To Wed A Rebel (31 page)

“I will be seeing you soon,” said Isaac softly, caring little for their audience or all the eyes on them, as the rope bit into his wrists. “I love you, Ruth. You do know that?”

“I do,” she answered, managing a smile for him alone.

Isaac was led away, across the damp sand that turned to hard soil. By the time the midday sun had reached its peak, he was a free man. Lottie’s explanation, along with one from the coachman, liberated him. There was no mention of William and Isaac knew better than to ask.

In the days to come, they learnt of the man’s fate.

Chapter Four

Ruth

A trial was to be held for William Darwick when the harvest festival was through, on the last day of September. Although Isaac had not spoken of his plans, Ruth knew them. Cider and celebration, lax guards and a busy town were opportunities too good to miss. Almost everyone was in attendance, with servants given the night off and the high-born mingling with the low. Even Colin had been seen talking to Simms of all people – seeking advice on peacock rearing – for rules were forgotten tonight.

The bonds between the two branches of the Roscoe line had been all but mended. A decision had been made to hand the farmhouse over to Isaac, both by Lady Mawes and Colin. Although Isaac had not been fully reformed, for he could always find trouble if he wished, he was a good man, and all for the love of a good woman. With no heir to Trewince Manor, Isaac stood to inherit. Though it took some persuasion to get him to accept, the matter was settled.

But it was hard to be happy while Death waited on the doorstep.

The air smelt like spices as twilight fell on the Cornish scene of celebration, harkening back to an older time, with ancient beliefs and half-forgotten rituals. Autumn had claimed the landscape and Ruth felt it in the mists that rose each morning and saw it in the copper leaves that danced their way down from the trees. The garden was breathing its last, but next year there would be honeysuckle growing up one side of the house and lavender by the gate, as she had always wanted.

Ruth and her husband gave half-hearted greetings to neighbours, congratulated the organisers on such a grand event and then, when privacy could be sought in an empty doorway, Ruth tried to speak. Isaac beat her to it.

“I am honour-bound to help William, for he would do – and has done – the same for me.”

“And if you fail?”

“I would rather fail than see him hang,” said Isaac, and she knew he was right, as much as she hated it. “I have made arrangements with Lady Mawes; you will be cared for.”

After all they had done and all they had survived, to have it end this way felt like defeat. But she loved him and she trusted him and would forgive him anything.

“I will not let you go alone.”

“
Ruth.
”

A cheer rang out from the tavern across the road. Its door was wide open and strung with decorations, and sounds of merriment drifted from it. One familiar voice, however, was louder and more jovial than the rest.

Ruth met her husband’s incredulous gaze. The pair rapidly crossed the lane and were hit by the warmth of assembled bodies and a large fire. There, in amongst a crowd of Navy boys, was William.

The moment he saw the two Roscoes, he lifted his cup and slurred what would have been a toast, had he been able to talk with any eloquence. Watts, the man Ruth had encountered at the harbour, told them everything. About how the charge had been overthrown hours ago following a new investigation, communications from London, and testimonies from other sailors. Naturally, William had intended to tell his concerned friends, but had promised to have at least one drink with those individuals who had played a part in his newfound freedom. One drink had turned into many.

“Honestly, if he carries on like this, he’ll drink himself into the early grave he’s just escaped,” Ruth found herself saying, a large grin in place. Her knuckles brushed the back of Isaac’s hand. “Go on, keep him out of trouble.”

Isaac needed no further encouragement as he joined the sailors, who had begun to sing a lewd song that only the seafarers knew. Stood to the side, content, Captain Gibson soon approached Ruth. He seemed slightly nervous, as though something else was on his mind.

“Thank you,” she said to him, finding herself oddly placed. Gradually, she had become the one who others went to, sought out, spoke to at parties or events. The one who could be relied upon, her quiet, stoic nature no longer a disadvantage now that she had found people who appreciated it.

“Justice was served. I did nothing.”

“You acted far better than many others would in your position, without pride or malice.”

Captain Gibson nodded in thanks, before he asked, “Tell me, how is Mrs Charlotte Pembroke?”

