He began to whistle. A promising situation indeed.
“Stop that damned noise!”
Cyn did so and looked at his companion thoughtfully. Women rarely
spoke in such a clipped, harsh tone, and the creature’s neat bag-wig
and tricorn allowed no possibility of long tresses pinned up beneath.
Could he be mistaken?
Casually, he let his gaze slide down again and knew his suspicions
were correct. She wore fashionably tight knee-breeches and there was no
male equipment under them. Moreover, though the woman’s legs appeared
slim and well-muscled, the breeches and fine clocked stockings revealed
a roundness more feminine than masculine.
“How much further?” he asked, touching the weary off-leader with the
whip to get them all over a particularly rough stretch. “This track’s
the very devil.”
“That cottage ahead. Pull all the way into the orchard to hide the carriage. The horses can graze there.”
Cyn looked at the gateway, which contained a dip as deep as some
ditches, and wondered if the carriage would make it. He dismissed such
concerns. He was too tantalized by what the next stage of this
adventure would bring.
With whip and voice, he urged the tired team through, keeping his
seat with difficulty as the vehicle jarred down into the dip, then
jerked up. The abused axle gave a threatening squeal but did not crack.
He pulled the team up beneath the trees with a sense of accomplishment,
and wondered if the wench realized just how skillful he had been. His
schoolboy passion for coaching had finally paid off.
“Fair enough,” she said ungraciously.
He began to think his mystery lady would turn out to be an antidote.
All he could see of her features above the scarf were hard gray eyes.
He guessed her lips to be set in a harsh line.
“What are you staring at?” she snapped.
“It seems reasonable to try to note your features so I can describe you to the authorities.”
She pointed the pistol straight at his face. “You’re a fool, do you know that? What’s to stop me from shooting you?”
He held her eyes, still relaxed. “Fair play. Are you the type to shoot a man for no reason?”
“Saving my neck might be reason enough.”
Cyn smiled. “I give you my word that I will do nothing to help the authorities apprehend you.”
The pistol drooped and she stared at him. “Who the devil are you?”
“Cyn Malloren. Who the devil are you?”
He watched as she almost fell into the trap and answered truthfully:
but she caught herself. “You may call me Charles. What kind of a name
is Sin?”
“C-Y-N. Cynric. in fact. Anglo-Saxon king.”
“I’ve heard of the Mallorens…” She stiffened. “Rothgar.”
“The marquess is my brother,” he acknowledged. “Don’t hold it
against me.” He guessed she fervently wished she’d left him by the
roadside. Rothgar was not a man to cross.
She made a good recovery. “I’ll judge you on your own deeds, my lord. My word on it. Now, unhitch the team.”
Cyn saluted ironically. “Aye, aye, sir.”
He climbed down and stripped off his greatcoat and tight-waisted
frock coat. He tucked the foaming lace at his cuffs out of harm’s way,
and went to work.
The sun had set, and there was little light. A damp cold bit into
him despite the hard work. The task took some time and she didn’t help,
just sat there, pistol at the ready. At one point she looked behind him
and said, “Go back to the house, Verity. Everything’s all right. We’ll
be there in a while.”
Cyn looked around and saw the glimmer of a pale gown turn to go back
to the cottage. He’d lay odds that had been the other highwayman.
Everything about this situation intrigued him.
What were two young women who appeared to be of gentle birth doing in this cottage?
Why had they turned to thievery?
And what, in God’s name, did they want with the coach?
He rubbed the horses down with wisps of dry grass and covered them
with the blankets Hoskins kept ready for a wait. “They could do with
some water,” he said.
“There’s a stream down the end of the orchard. They’ll find it. Let’s get up to the house. You take the loot.”
Cyn gathered up his coats, not bothering to put them on again. He
went to the coach and collected the trinket case. He considered the
pistol thoughtfully. It would be ridiculously easy to pick up the
firearm and shoot his captor. As he left it there, he wondered whether
he would regret his foolishness.
Within half an hour, the answer was yes.
From where he lay spread-eagled on a brass bed, hands and feet tied
to solid corner-posts, he glared up at the three hovering women. “When
I win free, I’m going to throttle the lot of you.”
