The Heiress of Linn Hagh (4 page)

Without warning, the señora suddenly lifted up her skirts and held out a shapely, stocking-clad leg. Woods nearly choked, then beamed with delight. Even the thief seemed surprised.

‘I have not any rope. Would these stockings bind him?’

‘Thank you, Señora. They’ll help.’ Lavender found it hard to keep a straight face. ‘Mr Finch, can I presume upon you for your belt and cravat? Unfortunately, I cannot move to get my own at the moment.’

The carriage appeared to be slowing down. Mr Finch whipped off his belt, and Doña Magdalena calmly peeled off her stockings and handed them over before replacing her boots.

‘Do we need more?’ she asked.

‘Yes.’

‘
Quitese las medias
,’ she instructed her maid.

‘Well, don’t think I’m going to undress for you, Detective Lavender,’ protested Mistress Finch as the young girl dutifully followed her mistress’ example.

‘I think you English have an expression for times like this, do you not?’ The señora’s voice was light, but Lavender heard the hint of reproach directed at the older woman.

‘You say: “When needs must . . .” ’

‘I think we may have enough now,’ he said as a second pair of warm stockings passed into his hands. ‘Get him on the floor, Woods.’

The other passengers lifted their legs up onto the seats as Woods—with some help from Mr Finch—manhandled the cursing villain onto the narrow stretch of floor that ran between the two doors, and attempted to bind and gag him. Their prisoner ceased struggling abruptly when Doña Magdalena stamped down hard with her boot on the back of his neck. He writhed uncomfortably on the floor beneath them.

Now Lavender reached up and banged once more on the carriage wall behind the drivers. This time the drivers reined in the horses sharply.

‘Let’s hope to God we’ve not left it too late,’ he muttered quietly to Woods, and he passed him the cove’s pistol. He pointed to the far door on the other side of the carriage.

‘Go that way. Identify yourself to the drivers first before you let them see your pistol—or else they’ll shoot you. And if anything starts up—get the brake on and keep those horses calm. The last thing we need is the horses to bolt and overturn the coach.’

Woods nodded grimly and clambered across the prostrate man on the floor, towards the other carriage door.

As the vehicle slowed to a halt, Lavender threw open the door and leapt out. He nearly lost his footing on the muddy ground but steadied himself and moved quickly towards the front of the carriage. The rain lashed down in sheets in front of him, impairing his visibility.

‘I’m Detective Stephen Lavender from Bow Street,’ he yelled up to the drivers. ‘We’ve restrained a man inside the coach—I believe there are toby men lying in wait for us ahead.’

Two white, wet and scared faces stared down at him from the front of the coach. Muffled in scarves and hats against the dreadful weather, the drivers were soaked through. One of them had a blunderbuss in his hands. It was aimed at Lavender.

‘Where’s yer badge of office?’ he growled.

‘My tipstaff is packed in my luggage. You’ll have to believe me. We’re in great danger. There are toby men ahead.’

It was too late. A flash of powder illuminated the forest, and a shot rang out in the night, echoing off the trees. The guard with the blunderbuss was thrown back in his seat as a musket ball tore through his shoulder. He screamed in agony. A horse reared in fright.

Four men on horseback now galloped out of the murky copse of trees where they had been lying in wait.

Lavender fired both barrels of his flintlock pistol. One of the highwaymen fell from the saddle and crashed onto the ground. As Lavender hurried to reload, he heard Woods fire his pistol. He risked a quick glance—a second highwayman slumped forward in his saddle and slid off his horse.

‘Get the blunderbuss!’ he yelled. The unharmed driver never heard him. He was struggling with the terrified horses, which fought to free themselves from their restraints. The coach lurched violently.

One of the riders now bore down on Lavender as his frozen and wet hands fumbled to reload his pistol. He ducked down low behind the flimsy coach door, desperately hoping that it would give him some protection from the shot that would inevitably come his way.

There was not enough time to reload, and his powder was wet. He struggled to seat the balls in the rifling grooves. The horseman pulled up next to the coach and reined in sharply. Laughing viciously, he aimed his pistol straight at Lavender’s head.

Another pistol shot rang out, and Lavender felt the ball singe the top of his hair. A woman screamed.