Ruth did her best to keep her features neutral. “She is as well as can be expected.” The mourning process was rather distressing to Lottie, for she loathed black and hated to miss a party. The knowledge that everyone she knew was out and about celebrating tonight had tied her up in knots. And she had
so
wanted to dance with the captain again.

“Would you let her know that she is being thought of?”

“I shall.”

Ruth leant back against the uneven cob of the tavern wall, eyes closed, listening to the merriment. If time could stand still, she would have this moment. Lock it in amber, keep it for ever, to revisit whenever she needed. Tonight was almost perfect. Almost. She felt, rather than saw, Isaac approach. A clumsy kiss, laced with cider, was planted on her lips.

“You’re drunk.”

His hands found her waist, mouth against her cheek. “And you’re not, Mrs Roscoe.” A devilish smile broke down any resistance in her. “Can I tempt you with a drink?”

“Yes, sir, I believe you can.”

He did not move away or break their contact, not yet, as he studied her.

And she loved him, as foolish as he was, as stubborn, as fearless and reckless.

Gentle words left him, a confession. “I worked so hard for so long, took so many risks, all to find a place to call my own, to have a real home.”

“I know.”

“You don’t understand,” said Isaac, leaving a kiss on the corner of her mouth. “I had already found it long ago, only I was too much of a fool to realise it.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s you, Ruth,” he said. “It’s always been you.”

If you loved
To Wed a Rebel
, turn the page for an exclusive chapter from Sophie Dash’s debut novel

Unmasking of a Lady

Chapter One

A pistol snapped in the night, a glimmer in the darkness. A horse was covered in a sheen of sweat as it ploughed onwards, hooves hammering on the ground with such a force as could summon thunder. The cool air crept up the rider’s sleeves and under the collar of her ill-fitting jacket, nipping at any exposed skin, as Harriet Groves fled.

She had not meant tonight to go as it had. The mayor’s carriage should have been an easy target, but there had been a man waiting for her, waiting for the highwayman who haunted the Wessex roads.

It begun as it always did – protests, shock, fear and overdressed aristocracy forced to part with their jewels and finery. It was her maidservant, Mary, who sounded the alarm, before a stranger’s weapon was fired. Harriet felt the shot pass between inches of her concealed face, burying itself into a tree trunk at her side with a heavy thud. She turned to the man who had fired it, movements fast, catlike. No one had ever tracked her down before.

From the coach’s swaying lantern she saw his strong, tall frame, the light casting shadows across his features – obscuring them from sight. There was no doubt that he had been waiting for them, had anticipated them. She could feel his eyes on her, boring through her skin, her heart skittering beneath her breast as though a sparrow were trapped behind it, shedding feathers in her lungs.

Harriet brought up her own pistol, halting him in his tracks, stopping him from reloading. Ever since she had first begun this terrible business, she had dreaded this moment. The night she would have to kill a man. Somewhere nearby an owl shrieked, a fox cried out, the branches above raked one another in the night. It was all dulled to Harriet as the blood rushed in her ears, though her hand remained steady and her resolve was hard.

“If you’re going to fire, damn you, fire,” the stranger growled, steeling himself for it, for death.

Harriet never uttered a word in response, though she wanted to – an apology, perhaps – but speech would give her away, for a woman’s voice would undo all her hard work.

She fired, purposely aiming far above his head, before dashing towards woodland cover. She ran as fast as her feet would carry her, ignoring the brambles that clawed at her ankles and the low branches that swiped at her head. Another distant shot snarled somewhere behind her, giving chase, driving her onwards. She climbed onto her waiting horse with a practised motion, before following her maidservant down a different track. She rode deep into the shadows as though the Devil himself were on her trail. For all she knew, he was.

The green leather mask across Harriet’s face cut into her cheeks, her identity further obscured by a wide-brimmed hat, giving her the guise of a man. All who encountered her and her pistol, on the dark Cotswolds roads and traders’ paths, thought of her as such.

They rode hard and long until dawn tinged the horizon a light navy, as though the sky had run out of ink at the edges. The pair slowed, deeming themselves safe and near home, hearts beating ferociously, skin prickling with perspiration.

