Love is an emotion.”

“My emotions are drained!” he shouted. “I have neither the will nor the strength. Love is
not
the answer, Bess.”

“Then what is?”

“London.”

“I don't believe you.” She touched his cheek, then drew her finger slowly down his jaw and across his lips.

Her motion was a deliberate tease. Heat radiated through Rand's loins as he captured her finger between his teeth and ran his tongue back and forth.

“I don't believe you,” Bess repeated, freeing her finger and using both hands to draw him down, onto the grass. The bell tower loomed above them.

Rand felt her firm legs beneath his breeches. He smelled her warm female scent. Taut and helpless, he was unable to turn away from her mesmerizing gaze, and yet he saw nothing but love in her eyes. She was right. This wasn't an illusion.

He kissed her breasts, all the while caressing the soft whorls between her legs. Then he unfastened the flap of his breeches, spread his hands against the ground, and buried himself deep within her. With a soft moan, she rode his erection, as she had once ridden across the moors, her body demanding his thrusts.

Instead, he reached his hand up and crushed a strand of her hair between his fingers, rubbing the dark silk, striving to slow his breathing and bring it under control.
Her
breath was still ragged, but he felt her belly relax against his. He began again, his hands caressing. This time she responded like a cat, curving sinuously into his strokes. He heard throaty purrs of pleasure.

Rand remained inside her, hot and hard, until her purrs became happy whimpers. Then and only then did he thrust, until her body quivered and his body quivered and the ancient bell tower rang with the music of their ecstasy.

Afterwards, watching him sleep, Elizabeth understood that neither tears nor pleas nor threats would deter Rand's obsessive need to probe the otherworldliness that was Ranulf Navarre.

Their next destination would be London.

Elizabeth stared into the dark, her senses alert. Her ears strained for the sound which had jolted her out of a deep sleep. Her eyes sought any unusual movement, but everything seemed in order.

Around ten o'clock they had rented a room in an inn on the outskirts of Oxford. Elizabeth had no idea what time it was now, nor how long she'd slept. She only knew that
something had changed. Beneath her shift, her skin felt itchy.

Sending out invisible tentacles, she probed the darkness. Then, gradually, she began to relax, deliberately easing the tenseness from her muscles. Rand lay beside her, his eyes shut, his breathing regular.

Perhaps I was dreaming, perhaps I'm still dreaming.

Something scraped just beyond the door, which was locked from the inside. Easing herself up, she ran her fingers through the scrim of sleep-tousled hair that shaded her eyes. Door locks could easily be picked.

She inched her right leg sideways until it touched Rand's breeches. His hand squeezed hers. “If anything happens, escape out the window,” he whispered.

Maneuvering toward the edge of the bed, he leaned over and retrieved his pistol.

Elizabeth had no wish to jump from a second-story window, but now was not the time to argue. Rolling from the bed, crouched on the floor, she groped for her own pistol.

Metal scraped against metal. There was a loud click.

Chest bare, feet bare, Rand strode across the tiny room and stood behind the door.

Elizabeth raised her head and shoulders above the straw mattress. Moonlight streamed through the narrow window and pooled upon their clothes, folded across the bottom of the bed. The shadows fashioned by the rumpled blankets gave the appearance of bodies.

Perhaps 'tis a servant checking all the doors,
she thought hopefully.
Or somebody who mistook our room for his. Such things do happen.

The door creaked open. Elizabeth's heart drummed so loudly, she was certain Rand could hear it. Not only Rand, but the intruder. He would track her by the booming of her heart.

Rand raised his pistol and pressed his body against the wall.

A hand appeared, then a head. Despite the moonlight, it was too dark to distinguish any features.

Elizabeth watched the rest of the man slip into the room. He was so thin, he might have been a skeleton. He was tall and faceless and totally unexpected. Elizabeth imagined Death would appear like that. Except Death wouldn't point a gun at the bed. Death wouldn't have to. He'd merely beckon and—damn! The bounty hunter! The one who looked like a fugitive from a bone pile. Rand hadn't fooled him, after all.

Crouching down lower, she felt her legs tremble, as did her hand when she cocked her pistol. She crawled around the foot of the bed and once again peered toward the door.

She saw Rand step behind the skeleton man. At that very moment, a second man entered the room. His gun barrel gleamed, and Elizabeth could see that it was pointed at Rand's back. Rearing up, she fired. A roar rattled the window and a flash illuminated her hand.

“No, Bess!” Rand yelled.

She thought she saw a dumbfounded look on the skeleton man's face, and she suddenly realized that her pistol's bright flash had clarified a portion of her own face.

Rand's shout had given away his position. The skeleton man spun around. Rand slammed him across the skull and he collapsed on the floor next to his partner.

