The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (17 page)

“Why did you call me Janey?” Bess repeated.

“I don't know.” Rand nodded toward the bracken. “Come, my bonny sweetheart,” he urged. “I'll not cry out another woman's name, and that's a promise.”

The next afternoon, Elizabeth and Rand skirted Nottingham. The spires of its cathedrals thrust above the autumn-tinted trees, while factory and chimney smoke blended into a glowering sky. An earlier rain had muddied the highway, deepening ruts and making travel difficult. Elizabeth ached for a long rest, yet she knew the soaked ground would be even more uncomfortable than her saddle.

On a lonely stretch of road they came upon an overturned coach. Trunks and boxes were strewn about. The coach, scarlet in color, possessed a coat of arms with the representation of a castle on its gilded doors. A liveried coachman and a guard both bent between the wheels, peering at the undercarriage.

A beautiful blonde woman lifted her silk skirts and picked her way through the mire. “Can you help us? I am the Duchess of Newcastle. As you can see, my husband and I have run into a bit of poor luck.” After glancing toward Elizabeth, who had stolen clothing from various hedges and was dressed as a man, the lady gave a little
moue
of disgust, then focused on Rand.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Our carriage has a broken axle.” The blonde lady was Elizabeth's own age, and had been blessed with slanted green eyes, a lush figure, small white teeth, and a dimple which she now displayed for Rand's benefit. “You look like a capable gentleman, sir. You'll help us, won't you?”

Rand turned in his saddle and winked at Elizabeth. “Watch this!”

“Don't you dare!”

Elizabeth drummed her fingertips against her brown velvet breeches as she watched Rand guide his horse closer. The blonde lady sidled toward him, dimpling and oozing sensuality. From the front of the carriage, her husband appeared. The duke was short and stooped and ancient. Pouches of skin surrounded his protuberant eyes, while a receding chin melted into the flabby folds that hid his neck.

“We're run into a problem, sir.” From the jeweled buckles on his shoes to his laced shirt and green velvet coat, the duke was spattered with muck, and yet Elizabeth thought his manner still carried an unmistakable air of authority.

“It would appear that way.” Rand's hand rested on his doeskin breeches, not far from his pistol.

“Damn,” Elizabeth breathed. She was now certain that Rand was going to rob the duke and duchess.
That
would erase the lady's dimples.

“Our axle has snapped clean in two,” the duke said. “I had thought to send my guard, but if you rode back to Nottingham it would be much quicker. I'm bound for London and had planned to make Coventry by nightfall. I haven't a lot of time.”

“I haven't much time, either,” Rand said.

“But my business is important.”

“Really, Charles!” The blonde lady smiled at Rand. “If you would address this gentleman a bit more tactfully, I'm sure he would help. He looks… agreeable.”

Ignoring his wife, Charles pulled out his timepiece. “We're already hours behind schedule.”

“That's a fine watch,” Rand said.

Here it comes,
Elizabeth thought, pulling down her wide-brimmed hat to conceal her face. She rested her right hand on the butt of Lord Stafford's pistol, which she now carried in the belt of her shabby breeches.

Rand grinned. “I'm a connoisseur of watches,” he said, “and I've a mind to add yours to my collection.”

The duke blinked.

Rand pulled out his pistol. “Hand it over.”

“Dear me,” said the blonde lady. “We're being robbed. I should have known. You're far too handsome to be respectable.”

Rand raised his voice and addressed the servants. “On the ground! Spread your arms and legs!”

While the men scurried to obey, Charles said, “You cannot do this. There are four people here who can identify you. It would be the height of foolishness for you to proceed—”

“Give me your coat and your purse. And just to make this equitable, m'lady, why don't you hand over that diamond ring?”

She removed it from her finger. “The last time we were robbed, the highwayman apologized. He swore he was from a good family and had been brought to crime by his weakness for gambling. Will you not even offer an insincere apology?”

Rand shook his head. “I never apologize.”

Handing him her ring, she thrust her breasts forward. “Would you like my necklace as well, Sir Highwayman?”

“No. It shines far brighter 'round your beautiful neck.”

