The Highwayman's Daughter (2 page)

‘Did you see what I saw?’ Rupert whispered as if he feared the highwayman would still be around to overhear them.

‘What would that be, cousin?’

‘It was a woman. I’m telling you, I saw it as clear as day. No boy has curves like that.’

At the mention of curves Jack felt his blood fizzing, but tried to appear nonchalant. ‘Yes, I noticed it too. It still doesn’t change the fact that she nearly had you stripped of your breeches. In fact, if I’m not mistaken, she seemed to be enjoying your discomfiture.’

‘Yes, indeed. Accursed female! That waistcoat was brand new. Cost me twenty guineas in Bond Street.’

Cost my father twenty guineas,
Jack thought, but wisely kept that comment to himself. ‘A great loss, to be sure,’ he said.

‘You didn’t fare much better,’ Rupert scoffed. ‘Look at your hair.’ He smirked at the sight of Jack’s shortened tresses, which now reached no further than his jawbone. Then his expression darkened again. ‘And you had her shoot a hole in my hat. Whatever for? It’s no good to me now. I shall have to get a new one.’ Sulking, Rupert worked his finger through the hole, fraying the delicate fabric further and rendering a salvageable hat completely useless.

‘I was trying to save your dignity, cousin. It clearly didn’t work.’

‘Nothing would satisfy me except to see that strumpet hang,’ grumbled Rupert. ‘Say, what do you reckon we give the authorities a helping hand? There’s bound to be a reward for catching this thief.’

‘Naturally, we’ll tell the magistrate what we know.’

‘I have a better idea.’ Rupert grinned. ‘How about a wager?’

‘A wager?’ Jack’s eyebrows rose.

‘A hundred guineas. To the one who catches the girl first. She shouldn’t be that difficult to find. What do you say?’

Jack hesitated. He hadn’t forgotten the sword against his throat and the promptness with which she had reacted. She was armed to the teeth and would be dangerous. Nor did he agree with Rupert’s assertion that she would be easy to find. He had an inkling that this woman knew how to cover her tracks expertly, and very likely she conducted her daily business in the obscurest and most humble of circumstances away from prying eyes.

There was another important consideration though – any wager Rupert entered into would involve Jack’s father’s money. He could either stand by and let Rupert lose the money in anonymous gaming hells or he could try to ensure that it stayed in the family. Whatever he did, he would have to face his father’s disapproval – a prospect he didn’t particularly relish.

Thus torn, he recalled the flinty eyes behind the mask and the woman’s pretty mouth, as well as his wounded pride that a female had bested him. The hunt would be a diverting challenge, and most importantly it would keep his cousin occupied in a more worthy pursuit than gambling away the Blythe family fortune.

He secretly acknowledged that it would also be a pleasure to steal a kiss from those luscious lips before handing the culprit over to the authorities. Although why he should want to do any such thing, he had no idea. He normally preferred his women small and biddable, nothing like the virago they’d encountered tonight. But he had no doubt that he would be the one to apprehend her, not Rupert. Certain elements were bound to give her away – it was clear, even when she was sitting on her horse, ramrod straight, that she was as tall as most men. And there was her voice too. He wondered if Rupert had noticed these things as well, but if he hadn’t, it would give Jack an advantage.

‘Very well, I’ll take you up on it. A hundred guineas it is.’

They continued the rest of the journey in silence, lost in thought, and Jack ignored the calculating look which spread across his cousin’s handsome features. This time he was determined to have the upper hand.

Cora rode the horse hard until she reached the edge of the forest; then she slipped under the cover of the trees and waited to see if she was being followed. She didn’t think it very likely: the coach horses would have to be unharnessed first, which would take time, and unless other riders had chanced upon the coach and volunteered to pursue the robber, she thought herself quite safe. Still, she waited behind the trunk of a large oak tree, her heart thumping in her chest as it always did when she had held up a coach.

There was no sound of pursuit, no hooves beating, no angry cries. In fact there were no sounds at all if you discounted the flapping wings and affronted squawking of a pheasant she had startled.

Forcing herself to breathe calmly, she untied the black mask from her face and slid it into her saddlebag. The blunderbuss too, as far as it would go; then she covered the handle with her cloak. The sack with the loot from the robbery hung from the pommel on her saddle, and she loosened it, and hid it safely away in her other saddlebag. Her father would know what she had been up to if he saw the mask and the blunderbuss, and she found it difficult to face his quiet disapproval, which stung far more than a thorough tongue-lashing might have done.

It was hard to explain to him that she did it for his sake. It was the only way she could make sure he ate properly; and the cough syrup she would buy to alleviate his cough was a luxury they could not afford otherwise. In truth, Ned had never asked for it, as he never asked for anything, and would instead take her to task for fussing, but it was the one thing she could do for him. Whatever lengths she had to go to, she was determined to do so as long as there was breath in her body.

There was another reason her heart was hammering in her chest. The encounter with the men from the coach had rattled her or, more specifically, her encounter with one of them.

