The Savage Miss Saxon (27 page)

“Nicholas,” Alix called out the window to the man watching after the coach as it moved off down the driveway, “
N’ktahoalell!
”

Although he had never before heard this particular Lenape phrase, Nicholas replied under his breath, “And I love you, Alix,” before he turned his back on the coach and reentered Linton Hall—his birthplace, he told himself sorrowfully—but no longer his birthright.

Chapter Ten

W
hy did everything have to be so complicated? This wasn’t the way love was supposed to go, Alix thought as she attacked one of the trestle table tops with a soapy rag. “We that are true lovers run into strange capers,” Shakespeare said, she told herself ruefully. That being the case, she and Nicholas must be the truest lovers since Adam and Eve—and the most harassed.

Like Eve, Alix knew it was she who had bolixed up the works, dangling that wretched piece of parchment in front of his face. She had never really meant to ever make use of the dratted thing even if it was legally binding—she had just been trying to show him (and her grandfather) that she would not be carted off to the altar willy-nilly on
their
say-so.

Admit it, she admonished herself, slapping the rag back into the bucket with such force the water splashed all over her gown, you only did it to get some of your own back—to show Nicholas you were not without options of your own. You sure did do it too, she grimaced, wiping soapy water from her cheek. Now you have to figure a way to
un
do it!

And so, for the next three days, Alix figured and figured. Because she always seemed to think better when she was occupied with physical labor, she also cleaned and cleaned—driving Nutter and Sir Alexander to the brink of strong hysterics. Deciding something had to be done to get his granddaughter’s mind off whitewashing his bedchamber and onto something else, Sir Alexander sent off a message to Linton Hall begging the Earl to set a definite date for their next assault on the highwaymen.

Mannering, eager for some respite from the tensions of waiting for the solicitor he had contacted the morning after the fire-bell fiasco to reply to his inquiry; aware that the boys were too involved in their ridiculous plans for the pantomime to take notice of what he was doing and interfere; and desperate for any excuse to see Alix again, set the date for that Wednesday night and included in his note detailed plans for setting a trap that would capture the highwaymen.

They all met just outside the high walls of Saxon Hall soon after dusk—Alix not wishing Nicholas inside the castle, where he might just discover Reginald in residence and throw a damper over all her plans by pointing out the flaws in the scheme (of which she knew there were a great many) by refusing to let his brother take part in what many people would call the “ruining” of Helene Anselm.

Sir Alexander, snug inside his traveling carriage, which was loaded to the roof with a small mountain of luggage to make it look as if he were in the midst of a long journey (and more prone to be carrying jewels and a quantity of cash), acknowledged Nicholas with a wave as the latter rode up on horseback.

“All rigged out in your best Sir Galahad armor again, I see. And who is that with you?” Mannering asked, peering inside the coach to see another, smaller form quavering in the far corner.

“Nutter, of course,” Sir Alexander answered ingenuously. “You didn’t think I’d travel without my page, did you? Ain’t fitting, by Jupiter.”

Looking upward to the driver’s box, the Earl commented, “Then what is Harold’s designation, hmm? Swordbearer? He looks armed to the teeth sitting up there beside your coachman.”

“Harold’s got some ideas of his own for this night’s work, your lordship,” Alix said, moving her mount up beside Nicholas’s horse. “He plans to lay some traps in the woods to capture the bridle culls.” She spoke rapidly, hoping the heartbeats she heard dinning in her ears were not audible. Oh, he looked so fine sitting there on his stallion and all dressed in black like some dangerous sea pirate—right down to his black silk eyepatch. How she longed to throw herself into his arms, begging he ride off with her into the night and, as the novels said so intriguingly, “have his way” with her.

For his part, Nicholas had stiffened perceptibly at the sound of Alix’s voice, and only when he felt himself once more in control did he turn in the saddle to look at her. Once again she was dressed in the buckskin dress Harold had made for her. She sat her mount astride—astride and bareback—her legs uncovered from the knee down to her deerskin moccasins. As was her custom, her long black hair fell loosely down her back, but tonight it was held away from her face by means of a thin strip of leather tied around her forehead—a long, white feather tucked into it at the rear.

Never, he told himself, audibly sucking in his breath, had she looked so exotically beautiful. It was all he could do not to sweep her into his arms and then spur his horse into an immediate gallop—taking them far away from highwaymen, house guests, and incriminating parchments where they could lie together under the stars and make the wild, passionate love he could only dream about during the long, lonely nights in his empty bed.

The two were silent for some moments, long seconds that passed ever so slowly as they peered hungrily at each other, before Mannering at last remembered where they were and, his quick tongue coming to his rescue, said only, “Devilishly fetching headgear, Alix. Although I guess a bonnet would look rather silly anyway, wouldn’t it, all things considered? Shall we be off then?”

But Alix had lost all powers of conversation after that exchange of looks, and opening her mouth to reply and finding no words coming out, she only nodded and pushed her knees into her mount’s flanks, urging him forward to follow behind the lumbering coach.

They rode in silence for about five minutes, lagging some ways behind the coach as to be out of sight of its bright carriage lamps, before Nicholas could no longer endure the tense silence and burst into speech.

“Have you any idea why we are riding on the left-hand side of this road, Alix?” he asked conversationally. I mean, we could jog along on the right just as easily, couldn’t we? It wouldn’t do at all to sashay straight down the middle of a roadway, but why pick the left side and not the right?”

Alix knew what Nicholas was doing and she appreciated his effort to put their relationship back on its former bantering footing. “Since this is a world full of right-handed people, and since the right-hand side is considered to be the one most honored, I can only guess that—being English and therefore prone to the most arbitrary of notions—the people in charge of these things decreed it so just to confuse everyone.” She turned slightly in order to look at him more closely and ended facetiously, “Now that I have so willingly responded to the bait—not without getting in a dig or two at you English in the process—you may show off your superior intelligence by telling me the real reason.”

