Julie Anne Long (11 page)

“See to your friend,” Connor said to John. “Oh, and London is in that direction.” He waved his hand vaguely off to the southeast. “Enjoy your walk. You may start now.”

John the highwayman gave Connor one last glare, then hauled himself to his feet. Silently he helped Edgar stand, and the two limped off into the night.

Connor exhaled deeply. He noticed then that he was trembling slightly.

“Would you like a pistol?” Connor asked the coachman. “I seem to have several.”

“I should like a pistol,” came a voice from inside the coach.

Rebecca’s face appeared in the doorway. Even from where he stood, Connor could tell her eyes were dancing with excitement.

“That was certainly a sight!” Sharp piped up enthusiastically. “Never seen anythin’ to match! Right useful for a lord, ye are.”

“What did you say?” Connor asked sharply.

“About ye bein’ useful, milord? I meant no offense —”

“Why did you call me a lord?” Connor demanded.

“Because for the past half hour or so you have sounded just like the bloody Duke of Marlborough.” Rebecca was nearly bubbling with excitement. “Not a single ‘wee’ to be heard. Where on earth did you learn to speak like that?”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, yer lordship, er, sir, I mean, but you could be the bloody King of England with a voice like that,” the coachman agreed.

“Our king is a bloated sot. Kindly do not compare me to him. Ned, get back in the coach, now. Don’t say ‘bloody.’ And ye shall not have a pistol.”

“Oh, give the lass a pistol,” Sharp said supportively. “Ye never know when a lady might need to shoot a highway bugger.”

“Lad,” Connor corrected sternly. “Ned is a
lad
, and the
lad
does not need a pistol.”

“Whatever ye say, yer
lordship
,” Chester Sharp said cheekily. “Not fer the likes o’ me to comment on the goings-on o’ the quality. Go ahead and toss me up a pistol, guv. We’ll be in Sheep’s Haven right soon, though why ye’d want to stop there instead of a proper coaching inn . . .”

Connor tossed up Edgar’s pistol to the coachman and boarded the coach once more.

He reached for Rebecca at once and gripped her by both shoulders with something akin to a shake. “Are you all right?”

Rebecca stared at him, her eyes wide and wondering, and her hands fluttered up as though she meant to touch him. But she dropped them into her lap again instead.

“I am perfectly sound, Connor,” she said gently. “I had no time to be afraid, you see, as I was in awe. How did you learn to do . . . to do . . . that?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand meant to encompass the enormity of what had just happened.

Connor released her along with the breath he had been holding and sat back hard against the wall of the coach. Rebecca rubbed at her arm where his fingers had been.

He was quiet for a moment, his shoulders heaving with deep breaths. Finally, he gave her a crooked grin.

“I wasna certain I could do it until I did do it, wee Becca, and that is a fact.”

“But . . . you shoot as though you have been practicing all your life at Manton’s,” she said, baffled. “It was extraordinary.
And
you have a very fine pistol. A gentleman’s pistol.”

“I learned to shoot in the army,” Connor said abruptly. “And how do you know about Manton’s, of all things?”

“Robbie Denslowe told me about Manton’s, and I’ll thank you not to change the subject.”

Connor smiled. Most women would be weeping or swooning in hysteria by now; trust Rebecca to launch into an interrogation. “Did you learn how to speak like a lord in the army, as well?”

“Perhaps,” Connor said airily. The whole speaking-like-a-lord nonsense was making him nervous indeed. He had been completely unaware that he was doing it. His adopted Irish accent had become so second nature to him that he occasionally even
dreamed
with an Irish accent. But an unvarnished Connor Riordan, a Connor Riordan who had not existed since Waterloo, had vanquished the highwaymen tonight. The realization left him disoriented, but peculiarly buoyant, as well.

A subject change was definitely in order, he decided.

“For your information, Miss Tremaine, the highwaymen did
not
stage this encounter for your entertainment. I assure you, they wouldna have hesitated to gut me and have their way with you, given the opportunity. A little more dismay on your part would be more than appropriate.”

“I am sorry, Connor.” Rebecca feigned contrition. “I have always had difficulty doing the appropriate thing. I shall endeavor to utter little shrieks of fright next time.”

Connor gave a snort of amusement.

“From where I sat,” Rebecca added, “it appeared you were enjoying yourself.”

Connor merely snorted again.

“There is one thing that troubles me a bit, though, Connor,” Rebecca continued, hesitantly.

