The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (16 page)

“That is precisely why I want her. Besides, you're not going to live past the next few minutes. Say your prayers, Stafford, and say them quickly.”

“Murder!” Dorothea screamed. “Somebody help us!”

Rand removed his attention just long enough for Walter to whip out his hidden pistol. “I have earned myself another reward,” he exulted, “and rid England of another vermin.” Extending his pistol arm toward Rand, he ordered him to throw his weapon to the ground.

“Shoot him!” urged Dorothea. “That bloody bastard is worth the same dead or alive!”

Elizabeth gaped at her stepmother, but she understood Dorothea's desperation. It was the same desperation that had caused Father to lay last night's trap. What fools they were to think that Rand would betray her. She hadn't betrayed him, had she?
Had she?

Walter cocked the trigger on his pistol. Almost negligently, Rand kicked his booted foot against Walter's arm. The pistol flew free and skittered across the ground, its discharge swallowed by meadows and copses and spreading sky.

“You'll have to do better than that,” said Rand. “If you think to challenge me, make it worth my time.”

He turned to Elizabeth, who shook from head to toe. The death of a lover might be a staple in her novels, but in real life the possibility was decidedly unnerving.

“Pick up Lord Stafford's pistol, Miss Wyndham. Then take all jewelry and purses, please. And that snuffbox. It looks as if it might be worth a few guineas.”

“You can't mean to do his bidding,” Walter huffed.

“I'm in no position to argue, my lord. Dorothea, I believe you have some earbobs and a bracelet stuffed down your bodice.”

“After they hang you, they'll disembowel you and shave off all that pretty black hair. Then they'll dip your body in tar before they chain you in irons.” Dorothea's words were directed at Rand, but her gaze remained fixed on Elizabeth.

“Do be quiet, Dorothea,” Elizabeth warned. “You'll provoke the highwayman and that could prove dangerous, if not imprudent.”

Elizabeth retrieved her stepmother's valuables, then ran her hands rapidly over Walter's clothing and through his pockets. He spread his arms, inviting her frisk. At the same time, his eyes shot daggers. Did he disbelieve her ploy of helplessness?

“Very good, Miss Wyndham,” said Rand. “Please place the items in my saddlebag.”

After she had complied, he lifted her arm, caressed her wrist with his thumb, and kissed her palm.

“You scoundrel,” she said, feigning anger. “As you know, my fiancé is a justice of the peace and he was once a bounty hunter. If you steal me away, he will hunt us down.”

“No doubt,” Rand murmured, wrapping her hand around a rope. “Take this and return to your companions, Miss Wyndham. Now, tie the foul-mouthed lady to the coachman.”

“I'll have your hide for this, Turpin!” Walter shouted. “I'll make certain you're whipped senseless before we hang you.”

“Empty threats.” Rand's expression hardened as he directed his attention, and his pistol, once again at Walter. “I have a vengeful memory, and a long one. A life for a life, Stafford. Yours for Zak Turnbull's.”

“What are you doing?” Elizabeth rushed back and clung to his stirrup. “You can't really mean to kill him.”

Leaning over in his saddle, Rand whispered, “You're supposed to be afraid of me, remember? You're not supposed to tell me what I can or cannot do.”

She positioned her back to the others. “I don't care. You cannot murder a person in cold blood, even if he deserves it. I told Dorothea and my Aunt Lilith that you had murdered no one.”

“A bald-faced lie, my love. I was once a soldier.”

“Rand, please!”

“Keep your voice down, Bess. You'll ruin everything.”

“Tell Walter you've listened to my heartfelt pleas and have decided to spare him because you can't stand to see a woman in distress.”

“A
beautiful
woman in distress.”

“I'm warning you, Rand Remington, I won't be a party to Walter's killing.
That
would ruin everything.”

Rand studied her for a long moment. Then he straightened in his saddle and addressed Walter. “You're lucky your fiancée is so persuasive, Stafford. Next time we meet, 'twill be a different story. Tie his lordship to the lady and the coachman, Miss Wyndham. You may remove Stafford's wig. It might prove useful. In America, savages scalp their victims, but this is England, more's the pity.”