Elizabeth fumed.

The blonde lady dimpled.

“While I realize you've seduced every man from here to Cornwall, Katherine,” Charles told his wife, “I ask that this once you
pretend
to be well-bred.”

Katherine's green eyes slanted even more, if possible. She held her tongue, but Elizabeth could see that it took a vast amount of self-control.

After ordering the duke to prostrate himself beside his servants, Rand beckoned to the duchess. When she reached his side, he encircled her with his arms and kissed her hard upon the lips.

Raising his head above the mud, Charles flushed angrily.

Elizabeth gasped.

Rand reached into his pocket, removed Walter's snuffbox, then wrapped Katherine's hands around it. “So you'll not forget me.”

“How could I forget you?”

Rand kicked his stallion and raced away.

Elizabeth followed. Once safely out of sight, she turned on him in fury. “Why did you kiss that creature? And right in front of me! Damn you to hell, Rand Remington! You embarrassed me and enraged the lady's husband.”

“That's precisely why I kissed her. The duke will remember me. And the snuffbox has Stafford's name inside. I'll wager Newcastle will waste no time tracking Stafford down. The duke might even put a handsome reward on my head.”

“You didn't have to
kiss
her!”

“Nothing infuriates the nobility more than to think the lower classes might be forgetting their place. They fear we shall rise up against them, like Simon de Montfort did.”

Elizabeth felt as if a knife had pricked her. “What do you know about Simon de Montfort?”

“I met him in
Castles of Doom
and was merely using him as an example, like Oliver Cromwell or some other rabble-rouser.” Rand stared into her eyes. “Never doubt that I love you, Bess, or that I would ever want any woman but you. What I did, I did for a reason.”

“But I felt so awful when you kissed her.”

“I apologize.” Lifting Elizabeth from her saddle, Rand settled her across his lap.

“You never apologize,” she reminded him.

“I never have until now.” He gently thumbed away her tears. “I would have embraced the devil himself to infuriate the duke, but I wish now I had employed some other method. I love you, little one, and I'm truly sorry I caused you distress.”

“
She
often felt distressed, I think.”

“Who?”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to speak, before shaking her head. The other woman in her life wasn't the Duchess of Newcastle. The other woman in her life appeared to be a lady dead five hundred years. A lady she could not even say for sure had ever existed.

***

The town of Alcester, in Warwickshire, was located at the juncture of the Alne and Arrow Rivers. From her vantage point inside the King George's Inn's tiny room, Elizabeth fancied she could hear a whisper of current somewhere in the darkness. She gazed out the narrow window. Timber-framed buildings reflected the light from the rising moon. Unable to sleep, she listened to Alcester fold itself inward, like the petals of a flower. She could almost swear she heard her fellow travelers settle atop their lumpy, lice-ridden beds.

King George's could learn from the White Hart,
she thought.
Father's bedrooms have quilts and looking glasses and chamber pots. These rooms have filth.

Not that she was homesick. She really didn't have a home. She and Rand had been on the run for seven days. During that time, they had zigzagged, backtracked, and traveled in such a circuitous fashion she generally had no idea where they were, although Rand sprinkled clues at every stop. In Coventry, he had pawned all the items they'd stolen, which meant that while Elizabeth might be totally confused, Walter would eventually unravel their route.

Staring into the night, listening to the murmur of the water, Elizabeth tried to overcome the fear gnawing at her stomach. It wasn't fear of Walter or the law, but something more… primitive. She sensed similar emotions in Rand, or at least a withdrawal. Since their arrival at Alcester, he'd scarcely spoken.

She heard a groan and swiftly made an about-face. Rand stirred, then jerked upright, as if snapped by a rope. “Nightmares?” she asked softly.

Leaving the bed, he walked toward her. “I've never liked this part of England.” He placed his hands upon her shoulders. “I always sleep troubled here.”

Elizabeth stroked his fingers. “I feel the same. But I can't think why since I've never been here before.”

“We are near the Vale of Evesham,” he murmured, as if that explained everything.

“You once said you misliked the south because it reminded you of the war.”

“Yes… the war.”