More than one thing was troubling Connor at the moment, particularly the nagging sensation that the highwaymen had indeed been in search of the two of them. “And what would that be, wee Becca?”

“Do you recall the highwayman mentioning a locket?”

Connor made a little sound indicating that he was fairly certain he would not like what she said next.

“Well, there is something I forgot to tell you in all the excitement of leaving. I wanted so much to help with the preparations of this journey, you see, and as you would not allow me to do so . . .” She trailed off defensively.

“Finish your sentence, Rebecca.”

“Well, I looked in Papa’s overcoat before I left . . . and I found . . .”

She paused, her hands fumbling a bit at the back of her neck. Connor watched in apprehension as she slowly drew something up out of her shirt.

“. . . this.”

In her palm was a gold locket.

Chapter Eight

T
he Thorny Rose Tavern’s battered sign creaked forlornly on its chains in the breeze; a murmur of voices came from within. And then the tavern door swung open, releasing a wedge of lamplight. A lone man staggered out at a lean, spun about twice like a wheel off a cart, and collapsed in a heap.

“Ye sure this is the place, guv?” the coachman called down dubiously.

Connor was thankful Chester Sharp had dispensed with the “yer lordship” appellation for the time being. A “yer lordship” within earshot of any of the Thorny Rose’s customers would very likely get him robbed and knifed before morning.

“This is indeed the place. Thank you for your services, Mr. Sharp.”

“Say nothing of it. Never ’ad a more entertainin’ evenin’ in me life, and that’s a fact. I’ll see to the stablin’ of yer new mounts, if ye’d like.”

The coach had come upon the two horses belonging to the highwaymen walking along the road together, saddled but still riderless, for all the world as if they were headed for the Thorny Rose Tavern in Sheep’s Haven themselves. They had peacefully allowed themselves to be tethered to the back of the coach. Connor was encouraged by this little bit of happenstance; he was running out of money, and having mounts for the last leg of the journey would save coach fare into Scotland.

“That would be helpful, Mr. Sharp, thank you.” Connor grasped Chester Sharp’s hand in thanks, and when Sharp pulled his hand away it was filled with coins.

Chester eyed the coins in astonishment. “Ye certain of this, guv?” he said weakly. “It’s no’ like I took ye to London and back, is it now? Just a bi’ off the coach road.”

“I’m sure. We may meet again, and I want ye to think of me kindly.”

“Many thanks, yer
lordship
,” Sharp said, although he did muster the judgment to lower his voice. “And dinna worry, guv, I’m no teller of tales.” He gave Connor an exaggerated wink and strode off in the direction of the stables.

Connor stood still for a moment and inhaled deeply, and was almost sorry that he did. Sheep’s Haven was on the outskirts of Dunbrooke land, and the night air was saturated with his past: the sweet grass of meadowlands, the earthy smell of sheep, the sharp green scent of the oaks and aspens. His heart lurched. Purgatory and paradise. Dread and joy. Every good memory of his life at Keighley Park was paired with an equally dark one.

But I escaped
. He would never be proud of the way he had done it, but he felt anew the triumph and relief of it. And if some small part of him yearned toward Keighley Park, it was the least part of him; it was the small boy in him who still longed for something that had never been and never could be. Soon he would be a world away, on another continent, and his past would never touch him again.

“Are you quite certain you will not let me have a pistol?”

Connor gave a start. He had not heard Rebecca disembarking from the coach.

Rebecca correctly interpreted his startled expression. “Trousers are a wonderful invention,” she said cheerfully. “One can climb up into carts and step down out of coaches with no assistance whatsoever. It is no wonder men keep them for themselves. Now, may I have a pistol, please?”

Although Connor knew that Rebecca could shoot an apple from a fence post at fifty paces, shooting a highwayman in the dark presented a bit more of a challenge. Something about the events of the evening, however, had prompted Connor to change his mind about giving Rebecca one of his new pistols. If anything happened to him, he would feel better knowing that Rebecca would at least have a slim chance of shooting someone.

“Wee Ned, if I give you a pistol, do ye promise not to shoot me or yourself?”

Rebecca held out her hand, knowing she had won, and he handed her one of the pistols. She tucked it expertly into one of her boots, which made him smile.

“A tavern?” she whispered excitedly. “We shall be staying in a tavern? I have never been in a tavern. What happens in a tavern?”

“Hush, wee Ned. Please remember that you are shy.” He handed her the pack containing her belongings and, shouldering his own pack, pushed open the Thorny Rose Tavern’s door.