For one brief, horrifying moment, he thought his attacker had missed him and shot someone behind him in the coach, but there had been no powder flash. The next second, the highwayman collapsed forwards in his saddle. His pistol slid from his fingers and fell into the mud. The steaming horse began to prance beneath the inert body. Casting aside his own useless weapon, Lavender bent down, dodged the flailing hooves of the beast and retrieved the fallen gun. Stepping back, he watched in a trance as the robber slid slowly down the flanks of the horse and landed with a thud on the soft ground. The man lay still, dead.

Lavender glanced around quickly. The fourth horseman was now fleeing back into the shadows of the forest. They had shot three between them and the fourth had fled. The sound of galloping hooves faded away. Lavender’s ears strained against the blackness of the night for more sounds of danger. He heard women sobbing in the lurching coach behind him; the frantic thrashing of the harnesses and bridles; Woods and the coachman shouting to the horses as they fought to steady them.

Two still, blackened lumps on the road revealed the whereabouts of the first two men they had shot, and the third sagged in a heap a few feet away from him. A few tense minutes and it was all over. But who had brought down the cove that lay on the ground before him?

He moved cautiously over towards the prostrate man. The glimmering light from the lanterns in the coach enabled him to see the small hole in the man’s forehead and the trickle of blood that seeped down over his mask. Sharply, he turned back to the heaving vehicle.

Magdalena Morales stood in the doorway of the coach, supporting herself with one hand on the doorjamb. In the other, she held a small, pearl-handled pistol. A wisp of smoke still curled from its barrel.

Chapter Four

W
hen their carriage finally rattled over the cobbles under the archway of the courtyard of The Bell Inn, it was nearly two hours late. The concerned landlord and ostlers poured out of the inn and stables to assist them.

From his perch on the seat on the top of the coach, Lavender disarmed his pistol and allowed himself a sigh of relief. During the desperate dash to safety on the final leg of their journey, he and Woods had travelled on the outside of the coach with reloaded pistols. Woods had been seated beside the uninjured driver, to render him assistance with the horses.

As the carriage had sped frantically through the last of the forest, Lavender’s nerves had been raw. He was mud spattered, shivering and soaked to the skin. Yet despite his physical and mental exhaustion, his mind had still churned. His eyes strained against the darkness for further signs of danger. He glanced sharply from side to side, barely blinking. It wasn’t until they had seen the welcoming lights of the small town of Barnby Moor, glimmering ahead, that he had allowed himself to believe they would actually make it safely to their beds that night.

They had left the dead highwaymen and the still-bound man from Newark under a tree by the side of the road for later collection by the militia. The injured driver was bleeding badly from his shoulder wound and urgently needed the attention of a surgeon. They had placed him gently inside the coach, where Doña Magdalena had done her best to try to staunch the flow of blood.

When the story of the attack rippled around the crowd gathered by the coach, they became indignant and vociferous in their disgust and horror. Frantic hands reached up to help out the injured driver.

Lavender climbed down stiffly from the vehicle and moved to the coach door. Both Mr and Mistress Fitch needed his help to dismount; the elderly man looked very frail. Mistress Finch had fainted at the first sound of gunfire, and each time the Spanish maid had brought her round with the smelling salts, the woman had rambled deliriously and fainted again. She sobbed with relief as Lavender helped her negotiate the steps down from the carriage.

Magdalena’s gloved hand rested in his, and he glanced up at her framed in the doorway of the coach. Her cloak was stained with the coachman’s blood, and wisps of black hair had escaped from their pins and hung limply around her pale face. Yet when her dark eyes met his, she smiled warmly, and that spark of mutual understanding and attraction flashed between them again. He guided her down the steps to the safety of the courtyard and didn’t release her hand.

‘You saved us, Detective,’ she said simply.

‘I wish to dine with you tonight, madam,’ he blurted out, in perfect Spanish, ‘preferably in a private dining room.’

She flinched slightly from the force of his demand and raised her eyebrows, but her smile never wavered.

‘
Por supuesto
,’ she replied. ‘The hero of the hour must have his reward.’

‘And so should the woman who saved my life. I’ll call at your chamber at nine and escort you to dinner.’

She laughed, then turned sharply and swept majestically across the shining, wet cobbles towards the inn door, trailing her maid behind her. She had not turned him down, he noted. He didn’t know what was more surprising: his own unusual forcefulness or the fact that she had not slapped his face. His spirits rose, and he began to look forward to a cosy tête-à-tête over a pot roast with the feisty Spanish señora.