“That’s why you’re bound,” said the one who still pretended to be male. “We wouldn’t know a moment’s peace if you were loose.”
“I gave my word you had nothing to fear from me.”
“Faith, you did not. You said you wouldn’t turn us over to the
authorities. You might intend other mischief—against my sister and
nurse, for example.”
Cyn looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Charles“ was proving to be a
fascinating enigma. She had shed her cloak, hat, and scarf on entering
the cottage. Soon, almost absentmindedly, the wig had gone too. He
sympathized. He’d never liked wearing a wig and preferred the bother of
his own hair.
Even stripped of disguise, she made a tolerably convincing young
man. Her suit of braided brown velvet fit neatly, and if a bosom
swelled beneath, the lace frill of her shirt hid it well enough.
Her head was not shorn, but her hair was a sleek cap of light brown
dusted with gold, with just the ripples of a wave. It was an
extraordinary hairstyle for a female, but it did not look as outrageous
as it should, perhaps because she was not a soft-featured lady. She
made a handsome youth.
She was smooth-skinned, of course, which made her look about
sixteen, though he would guess she must be closer to twenty. Her voice
was rather low-pitched. Her lips might be charming if she relaxed them
in a smile, but she kept them tight and angry. He didn’t know why the
devil she was so angry with him.
Her companions were equally mystifying.
Verity, presumably the sister, had long, lustrous wavy hair in a
shade between honey and gold, and a soft, feminine mouth. In contrast
to Charles, she had a lush figure. Presumably Charles had her breasts
bound, but iron bands wouldn’t obliterate Verity’s generous shape,
which was well-displayed by a low neckline and wide fichu. The outfit
she wore, however, was more suited to a serving maid than to a lady of
quality.
Verity appeared to be the epitome of a womanly woman. To prove it
she was much more nervous and kindhearted than her sister. “We can’t
keep him like this indefinitely,” she pointed out.
“Of course not, but it’ll keep him out of harm’s way while we eat and prepare to leave.”
“But La… But Charles,” said the nurse fretfully, “you’re not allowed to leave, you know that.”
This woman was old, very old. She was stooped and tiny, with
half-moon spectacles and soft, silvery hair. She had been Cyn’s
downfall. When Charles had ordered him onto the bed to be bound, he’d
refused. The old woman had obeyed the order to get him there, however,
and he’d been so afraid of breaking her bird-like bones he’d ended up
helpless.
He noted the slip. The old lady had almost called the chit Lady
something. Very highborn then, and yet one was dressed convincingly as
a male, and the other as a servant.
“I don’t care a farthing whether I’m allowed to leave or not,” said
Lady Charles. “Up till now I’ve had no reason to go anywhere, and good
reason to skulk. Now everything’s changed. I suppose I’ll come back in
due course. Where else have I to go?”
“You will stay with Nathaniel and me,” said Verity.
“Perhaps,” said Charles with a softening of her features. “But he’s
going to have enough trouble looking after you and William, dearest.” A
squawking noise came from upstairs. “There he goes again. Hungry little
beast, ain’t he?”
Verity hurried off up a set of narrow stairs, and Cyn absorbed the
fact that one of his highwaymen was a mother and, he suspected, a
recent one. It explained the rather excessive lushness of her figure.
Discomfort and annoyance gave way again to fascination. He looked
forward to telling this tale to his fellow officers. A good yarn was
always in demand in the winter billets.
The older woman disappeared into the kitchen, the only other room on
the ground floor. Cyn supposed there was a room under the eaves above
where the sisters and the baby slept. This room, the old lady’s
bedroom, was being used as a makeshift parlor and also contained a
number of bundles, boxes, and portmanteaux.
Why were the sisters here, and why was Charles not allowed to leave?
The girl was digging in a chest, ignoring him. “Am I going to be fed?” Cyn asked.
“Eventually.”
“What do you intend to do with me?”
She straightened and came over to the bed. She raised one foot on
the frame and rested her elbow on her knee. He had the distinct feeling
she was enjoying the position of power. “Perhaps we’ll just leave you
here like this.”
He met her angry gray eyes. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“I haven’t done anything to hurt you. I did my best to be sure my people don’t start a hue and cry.”