They were immediately engulfed by heat and haze and a dank smell that exhaled from the timbers of the place, the smell of decades of spilled ale and sweat and smoke. Rebecca had started coughing. Connor turned to look at her; her eyes were tearing.

“Your cravat, Ned. Tip your nose into your cravat,” he murmured. “Stay close.”

The main room featured a begrimed assortment of customers, a few with a right nasty look to them, a few others who were probably just laborers in for a pint and a chat. A pair of men fitting the “right nasty” description seemed to be eyeing them with a specific sort of malice. Then again, malice was the native expression of a particular sort of man. Perhaps it meant nothing.

A bulky man with a head as smooth and shiny as a porcelain teacup hurried toward them, wiping his hands on his apron. His shrewd little eyes flicked over Connor and Rebecca, assessing. “And what can I do for you gentlemen this evening?”

“A room, if you would, good sir, for myself and my nephew. For the evening. And oats for our horses.” Connor’s accent, though quite English, was a mere wan cousin to the glittering weapon he had used on the highwaymen.

Connor held out a coin and watched the proprietor’s face brighten and relax. So many members of the quality took service on account and never paid, Connor knew.

“Upstairs and to the right, gents. Ye be needin’ any supper, a pint? Annie will see to ye.”

Annie was already seeing to Rebecca.

“Wot’s yer name, lad? Care fer some company this evenin’, fine lad like yerself?”

Rebecca looked up to see who was purring into her ear and found herself eye level with an enormous quivering white bosom scarcely contained by its bodice.

“Ah—” She was about to deliver a polite refusal and was considering the accent and timbre she should employ when she felt Connor’s hand on her elbow.

“Thank you, sir. We’ll be down for supper after we get a bit of the dust off. Come, Ned,” he said gruffly. He steered Rebecca none too gently up the stairs.

Once they reached their room, Connor shut the door behind them and immediately lit a candle.

“The locket,” he demanded.

Rebecca handed it to him. He examined the plain, gleaming surface of it, turning it over in his hand. And then, as Rebecca had instructed, he ran his thumb along the edge to spring it open. His whole body went still.

“Connor?” Rebecca was alarmed.

Connor remained silent, motionless. He stared down at the locket.

“Connor?” Rebecca repeated, her heart suddenly racing. She touched his arm.

“There’s an inscription, wee Becca,” Connor said, finally, his voice hoarse. “Perhaps ye didna see it before.”

Rebecca stood at his elbow as he read it aloud.

“
To my dearest love Roarke Blackburn from Marianne Bell, on the occasion of my Lady Macbeth, 1813
.”

“Marianne Bell,” Rebecca repeated. She was back in familiar territory—feeling young and uncertain, with a dark, anxious pull in the pit of her stomach that she had begun to recognize as jealousy. “She is very beautiful,” she said softly, hesitantly. “Do you know who she might be?”

Connor cleared his throat. “Aye, I know of her. She was an . . . actress. In London.”

“Oh,” Rebecca breathed. She had caught the hesitation in Connor’s voice;
actress
in this instance meant very nearly the same thing as
whore
, she was certain. She absorbed this astonishing bit of information.

Connor moved slowly over to the bed and sat down at the edge of it. He continued gazing down at the locket, cupping it gingerly, as though it might wake and bite him if he made a sudden move.

“Ye found this in your da’s overcoat pocket, wee Becca?”

“I took it from the pocket of a coat in the library. Quite by accident,” she said hurriedly, when she saw amazement flicker across Connor’s face. “Gilroy interrupted me suddenly, and I had no choice but to . . . well, to stuff it in my apron pocket.”

“What, pray tell, were you looking for in the pocket of a gentleman’s overcoat, wee Becca?”

His eyebrows were raised and he was wearing an expression of encouragement, as though he had all the faith in the world that she would issue a plausible excuse for stealing a locket.

“Money,” she mumbled after a moment.

“Ah.”

“You see, as I said, I had none of my own, and I so wanted to help . . .”

“Will you promise me, wee Becca, that in the future ye’ll trust me when I say I shall take care of things, and not go thieving in the pockets of random overcoats?”

“I promise,” she muttered.

“So ye found this in your da’s coat pocket, Rebecca? For I think such a thing would more likely belong to Edelston.”

“But it is addressed to Roarke Blackburn. Who is Roarke Blackburn, do you suppose? Her . . . lover?” Rebecca said daringly.