“Perhaps we should have traveled a different route.”

“There are answers in Evesham, Bess, if we're up to facing them.” Rand's hands tightened on her shoulders.

Tell me what you know right now!
Elizabeth didn't voice her command. The closer they came to Evesham, the less certain she felt. Did she really want to explore anything? Did she really want answers?

“Get back into bed, my love,” she said. “You're shivering.”

“So are you. Come with me.”

“Soon.”

Soon blended into minutes, then an hour, and she remained by the window. The quarter moon now rested directly above Alcester. Wisps of clouds crept across clusters of stars. From the street below, the sound of a flute or shepherd's pipe wafted upward.

Elizabeth's breath caught in her throat. The tune was the same one she had heard at Walter's fête, the same tune Rand had hummed.

Fumbling with the latch, she swung open the window. Music drifted in upon the sudden breeze, slow and mournful, piercing to the soul. She squeezed her eyes shut and allowed the strain to curl around her, tugging at her. It teased her with its memory of something more, something she could not identify.

She opened her eyes and glanced toward Rand. He tossed and turned, his teeth clenched. Elizabeth wanted to crawl inside his dream and help him fight his demons. Since that was impossible, she hastily donned her breeches and shirt.

Exiting the inn, she followed the thread of the music. The streets were deserted. She halted, one bare foot suspended. Now the music seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere.

A jumble of images sprang into her mind. She was waiting in a dark exactly like this one. It was so dark in the stone passageway, and cold, for it had always been cold, even on the hottest summer days. She was waiting for someone—someone unpleasant. They shared a secret that would destroy her life. And save it. While she waited, she heard the music, emanating from the banquet hall below.

Without warning, the music ceased. Elizabeth lowered her foot and looked around. Why was she standing alone on a deserted street? Why did she feel so cold? And why did the word
betrayal
pound inside her head like a kettledrum?

“I'm in Alcester,” she said, clenching her fists. “'Tis Tuesday, the fifteenth of October, and I'm cold because my feet are bare.” She didn't try to explain away the word betrayal, since she feared the little voice, possibly Janey's voice, would whisper:
Don't you know, Bess? Don't you remember?

Stepping on pebbles and floorboards as if they were rosebuds and fur pelts, Elizabeth returned to her room. She slipped into bed beside Rand, then tried to ignore the fear writhing inside her like a snake, twisting and turning on itself.

***

The next morning she and Rand ate breakfast in the common room. They had purchased wigs and clothing at a second-hand shop, and were dressed as a merchant and his wife. Elizabeth thought they blended well with the handful of other couples who shared the low-ceilinged room.

As she poked at the pancakes on her chipped plate, she said, “This food's worse than the blasted bedrooms.”

Rand merely watched two men enter the inn. One was indistinguishable from a thousand other working-class men, while the other was tall and emaciated.

“He looks like a fugitive from a bone pile,” she blurted.

“He's poor, Bess. Poverty and hunger go hand in hand.”

“That's why you try to help the poor.”

“Please, sweetheart. Don't imbue me with altruistic motives.”

“But they
are
altruistic, Rand. Old Fife's baby would have died had you not bought a cow with your ill-gotten gains. My ostler told me,” she added.

“The tales of my kindheartedness are vastly embroidered.”

“Nonsense. You could have
stolen
the cow. And you purchased my mare, rather than stealing her
.
” When he didn't respond, she sipped her coffee, which tasted like mud. Then she speared a piece of bacon. Fat bubbled on both sides, and she decided to forgo meat with her meal.

Rand abruptly stood. “We must hurry if we're to make the port of Dover as we planned,” he said loudly.

“Dover? I thought we—”

“Hurry! We have well over a hundred miles yet!”

“Why are you shouting?”

Rand leaned over and whispered, “Would you please quit asking questions and do as you're told?”

Once outside, he walked quickly toward the stables. “I'll wager those two men are bounty hunters, Bess, which means Stafford has already plastered handbills and reward posters from here to Plymouth.”

“Are you certain? They looked like ordinary men to me. Maybe a bit scruffier than usual, but—”