‘Detective Lavender?’ It was George Clark, the landlord. His hand was outstretched in greeting. ‘Thank the Lord you and your man were on board this carriage tonight! God only knows what would have happened if you had not been there to help.’

Lavender shook his hand, exchanged a few words and passed on a request for the local militia to be summoned. Only then did he allow himself to be led into the warmth of the inn. He joined Woods in front of the blazing fire in a private parlour and stripped off his soaking coat and hat. These were whisked away by a maid for drying. Another servant pressed a glass of brandy into his hand.

He drank it off in one gulp. As the amber liquid burnt the back of his throat and the flames of the blazing fire licked his frozen skin with warmth, he stopped shivering and felt the numbness recede. The barmaid refilled his glass.

Lavender caught Woods’ eye. He raised his glass in a silent toast to a job well done. Woods followed his lead. They had defeated the toby men and lived to tell the tale. The fiery liquid flashed like jewels as the two men clinked their glasses in mutual appreciation of what they had achieved.

‘I were worried for a bit,’ Woods confessed. ‘Four of them on horseback and only three of us left able to shoot a gun after the driver were winged. For a moment or two, I thought our days might be numbered.’

‘Oh, we were never in any danger,’ Lavender joked lightly. ‘There were more than three of us with weapons tonight.’

Woods glanced at him quizzically. Lavender smiled and quietly told Woods how Magdalena had shot the highwayman at close range when his own weapon had failed him.

Woods raised an eyebrow.

‘My Gawd! I realised the Spanish filly had a bit of spirit and a fine leg—but I never thought she would turn out to be an accomplished markswoman. Where did she learn to shoot like that, I wonder?’

‘I intend to find out tonight. I’m dining with her at nine.’

‘I’d proceed with caution if I were you, sir—and disarm her first—the señora seems to have a fine temper to go with her excellent marksmanship. Check she doesn’t have another pistol in her boots.’

Lavender drained his glass and smiled.

‘As always, Ned, you’re full of helpful advice about the ladies.’

He had asked for a bath to be drawn in his room and was anxious to climb into it and remove his sodden clothes, but there was something still niggling him.

‘Have you ever heard of the name Magdalena Morales before? I feel I should know it.’

Woods shook his head. ‘No—but I dare say, I’ll never forget it now.’

They were prevented from any further conversation by the arrival of the local constable and the captain of the militia. Both seemed competent and listened gravely as Lavender and Woods recounted their version of events. The militia were instantly dispatched to bring in the prisoner they had left in the forest and to collect the dead bodies. A surgeon was sent for to treat the injured coachman, who was expected to live.

Relieved that others had now taken responsibility for the situation, Lavender went for his bath, then dressed with care in his finest breeches and frock coat. His cravat and shirt were crumpled from their journey in his trunk, but he doubted Magdalena would worry about that. The clothes of all travellers—including hers, no doubt—were usually patterned with a complicated array of creases. He imagined her in her own room, haranguing her maid to smooth her gown, pass her perfume and fasten her stays. Not too tightly, he hoped.

The maid greeted him at the bedchamber door and modestly averted her eyes. Both women had also bathed it seemed; he caught a glimpse of a tin bath of tepid water, still standing in a corner of the large room. The maid’s skin was scorched pink like a lobster’s. Magdalena glowed radiantly as he bowed over her hand. She smiled, took his proffered arm and let him lead her downstairs to the back parlour, which had been set aside for them.

The maid trailed silently behind them. Magdalena sent her to alert the tavern staff that they awaited their supper, and Lavender asked the girl to bring back a bottle of the tavern’s best Madeira.

As the door closed, he allowed his eyes to feast once more on the flawless beauty of the woman who had saved his life. The deep golden skin of her arms and throat reflected back the hues of the blazing wood of the fire. She was in the prime of her life, probably about thirty years old, with a body and features unblemished by disease or childbearing. She had abandoned the sombre mantilla she had worn at supper yesterday. Now her hair was held in place by a tortoiseshell peineta. Her damson velvet gown was heavily embroidered and decorated with seed pearls; it flowed out luxuriously from her small waist over her plentiful hips.