“How dare he? Who
was
he?”

“I don’t know, miss,” said Mary, as rattled as she was.

“We need to be more careful; our targets have been too obvious.” She wrenched off her mask, catching her blonde hair with it. “This shouldn’t have happened.”

A narrow manor house loomed in the distance, a dark smudge nestled beneath a low hill. The night-scented stock in the garden’s borders pervaded her senses, along with the crisp, cool morning dew. It was calming. She had played in this garden as a child, had wrestled with her brother, made play at duels with sticks for swords, until she grew up and times became hard and all the pretence became reality.

The slow journey down to the vast property was quiet and disturbed only by chattering birds, awake and alive and happy to be so. The moon was still out – a slim stroke set into endless blue. Harriet breathed it all in – home, morning, life. It was almost enough to erase the dangers and troubles that had plagued both women that night – almost, though not quite.

Harriet’s maidservant, Mary, kept her mistress’s mare still as she climbed from it, pulling her own scarf from her nose and mouth.

“I didn’t even see the pistol ’til he had it, Miss Groves,” she began, equally shaken. “Didn’t hear him. I should’ve – ”

“No, Mary,” interrupted Harriet, holding her maidservant’s shoulders tightly. “We’ve not been cautious enough. We have snatched up the wrong attention and should count ourselves lucky the shot did not hit us or the horses.” Lucky that whoever that man was, whoever had been watching them, tracking them and waiting to strike, had only fired in warning. “Take them to the stables and get some sleep. I will not need you today.”

“But, miss, the trip into Bath, the ball – ”

“You need to rest; you look exhausted.” She smiled kindly, taking their loot from the other woman as it was handed to her, and stuffed into a small satchel. “I can dress myself for one morning.”

The maidservant nodded, eyeing the stolen goods, mouth bracketed by hard lines. “I don’t like having it in the house. It’s too dangerous.” She was a sensible individual, older than Harriet, with a boyish figure, dark features and unwavering loyalty. Her parents had worked for Harriet’s family, as had their parents before them.

“No one will find it in my rooms, for no one would dare search them. We are safe, I promise you that. If we try to sell all we have taken now, we will be caught. We’ll wait a few months, try it with our usual contacts, like always.”

Mary nodded, seeing the logic though she did not look convinced, and hesitating as she took up the horse’s reins.

“We are safe,” repeated Harriet, as she attempted to stifle a yawn. The sun was rising up beside the grounds, its soft glow erasing the sins that had passed that night, warming her bones. It would be a beautiful summer’s day. “Everyone thinks the Green Highwayman to be exactly that, a man. No one would ever suspect Harriet Groves of Atworth House.”

***

The following morning was a whirl of movement – boxes were bundled onto a borrowed carriage set up for the journey, the house was alive with activity and Harriet soldiered through it all with tired eyes and a mind haunted by the figure she had met on the road towards Bristol.

“When can I go to a ball, Harry?” The question and a heavy pout came from her younger sister, Ellen, who was none too pleased at being left behind. She bore a strong resemblance to her older sister, with fair hair, sharp features and eyes as green as the nearby meadows. A spaniel followed dutifully behind, chancing a lick at the young girl’s hand whenever it strayed within muzzle distance. “It’s not fair, I want to see the dresses, that’s all.” Ellen clung to Harriet’s wrist and was subsequently pulled along to their father’s study. The young girl was growing fast, though she was still barely fifteen. “Please, Harry?”

“When you are little older,” answered the girl’s father, affection in his voice. Stout, grey and far too lenient, Mr Jacob Groves was once again buried in a newspaper – or at least, he pretended to be, for Harriet noticed the letter he had quickly covered up on his lap, though she kept her thoughts to herself. Mr Groves pulled his gaze up for long enough to catch the attention of his eldest daughter, Harriet, his expression growing a little sterner. “Try to enjoy yourself or I’ll have your aunt extremely cross with me again.”

Harriet’s expression was exactly the same as her sister’s for the moment. “I swear, she wants to introduce me to every single eligible bachelor in the country.”

“And has not one been a match for you?”