“Let's get out of here.” Thrusting his pistol into the waistband of his breeches, scooping up their boots, Rand headed for the window and fumbled with the latch.

“Hurry!” she cried, her fingers curling around the handle of the traveling bag that contained their disguises.

Rand flung open the window and leaned out. “Part of the common room juts directly below, so we need only ease ourselves onto its roof.”

Elizabeth was shaking so badly she could scarcely stand. Repeatedly, she looked over her shoulder at the two motionless shapes on the floor. “Do you think I killed him?”

“I don't know.” Untangling her stiff, clawed fingers from her pistol, Rand stowed it inside one of his boots. “Perhaps you just nicked him.”

Footsteps sounded in the corridor, voices from the adjoining room. Swallowing her fear, Elizabeth allowed Rand to shove her through the window's narrow opening. He followed, whereupon they hurried along the roof line then dropped to the ground. She felt her knees and ankles protest but no bones snapped, thank God. Passing the kit to Rand, she thrust her feet into the boots he tossed her, then ran toward the stables.

Was the skeleton man chasing them? Elizabeth twisted her head and glanced over her shoulder. She saw lights spring from various windows. It seemed an eternity before they reached the horse sheds.

Rand retrieved her pistol and handed it over. “Try to look fierce,” he whispered.

Gritting her teeth, Elizabeth aimed her gun toward the stable boy while Rand tugged on his boots. Then he saddled their mounts. Luckily the stable boy was frightened out of his wits, for her gun wasn't primed.

Had it been primed, she could not have pulled the trigger.

“I didn't kill anyone,” she muttered under her breath. “I just nicked him.” But even if she had killed him, what choice did she have? He would have shot Rand. He would have shot her. Damn Walter Stafford and his blasted reward!

As she swung up on Greylag and they clattered out of the inn yard, Rand said, “You shouldn't have fired at the bounty hunter, Bess. I could have handled the situation.” His voice chastised, and she was appalled, for she might very well have saved his life.

They raced through Oxford's sleepy streets and beyond. Moonlight glinted upon the River Thames, which wound along farms and pastureland. The river seemed to chase Prancer and Greylag, but—fortunately—it was the only thing that did.

Cold air stung Elizabeth's cheeks and sliced through her linen shift. Her mind raced in concert with her mare's pounding hooves. The flash of her pistol had illuminated her face and Rand had called her Bess.
I'll hang from the gallows alongside Rand,
she thought, swallowing a sob.

Would that be so bad? She didn't want to live if he died. Janey had betrayed Ranulf because she feared death, but Elizabeth had a feeling that life without Ranulf had been a living death.

She
would not make the same mistake.

They rode until dawn, as if demons pursued them. The horses were ready to drop, so they halted, hiding within the depths of a dense forest. Exhausted, Elizabeth was much too fretful to sleep. Suppose she wasn't hanged? Suppose she was merely imprisoned? That would be far worse than a swift strangulation. Hadn't she oft written about dark, dank cellars filled with all sorts of vermin?

Walter Stafford would be the worst vermin of all.

Why didn't Rand hold her, soothe her, at the very least say something comforting?

“I would have taken care of the matter,” he finally stated, his voice stern, though tempered by fatigue. “There was no need to shoot the bloody fool.”

“He was going to kill you.” While Rand tethered the horses, Elizabeth stretched out beneath a tree. The cold and damp from the earth invaded her back. She sat up.

Rand loomed above her. “We'll be safe in London, Bess. I know my way about. After we do what we planned—”

“
You
planned!”

“—we'll swing south to Dover. From there we'll head across the Channel.”

“Why don't we go straight to Dover or the nearest port? I don't want to hang, Rand.”

“Nor do I. But we must visit Southwark Cathedral.”

“And Charles Beresford,” she added, somewhat reluctantly. “We need escape money.” She thought he might protest, deeming a woman's help unacceptable, but he nodded. “I'm so frightened, Rand. Please sit beside me. Please hold me.”

He complied, and she pressed against him.

I should be shot,
Rand thought, hugging her closer.
Bess acted heroically, and I scolded her. I treated her like Zak, when she's braver and smarter than both of us put together.

“By shooting that bounty hunter, you saved your lawman's life,” he said, trying to explain his callousness. “Now I must make certain Stafford does not catch up with us. 'Tis a pity that flap-dragon'd son of a bitch won't die, after all.”

***

Four major roads radiated outward from London. At points along the way, turnpikes had been set up. Turnpike keepers collected tolls, but they also watched for criminals. As travelers streamed past the booths, keepers distributed handbills which detailed crimes and suspected perpetrators.