“Why did you do that?”
He was startled by how much she distrusted and, perhaps, feared him.
That explained him being bound like this. Not out of cruelty, but out
of fear. With his deceptively delicate appearance Cyn was not
accustomed to women being so wary of him.
He chose his words with care. “I sensed you were not evil, that you
intended me no serious harm. I don’t want to see you swing. In fact,
I’d like to help you.”
She lowered her foot and took a betraying step backward. “Why?”
“I suspect you have a good reason for your actions, and I am overdue for an adventure.”
She looked nothing so much as exasperated. “You’re overdue for Bedlam.”
“I don’t think so. I just have a low tolerance for tedium.”
“Tedium has its attractions, believe me.”
“I have never discovered them.”
“Then consider yourself fortunate.”
For the first time he wondered if she was in real trouble. He’d been
thinking more in terms of some girlish prank, but he doubted this
formidable young woman would look so sober over a trivial matter.
“You’re in danger, aren’t you?” he said.
Her eyes widened, but she said nothing.
“All the more reason to trust me and let me help you.”
Her chin came up sharply. “I don’t trust—” After a caught breath she said, “—people.”
He knew she had almost said, I
don’t trust men
.
“You can trust me.”
She gave a short, bitter laugh.
He waited until he could catch her guarded eyes. “There’s a loaded
pistol on the seat of the coach. I didn’t use it earlier because your
sister was covering my men. I didn’t use it when I collected your loot
because I didn’t want to. I’m an excellent shot. I could have disarmed
you, crippled you, or killed you at my leisure.”
She frowned at him, then spun on her heel and left. He heard the outer door slam and knew she had gone to check.
A few minutes later the old woman tiptoed in with a spouted invalid
cup. “I’m sure you’d like a drink, my lord,” she said, and proceeded to
carefully feed him a cup of startlingly strong, sweet tea. It wasn’t as
he usually drank it but he was grateful for it all the same.
When he’d finished she dabbed up a few drips with a snowy cloth.
“You mustn’t worry,” she said, patting one of his bound hands. “No
one’s going to hurt you. Ch… Charles is a little edgy these days.” She
shook her head and real anxiety shadowed her eyes. “It’s all been quite
terrible…”
Again he had the feeling they were not addressing trivial matters here.
“What should I call you?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m just Nana. That’s what they all call me, so you may as well
too. Are your hands hurting? I didn’t tie you too tight, did I?”
“No,” he assured her, though his hands were pricking with pins and
needles. He didn’t want Charles to come back and find him free, or
she’d suspect he’d just been trying to get her out of the house. He
probed for a little more information. “And what should I call Miss
Verity?”
“Oh,” said the old lady, who was clearly no fool, “Verity will do,
won’t it? You must excuse me, my lord. I have the meal cooking.”
Chastity Ware hurried through the gloom of the orchard to the
shadowy shape of the carriage. She had stopped in the kitchen to pick
up the dueling pistols and musket. It was past time to return them and
the horses. But her main purpose, she acknowledged, was to check her
prisoner’s words.
Her mind seethed with dark thoughts. What had possessed her to kidnap Cyn Malloren?
There’d been a point to keeping the coach, though it had been a
sudden inspiration. Verity and the baby would travel much better in a
private vehicle than on the stage.
And there had been a point in making him drive it. She hadn’t wanted
to take her attention off the men long enough to drive it herself. She
had little faith in Verity’s ability to shoot anyone in any
circumstance.
But even if she’d had him drive a little way, she could have left
him in a deserted spot. She’d driven a gig. Surely driving a
four-in-hand was not very different.
A rogue male was the last thing they needed.
In truth, it had been his insufferable male arrogance that had goaded her.
He’d stood there in his blue and silver with foaming lace, too
beautiful to be decent, and not at all awed by her pistols. When he’d
offered her a pinch of snuff she’d thirsted to puncture his
self-assurance, to see him lying in the dirt. As he’d guessed, however,
she hadn’t been able to shoot him over it. Then he’d turned the tables
by making that gracious little speech to his servants. If it worked, it
would delay and perhaps prevent pursuit.