The quiet one.
The handsome one.
The one who had felt the steel of her blade without so much as batting an eyelid. He had nearly outwitted her. She recalled how he had reached for his pistol the moment she had made the mistake of putting a bullet through the other man’s hat. There had been a calculating gleam in his eye, as if he had known all along she would fall for the trick and he was just waiting to shoot her in the belly. Not that he would be the sort of man who would do that. Only a cruel man would shoot a person in the belly instead of the head or heart so the victim would suffer a slow, agonising death. Somehow, she was sure he was not like that.

Definitely a gentleman. Unlike the other man. But then, who was she to criticise? It wasn’t as if she behaved in a very gentlemanly fashion herself, in her guise as a youth. Robbing definitely wouldn’t be considered good manners, that was for certain.

You’ve got to be more careful,
she admonished herself with a shudder. Who would be there to look after Ned if something happened to her? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Her eyes fell on the object she had stuffed into her coat pocket. The man’s queue. It looked like an undulating hairy adder. Amusement pulled at the corners of her mouth. If only she could recapture the look on his face when she had sheared it off, his utter outrage and humiliation. Unlike most of his peers he wore no wig, and the hair was tied with a plush velvet ribbon. She was willing to wager that he had been mightily proud of it.

The thought made her smile, but then she sobered. It had been a stupid thing to do. Childish and unnecessary. What if it made him determined to hunt her down? She shuddered. She should have stuck with her original purpose. Everything else she had acquired tonight had monetary value. The waistcoat and trinkets she could sell, and the blunderbuss she would trade for a weapon which was more useful for hunting small animals in the forest. But the cut-off queue was of no use to her and she ought to get rid of it straight away. For some reason she found herself unable to part with it though. Instead, on impulse, she lifted it to her nose and breathed in his scent. The hair smelt of tobacco and sandalwood soap, inherently masculine, as well as a fragrance Cora had never encountered before, something intrinsically
him
.

Closing her eyes, she wondered briefly if the dark curls on his chest, which she had spied through his open shirt, were just as soft as the hair she held in her hand. Then she yanked it away from her face, horrified at the direction her thoughts were taking her. What was the matter with her?

She had grown up in a community of farm labourers. Talk was often coarse and of an explicit nature; she had seen horses and other farm animals mate and men work in nothing but their breeches when the weather was hot. She knew what happened between a man and a woman, but it was the thought that one day a man, someone as handsome and fine as the one she had encountered earlier, might do the same to her which sent her blood racing and made her catch her breath.

She checked herself when she suddenly remembered the way his searching eyes had run across her face. Would he be able to recognise her without her mask? The thought sent shivers down her spine, and the gelding stirred beneath her. But no, she was always careful to keep the heart-shaped birthmark on her cheek hidden and she didn’t think anything else would give her away. He’d just unsettled her; that was all.

She ran her hand down the horse’s neck. The gelding was of uncertain breed, and she’d had him from when he was a foal; he’d been a present from her father’s close friend Gentleman George, who was currently in Newgate Prison waiting to be hanged for highway robbery. Sighing, she wished there was something she could do to repay George’s kindness to her then, and ever since.

He hadn’t wanted for well-wishers in prison, though. Probably something to do with the rumour that he had money stashed away from his robberies. The thought made her smile; she knew George better than almost anyone and wouldn’t be surprised if he’d started the rumour himself, to inflate his own exploits. It would be just like him to do such a thing.

She turned and headed for home, as always amazed at the way the horse seemed to understand what she wanted before she had given a command. The horse reacted to even the slightest pressure from her knees and appeared to sense her mood as well. Right now he probably felt her confusion, and she patted him reassuringly.

‘You did well back there, Samson.’

He neighed and tossed his head impatiently.

‘Yes, you’re right. It’s time we were on our way.’

She told herself not to worry about being recognised. It was dark; she had been wearing a mask and a tricorne hat. There was no way the man could identify her. Besides there was no reason why it should even occur to him that the person behind the mask was a woman.

Resolutely she slung the severed queue over a branch of an oak tree and turned her horse to leave; then snatched it back almost immediately and tucked it inside her shirt, refusing to dwell on why she found it so difficult to let go. Perhaps it was best not to think about such matters too deeply.

What she did know was that the fine gentleman had damn well nearly shot her, and she had no doubt he wouldn’t hesitate to try again should the opportunity present itself.

She was shaken awake at daybreak.

‘Cora, it’s time.’

Her father stood over her, already dressed and ready for the day’s hay-making. When he saw she was awake, he nodded, satisfied, and left the room. If he had noticed that she had fallen asleep in her clothes yet again, he chose not to comment.

Swinging her legs out of bed, Cora went to the wash stand, where Ned had left the ewer filled with water, and washed herself carefully, cleaning off last night’s dust. She hoped that Ned had been completely asleep when she returned and had not heard her scramble through the window into the small room at the back of the cottage, which she had to herself. Her father didn’t hold with her nocturnal activities as a young highwayman.

The room was tiny and sparsely furnished with a narrow cot, the wash stand and an old chest, which contained Cora’s meagre belongings. It smelt stuffy and of the musty hay in her mattress, and she opened the shutter to let in the fragrant July air.