“I'll see you hanged, you bloody bastard,” Walter railed.

“Gag him, Miss Wyndham. Rend a piece of petticoat from the lady.”

“I'm sorry, my lord,” Elizabeth said, summoning what she hoped was a convincing sob. “But at least I saved your life.”

His eyes blazed. By obeying Rand, the law would consider Elizabeth Wyndham a criminal, at the very least an accessory. A child could be hanged for stealing a handkerchief. What would they do to her?

Rand looped a rope over the driver's seat, backed his horse until the rope tightened, then pulled the coach over on its side. Its upended wheels spun round and round, whispering in the dark.

Twilight had vanished, giving way to the night's black cloak, a highwayman's cloak. Rand extended his hand to Elizabeth. “Mount my horse, please.”

Biting her lip to keep from singing her joy, still feigning a fearful demeanor, she let Rand settle her atop his stallion, directly in front of him.

They had traveled only a short distance when he said, “Did you doubt for a moment that I'd come after you?”

“There was no need. I had everything under control.”

“We make a fine pair, I'll grant you.” He kissed her nape before digging his heels into his stallion's flank.

The horse bolted from the meadow, onto the deserted highway.

***

The rays from the rising sun illuminated the forest, which rested like a dark fleece upon the rolling hills. Turning off the road, Rand guided his stallion into the forest's chill depths. Elizabeth followed on the gray mare Rand had purchased from some nameless individual at some nameless inn along the way. Their entire journey had been a bewildering succession of side roads and open fields, possessing a distinct air of unreality.

They plunged farther into the woods. The trees grew more impenetrable, as if daybreak had given way to night. Bracken
whooshed
against their horses' legs. Finally, Rand dismounted. He held out his arms and Elizabeth slid from her mare. Then she remained wrapped in his embrace, not thinking, just enjoying the caress of his hands, the beat of his heart, the warmth of his body. If they had not been reunited, surely she would have died for want of him.

“What next?” she said. “What is your plan?”

Rand kissed the tip of her nose. “I hate plans, Bess. They destroy life's excitement.”

“Who the bloody hell is John Turpin?”

“A reprehensible rogue who resembles me. I've oft used the alias.”

“How much time do we have before Walter is on our trail?”

Rand shrugged. “Not long, I trust. Nor do I want to stay too well hidden. I meant it when I said I had a score to settle. I'll let Stafford follow us until I decide to catch him.”

Elizabeth sighed, resigned to the inevitable. Next time she would not be allowed to stay Rand's hand. “Did you know Walter was once a bounty hunter?”

“Yes. And a member of the Bow Street Runners.”

She leaned back to better study Rand's face. “How did you know?”

“After Zak's execution, I visited London. I have family there. Besides, even in a city of a million people, 'tis not difficult to ferret out information.”

“I wish you'd forget about revenge. Ultimately, Zak's utter disregard for the law led to his capture.”

“Are you defending Walter Stafford?”

“No. Of course not.”

“You weren't really going to London with him. You wouldn't have betrayed me, would you, Bess?”

“Never!”
You betrayed him long ago.
She buried her face against his chest.
Don't you remember? Don't you know?
She tried to drown out the mocking whisper with words. “Even if Walter had not hanged your cousin, you'd still feel obligated to leave a deliberate trail. The possibility of danger excites you, doesn't it?”

“Perhaps.” He grinned. “But the possibility of danger excites you, as well.”

“The possibility of death does not,” she replied somewhat primly, noting that the grin on his lips lingered, unchanged. Delicious fear shivered through her. Was he right? Did she court danger? All her recent actions said she did.

Her gaze skimmed his face. A face that had never left her thoughts since their very first meeting. A face that had dominated her thoughts since her
very first book.

That perception triggered a rush of excitement in her blood that had nothing to do with the possibility of danger.

Or perhaps it did.

Rand reached out and gently grasped her shoulders. “I love you, Bess. I always have, and I always will.”

He drew her close and lowered his mouth to her breasts, and she half feared, half anticipated the return of her raven-haired knight.