Dressed as male servants, Elizabeth and Rand approached London along the Oxford Road. As they neared Shotover Hill, a popular place for highwaymen, Elizabeth saw two iron-caged men hanging from a gibbet. Since their flesh remained largely intact, the men were recent arrivals. Carrion crows perched upon the bars, feeding. Other crows circled overhead. Elizabeth couldn't keep her eyes off the birds, drifting above the corpses or creeping across the cages.

Swallowing bitter bile, she began to tremble.
That's how Rand and I are going to end up.

Beneath her breeches, her legs goose-fleshed. Beneath her shirt, her necklace felt like a choker.

***

Nearing the turnpike, Rand maneuvered Prancer closer to Greylag. “By now the handbills will have been printed and distributed,” he said. “The innkeeper will have described us and everyone will be on the lookout.”

“I'm aware of that,” she snapped. “Which is why it would have been much safer to arrive after dark.”

“The roads are usually patrolled at night and the keepers maintain a sharper eye. Trust me, Bess. 'Tis safer to enter during the daylight hours.”

Trust me.
Elizabeth thought Ranulf might have said the very same thing to Janey. Ever since Green Hill and Evesham Abbey, she had found it difficult to distinguish the difference between herself and Janey, Rand and Ranulf. Rand had even begun to grow a beard, which increased his likeness to Ranulf. Sometimes Elizabeth felt as if she'd cast aside her own identity. Who was she? Ranulf's Lady Jane or Rand's Bonny Bess?

After passing through the turnpike, she relaxed. Rand was correct. They were just two among thousands traveling toward London. The very press of people would protect them.

The dread she had experienced at Shotover Hill receded. Maybe last night's intruders had been robbers rather than bounty hunters. In that case, nobody would investigate.

Long before Elizabeth reached London, she smelled it. A brisk northwesterly wind carried coal smoke and various other disagreeable odors. The day was bleak and cloudy. St. Paul's Cathedral, the Tower, and Westminster Abbey had disappeared, covered by a leaden mantle that obscured the entire city.

“London isn't always so dirty,” she murmured, remembering her first visit.

“What you see is coal smoke from glasshouses, earthenware factories, blacksmith shops, and dyers' yards, not to mention thousands of fireplaces. Believe me, Bess, 'twill get worse before it gets better.”

“But the Beresfords—”

“Reside where it's cleaner. Prentices scrub the fronts of the houses. Many houses possess high steps so that ladies can enter their carriages without ever touching the muck below.”

“What's wrong with that?”

“Nothing. Except the lords and ladies blind themselves to the human urine and stagnant water that befoul the streets. They don't see the butchers who toss offal from their shops, nor the raw sewage spouting from broken sewer lines beneath the pavement. They don't see their grand coaches splash filth upon pedestrians, unless of course they are careless enough to leave their windows open, whereupon they themselves get splashed.”

In sporadic fits and starts, Rand guided them toward the city outskirts. Elizabeth peered through the drizzle of coal dust which seemed to emanate from the clouds. The road was a maze of hackney coaches, sedan chairs, carts, wagons, and riders. The hooves and iron-rimmed wheels shook the ground in a constant rumbling, like the start of an earthquake. Sedan chairs for hire clustered around Charing Cross. The statuary upon the cross was covered by a pall of coal dust, just like everything else. The dress of the pedestrians who clung to the footpaths provided the only spots of brightness.

Rand leaned closer. “Just think what you missed, Bess, living all those years on the moors.”An hour passed before they entered Temple Bar, the only remaining gateway into the City. The smell from garden privies and basement cesspits was so noxious, Elizabeth gagged. Rand bought her a nosegay from a vendor, which she promptly thrust against her nose.

This is so very different from my first visit,
she thought,
when the sun shone and I saw the best parts of the city.

By the time they reached the Strand, the cloudy mist had become something akin to seepage. Umbrellas bloomed. The noise increased. Beggars cried for alms. Ballad singers stood on every street corner. Hawkers of ballads yelled and waved their sheets. Collectors for the penny post rang their bells. Scavengers with carts and bells pushed among the shoppers, as did vendors of fruit, pies, fish, and quack medicine.

Elizabeth had developed a terrific headache. Deciding her nosegay smelled of coal dust, she tossed it away.

“Don't despair, Bess. We've neared our destination.” Rand turned down one of the countless side alleys that spiked Fleet Street. “There's a decent inn here. It will do for one night.”

On the corner, a knife sharpener ground knives upon a wheel. A milkmaid yodeled her wares. “If I have to listen to that all night, I'll never sleep,” Elizabeth groused.

“Would you prefer the Beresfords?” Rand snapped, then ran his hand wearily across his brow. “I'm sorry, Bess, that was uncalled for. But at least now you understand why I try to ease some of the suffering, though 'tis truly a drop in the bucket.”