Connor’s mouth quirked at the corner. “Oh, now, wee Becca, and it’s wise in the ways of the world ye are, is it?” He returned his gaze to the locket. “Aye, wee Becca, he was her lover, I’m very nearly sure of it. But how did the locket get in the pocket of your da’s coat? Or Edelston’s coat?”

Rebecca sat down carefully on the bed next to Connor. Such a thing —a young unchaperoned daughter of a country squire sitting on a bed next to a groom—would have caused her mother to die a thousand deaths. But Rebecca wanted to look at the portrait in the locket again to see how she felt about it after having seen the expression it had caused on Connor’s face. She peered just as Connor absently ran a finger over the inscription—and they both leaped back in surprise when the inscription panel popped open.

To reveal a miniature of Marianne Bell, sprawled on her back, one white arm flung over her head, quite naked.

Rebecca stared. She had seen drawings of naked people before in the anatomy book in her father’s library, but never like this, never any that were clearly labeled with the name of the naked person in question. Marianne had been lovingly and explicitly rendered in rich ivory and cream with dabs of soft pink for her mouth and nipples and a sinuous stroke of black for her hair, which fell across her shoulder and trailed across one breast. There was a mere shadow of color at the V in her legs. The artist had clearly taken pleasure in his work.

“Oh, my,” Rebecca whispered.

Connor abruptly stood up. “I am going downstairs for a pint of ale, wee Becca. I shall bring supper up.”

He dropped the locket on the bed and walked out the door.

Rebecca immediately snatched the locket up again and continued staring. Naturally she had never been encouraged to gaze at length at her own naked self in a mirror, but she had tracked her own development with a furtive glance here and there, taking an objective sort of pleasure in the interesting new curves of her body. She had never dreamed, however, that a naked female body could be celebrated in the way Marianne Bell seemed to be celebrating her own. Nor had she realized that a naked female body could cause a man, who had served in the army and had recently single-handedly vanquished two armed highwaymen, to drop a locket like a hot coal and bolt from the room.

Rebecca stared at the door thoughtfully. If Connor was having a pint, he would be gone for a while. And she was seized with a sudden overwhelming desire to perform an experiment.

Keeping her eyes pinned to the door of the room, she carefully withdrew her newly acquired pistol from her boot and then yanked the boots off. Then came the coat and the trousers, and then the shirt, her fingers fumbling with all the little buttons, until at last she stood nude and covered in goose flesh in the midst of her heaped-up clothing.

She approached the bed and stretched her nude length artfully (she hoped) across it. The counterpane was scratchy on her bare backside, a peculiar but not altogether disagreeable sensation. She pulled her hair down over one shoulder, lifted her arm up over her head, and rotated her hips ever so slightly, then stared up at the ceiling with what she hoped was an abstracted, clever, inviting expression, an expression of womanly knowing, the expression, she hoped, that Marianne Bell was wearing in the miniature painting.

She very much wanted to feel whatever it was that Marianne Bell had felt when she posed for the painting; she wanted to see if arranging herself just so would make her more knowing, more worldly, more womanly, more adult. She imagined Connor’s eyes on her body, imagined his expression when he took in the soft white curves of her, and wondered if he would bolt from the room, or . . .

She waited for the new feelings. Her bottom began to itch. She reached down to scratch it.

And then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw the doorknob turning.

With a shriek, she flung herself off the bed and landed with a thud amid her clothing.

Connor stood in the doorway with two steaming bowls of stew in his hand.

There was a moment of silence.

“Rebecca?” Connor finally said cautiously.

“You are certainly back soon,” Rebecca called from the other side of the bed, her voice both a bit miffed and muffled. “You . . . gave me a fright. I thought I would . . . I was . . . taking a nap.”

“I see,” Connor said, though he thought the fright part unlikely, in light of the fact that the young woman in question had actually been entertained by an encounter with two highwaymen. He listened with great interest to the scrabbling and rustling taking place on the other side of the bed.

“And did ye break any bones when ye fell?” he asked politely.

“Only a few,” Rebecca retorted. She straightened her spine in an obvious attempt to reclaim her dignity.

But as she did, Connor caught disconcerting glimpses of soft white skin through the gaps of her unevenly buttoned shirt. He overcompensated by immediately casting his gaze up to the ceiling until she was standing in front of him once again.

“Are ye hungry, wee Becca?” He decided not to ask any further questions about what she had been doing.

It had been a long time since they had polished off the last of Mrs. Hackette’s picnic basket. Connor claimed the rickety chair the inn had thoughtfully provided.