Her family had moved to this part of England from the northern counties when Cora was nine. Within a year her mother had died, and Ned had vacated the only bedroom in their cramped labourer’s cottage, insisting that she would soon be a young lady in need of privacy. He slept on the wooden bench in the main room of the cottage. Cora had objected, saying that she was happy on the bench, but Ned had remained firm.

In hindsight it had been a good decision, at least in winter time: Ned was closer to the fire, and, although it was banked down at night, Cora was confident that the warmth helped soothe her father’s rheumatism and alleviate his cough a fraction.

It cut through her as she heard him hack and rasp through the thin wall, and she scrambled into an old dress visibly worn at the elbows and hem, and a grey smock. Grabbing her oversized linen bonnet, she entered the main room just as her father was overcome by another fit of coughing. His bony shoulders, protruding through his simple workman’s shirt, shook violently as he tried to subdue the spasms in his chest.

‘Father!’ she said, startled by the violence of his coughing. ‘Are you feeling worse this morning?’ She rushed to his side, but he dismissed her concerns with an impatient wave of his hand.

‘I’m well enough. Don’t fuss so.’

Cora’s heart wrenched. When did he get to be so thin? Her father’s condition was worsening, and it seemed to be happening right before her eyes. She resolved to visit the apothecary’s in town as soon as possible, now that she had enough coin.

‘Here.’ He placed a bowl of gruel in her hands. ‘Eat up. We must be on our way soon. Hay-making waits for no man. We’ve got the whole of the western field to do today.’

Cora did as she was told and sat at the rough wooden table to eat her breakfast. Ned busied himself with preparing their lunch, hunks of cheese, bread and some dried meat, which he wrapped in a piece of cloth, and a canteen of water. All the while he regarded her intently, and Cora felt herself squirm under his stare.

‘Where were you last night?’ he asked.

Cora’s head snapped up. So he had heard her climb in through the window after all. Or maybe he had heard Samson fretting impatiently for his reward. She had taken care to dismount away from the cottage and had led the horse by the bridle back to the rickety shelter that served as a stable, but Samson had refused to be quiet until he had been fed and rubbed down.

‘Your saddle hung over the beam the other way around to yesterday,’ he said in answer to her unvoiced question.

Cora chewed her lip and tried to think of a plausible story. She had used them all by now.

I couldn’t sleep.
Why take the horse?

I decided to go for a ride.
In the night?

Old Faith was dying and the family asked me to sit with her.
You should’ve told me, I’d have come with you.

Eliza thought her baby was coming and asked me to watch little Meg.

She was running out of ideas, and she had a sneaking suspicion that Ned wasn’t fooled for a minute anyway.

Lowering her eyes in what she hoped was a suitably chaste manner, she said, ‘I had a rendezvous.’

At that Ned threw his head back and laughed out loud. ‘My daughter taking an interest in a lad …? That’ll be the day.’ He turned serious again and fixed her with a penetrating stare. ‘All right, have it your way. Just so you know, what you’re doing is dangerous. Very dangerous. And if anything should happen to you …’ He left the sentence hanging, but Cora heard him loud and clear.

They spoke no further on the subject but hurried out of the door as soon as Cora had finished the breakfast. Hastily she pinned up her hair and donned her bonnet. Remembering Ned’s warning, she debated whether to confess what had happened last night, but then thought better of it. It would only worry her father, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.

Lord Heston’s estate lay two miles to the east of the forest, and about twenty men and women were already gathered on the edge of the field by the time Cora and Ned arrived. Lord Heston and his eldest son, Kit, a handsome lad of Cora’s own age, were there to oversee the hay-making, as well as the estate foreman. The young man was looking at the group of high-spirited young women, fascinated it seemed, but when Cora went to join them, she felt his eyes on her, and her face grew hot under his scrutiny. She kept her eyes averted.

At the centre of the group was Mary Collins. ‘Mark my words,’ she was saying to the other girls, ‘I intend to make him my husband.’

Her confident words made the others giggle. As the most beautiful girl in the village, with her peachy skin, cornflower-blue eyes and thick blonde hair, Mary was used to attracting the attention of men, and it was clear that the young master had noticed her.

‘What makes you so sure he’ll have you?’ asked one of the other girls. ‘Rich people marry their own kind.’

Mary ran her fingers through her hair and then tied her bonnet under her chin with studied care, the way a lady might do. ‘Money isn’t everything,’ she said confidently. ‘These fine families need fresh blood from time to time. They can’t keep marrying simpering milksops all of them. And there’s love too.’

Cora couldn’t resist. ‘Oh, is that the kind of love which lands you with a child in your belly and nothing for your trouble?’

Mary sent her a look of irritation. ‘Well, if it isn’t Miss High and Mighty, who thinks herself above marrying any man. Are you suggesting that I’m not good enough for the likes of him?’

‘Not me.’ Cora shook her head. ‘It’s the likes of him that are saying you’re not good enough.’

‘Well, we’ll see about that. I don’t intend to spend the rest of my life toiling in the fields all day with barely enough to live on.’

‘You’d best keep your voice down, Mary,’ said the other girl warningly, ‘lest you want his lordship hearing you speak out of turn.’

‘Pah,’ Mary spat, but she said nothing further on the subject.