The knight didn't appear, but she sensed him waiting in the shadows, just beyond her sight. The man she hated and loved and feared. The man who seemed to have spanned five hundred years, only to torment her once again.

***

Elizabeth rested her head upon her bent knees. The small of her back pressed against the grooved bark of a giant oak.

Through half-closed eyes, she watched Rand arrange for them a bed of bracken. They must sleep during the day, he had said, and ride through the night, until they had traveled a bit farther. If Elizabeth craned her head, she could see a gray patch of morning sky, but the forest remained wrapped in secret shadows. They were safe here. For the moment, they were safe.

Rand straightened and faced her. “Listen to me, Bess. If things somehow go amiss and we're ever captured, you're to say you had no choice but to obey me. Under no circumstances will you try to rescue me or champion me. You'll denounce me to everyone. Is that clear?”

“No one need ever find us, Rand. If you give up your revenge scheme, we can remain invisible for as long as we wish.”

His mouth twisted. “The wind is invisible, Bess. Ghosts are invisible. Since we are neither, we must consider the possibility of capture.”

Stroking a patch of lichen, she could almost believe they were ghosts, or memories lost in a forest. “We won't be caught unless we want to be,” she insisted.

Rand returned to the task at hand. While working, he hummed to himself. Elizabeth listened to his song, interspersed by the
sip-sip-sip
of a wood warbler. Her fatigued mind began to drift, riding with the music's rise and fall. Then her eyes snapped open and she jerked upright. “What is the name of that song, Rand?”

“I have no idea.” He placed his cloak atop the bed of bracken. “'Tis just something that came into my head.”

“You've never heard it before?”

He shrugged. “I haven't much thought about it.”

Elizabeth felt as if a dozen centipedes crept down her back. She had heard that very same melancholy melody at Lord Stafford's fête. Trying to shut out the memory, she said, “You never did tell me, Rand. Where, exactly, are we headed?”

“We can travel to Cornwall, 'tis where I'm from. Or to Dover, and beyond to the Continent.” He eyed her speculatively. “Or we might go to Evesham.”

“What's in Evesham?”

“Answers, perhaps. At least some of them.”

“Answers to what?”

“To how we're connected. To our past.”

“You already know far more than I do.” She clutched her knees against her breasts. “Why won't you tell me? Perhaps we can figure it out together.”

“What did you see the night they captured Zak?”

“What makes you think I saw anything out of the ordinary?”

“I was nearby. I heard your screams.”

She stiffened. “It was a trick of my mind. I don't want to think about it.”

“I need to know, Bess.”

“And I need to know what's at Evesham, and how you could sing a song supposedly foreign to both of us. Why did you call me Janey? Did I really lie with you that night at Fountains Abbey? Or was it somebody else?”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?”

“Fountains Abbey. You called me Janey, and you looked… sounded…” Her heart fluttered like a captured bird. Rand didn't remember. Nay. Rand didn't
know.
Had she imagined the roughness of his countenance? His beard? Had that been a trick of her mind, too? “You looked and sounded like someone from my… from the past,” she stammered.

Rand gazed at Bess's face, pale and flower-like beneath the masses of her dark, tangled hair. Someone from her past?

He desperately wanted to explain, but how could he explain something he himself didn't fully comprehend? Furthermore, he suspected that any explanation might cause her to suffer the black moods he experienced. That would be disastrous. He needed her strength, her stubbornness, her determination.

His lips curved as he recalled her frequent rides across the moors, after his return from London. How many times had he been tempted to intercept her? He had told himself over and over that such an action would place her in grave danger. Then she had sought him out at Fountains Abbey, drawn to him, as he was drawn to her, by some invisible bond linking them together. Once again he had tried to dissuade her, claiming he had been asleep, not thinking of her—a bald-faced lie. He had thought about nothing else
but
her.

If his quest to discover the secrets of the past proved futile, he would leave England and start a new life. However, she would stay by his side; two shadows melding into one. He couldn't let her go, even though he recognized the reality of his capture and death. They might have days, weeks, perhaps months to enjoy each other, but he now knew that a life without Bess was no life at all. In any case, she wouldn't accept his dismissal. She never had, not since the beginning.