Mannering took on an air of injured innocence. “How you malign my motives, sweetings. I was only hoping to pass the time with an interesting bit of trivium—as surely the reason for riding on the left, though obscured through the ages, is based soundly on logic.” Raising his right arm as if he held a sword, he demonstrated by means of a few flourishes: “We ride on the left in order to keep our right arm—for as you say, this is a right-handed world—free to hack at approaching horsemen who could be bent on attack. If we rode on the right side of the road, it would prove deuced awkward if it came to defending ourselves, you see.”

“One can only marvel at the problems besetting the left-handed,” Alix replied with a chuckle. “Just think—being placed at such a disadvantage could find him lopping off his own nose whilst trying to ward off an attacker.” Alix laughed aloud at the image this thought conjured up before ending, “Beset with such a problem, I imagine there’s a real dearth of left-handed highwaymen about, wouldn’t you say?”

Nicholas thought about this a second and then suggested that once they caught the highwaymen tonight they interview them on the subject. “Only think of the many left-handed fellows our English sense of order has saved from a life of crime.”

Just then they noticed the coach slowing a bit. “What’s your grandfather about? I don’t want him to stop here; we’re still not deep enough into the countryside.”

“Harold is climbing down,” Alix informed him. “Lenape make it a rule to walk everywhere, shunning any transportation other than that provided by their own two feet, but because of his recent injury, I have been allowed to persuade him to ride at least a part of the way. Now he will disappear into the woods, to follow parallel to the coach but out of sight. Once we arrive at our destination, Harold will scout out the area and prepare some surprises for our expected company.”

“But we have nearly three miles to go,” Mannering protested, “The old boy will be winded long before and left in our dust.”

Alix shook her head in disgust. “Ah, Nicholas, you have much to learn. Lenape, even those like Harold who have had many summers, can cover great distances on foot, traveling day and night without stops for rest.” At the Earl’s hoot of disbelief, Alix merely shrugged. Any time you wish to pit your endurance against Harold’s, you have only to ask—but please don’t be overly upset if I lay
my
blunt on Harold!”

Nicholas watched as Harold, having leapt to the ground with remarkable agility, bent into a slight crouch and, his bow, quiver, and a length of rope slung over his back and a long spear held in his right hand, trotted off into the woods alongside the roadway. “He moves well enough,” was all Mannering would say. “I shall reserve my judgment until the night is over.”

It was completely dark when they had at last reached the area where the highwaymen had been known to strike. Now it was time to implement the first part of Nicholas’s plan.

The driver hauled the traveling coach to a full stop, aiming it slightly toward the shoulder of the roadway, and hopped down to tend to his horses.

Opening the off-door, Nutter edged his ancient bones out through the opening, lowering the coach steps as he went. Sir Alexander then emerged, bellowing in a loud voice, “Why have we stopped? I’ve urgent business in Cambridge, damn your eyes, and if these jewels are not delivered before noon tomorrow I’ll nail your hide to the stable door, coachie, by Jupiter I will!”

From their vantage point some ways back and near the trees, Nicholas whispered, dismounting, “Overacting a tad, don’t y’think? Perhaps he’s a frustrated thespian.”

Alix stifled a giggle and only crouched deeper into the weeds to await further developments while Mannering tied their horses to a nearby branch.

Sir Alexander and the coachman then enacted a long, loud scene wherein the coachman pointed out that the off-leader had cast a shoe, and his passenger bellowed that he didn’t give a tinker’s curse about anything other than the fact that “the jewels” be delivered safe to Cambridge, while Nicholas and Alix were kept busy scanning the trees for any sign of the highwaymen.

Mannering judged himself to be a man of good instincts and clear (if limited) eyesight, so he was more infuriated than startled when Harold suddenly appeared at his side with Nicholas never being aware that the Indian was even in the area. Harold and Alix exchanged a few short, guttural phrases—Harold pointing to several different spots in the distance as he spoke—before the Indian lapsed into silence and dropped to balance himself easily on the balls of his feet, his hands wrapped loosely around his knees.

Nicholas looked at Harold in a dispassionate way, turned his head to observe the pseudo-Indian maiden crouched on his left-hand side, and then slowly shook his head. “Wellington would never believe it,” he muttered, almost to himself.

Then Harold’s stomach growled, loudly setting up its protest at being left without food for too long. “What the blue blazes was that!” Nicholas hissed, swearing to himself that the noisy grumbling had been enough to send the sleeping birds winging from the branches above them.

“It was Harold’s stomach,” Alix told him unnecessarily. “Indians always go out hunting on an empty stomach. A full belly makes an Indian careless and lazy.”

“It also makes him damned hard to hide, if that racket keeps up. Throw him a bone to gnaw on or something, will you?”

Alix had no chance to answer as Harold growled something (something rather nasty concerning the character of Mannering’s antecedents, actually) and soundlessly took to his feet and melted away into the trees.

“The man’s spooky, that’s what he is,” Nicholas found himself saying. Then he turned his gaze once more to the roadway, allowing himself to be slightly amused at the sight of Sir Alexander berating his coachman—his mail-covered torso and flailing arms making him look for all the world like a turtle turned on its back.

And then, all of a sudden, it wasn’t so amusing anymore. For just then three riders emerged from the darkness farther down the roadway and began advancing purposefully on the disabled coach squatting across the mad.

“Here we go!” Nicholas rasped, rising to his feet in one swift motion. “You stay here!”