The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (7 page)

And Lady Guinevere murmured to her beloved, with tears trembling at the corners of her shining eyes, “Dearest husband. Now we shall ne'er be parted again.”

Elizabeth put down her quill and rubbed her temples. With that paragraph,
Castles of Doom
was completed. It had taken her eight weeks, during which she had been plagued with nightmares and distracted by her search for John. Yet, ultimately, she had triumphed. Rather than relate the rebels' true fate, she had consigned Simon de Montfort and Ralf Darkstarre to exile in France. Tomorrow she would post the manuscript, and soon she would be reading flattering reviews, or scathing ones, depending upon its reception.

She wondered what James Waterman would think. Perhaps the library curator would simply shrug his stooped shoulders and condemn her to his list of “silly writers.” On the other hand, Simon de Montfort was probably laughing at her from the bowels of the earth, sharing his mirth with Ranulf the Black and Lucifer.

The candle flame atop the girandole sputtered, as if from a sudden draft. Elizabeth stretched, then massaged her stiff neck. Outside, mist painted the diamond panes of her casement window. It was a night reminiscent of the night when she'd last seen John.

Since then, the Gentleman Giant and his Quiet Companion had plagued the Dales. They had proven remarkably resourceful—and active. In addition to the usual mélange of thefts, they had robbed post boys carrying mail from York, and they had even prigged a coach while it was changing horses in Middleham, virtually under Lord Stafford's aristocratic nose.

Despite his abominable language and disgraceful behavior toward Elizabeth, the Gentleman Giant treated others graciously. Lawrence Wyndham told of interviewing a lady who had refused to part with her favorite ring. The gallant Giant had said that a kiss on the lovely hand wearing it would constitute fair trade.

John, however, remained a nebulous figure. Nebulous to Elizabeth, as well. He had obviously lied about seeing her again, although he couldn't simply present himself at the White Hart and ask for Miss Wyndham. She had questioned everyone who might have conceivably come in contact with John, from Woodale to Horsehouse, clear to Middleham. But she had invariably been met by blank looks, or sly winks, or a curt shake of the head. Nobody seemed to know anything at all about the slender, dark-haired highwayman.

Small wonder John and his companion have achieved such success,
she thought with an unladylike snort.
They must be bribing half the Dales.

A coachman's horn blasted, announcing the arrival of yet another carriage. Elizabeth drew her shawl closer around her neck and shoulders, hiding the white fichu that adorned her blue woolen dress. The very stones of the wall seemed to radiate cold, and she fancied she could decipher faces clinging to the window panes—spectral faces bleeding into drops of rain.

Suddenly, inexplicably, she thought of the watchers who had attended her mother's funeral. They had waited for Barbara to move, but Barbara had remained motionless. They had watched to see if Barbara would bleed, but she hadn't bled.

Elizabeth heaved a deep sigh. Even after twenty-one years, she still thought of the watchers when her mood was melancholy or the night's shadows lay especially heavy, like cobwebs inside a long-abandoned room.

“Stop this,” she admonished, but her normally comfortable bedroom had been transformed into an alien, sinister place. The fog swirled against her ground floor window. Quickly, Elizabeth stood, causing the girandole's flames to dance. The melting wax from one of the candles coiled round its shaft and spilled beyond its holder, in the manner of a winding sheet.

A bad omen.

“Ridiculous,” she whispered. Good Lord, she should be celebrating. Her career was intact, her literary reputation saved, and soon she would regain her inheritance. Except for her failure to find John, life couldn't be better. Well, it could. Charles Beresford could send her the money he owed her, Walter Stafford could leave the Dales, and Dorothea could—no!

It was better not to contemplate a fitting fate for her stepmother. Elizabeth had already consigned Dorothea to the rack in
The Conqueror's Conquest.
For her next endeavor, she thought she might place Dorothea inside an iron maiden. And snakes would add a nice touch. Dorothea was terrified of snakes.

As soon as Elizabeth entered the common room, she was enveloped by a feeling of warmth and good cheer. An inviting fire burned in the huge stone fireplace. The air was redolent with tobacco, pork pies, wet wool, smoke, and hickory. Servants bearing pewter trays loaded with food and homemade beer scurried to and from tables, accompanied by clacking plates, conversation, and a sprightly tune, compliments of Dorothea and her pianoforte.

Elizabeth crossed to her father, who was shaking awake one of the regulars, asleep at the bar. “I'm all finished, Papa,” she said. “We shall post the manuscript tomorrow and instruct Mr. Beresford to send the whole amount you need by return post. He should have sent the money after my London visit, but in his last letter he said he was waiting for the completion of
Castles.
Now 'tis finished, and we still have six more weeks before your note is due.”

Lawrence had become increasingly morose as the mortgage deadline neared. Face brightening, he said, “I promise I shall never look at another card or bet on another cock fight for the rest of my life, Bess. I've learned my lesson.”

Dorothea launched into a new melody. Passengers from the latest coach settled at their respective tables. A sprinkling of lords and ladies, some wearing far more jewelry than was safe considering recent circumstances, supped on the roast capon, lamb, and pork pies. A young couple, the woman with a baby in her arms, lounged on a bench near the door. The baby had huge brown eyes that seemed to register awe at everything it witnessed, from its mother's finger to the swinging pendulum of a nearby grandfather clock. Elizabeth quickly passed the family on her way to the parlor. Cozy domestic scenes—and babies, especially babies—were better ignored. Sometimes, when she considered how she had forfeited children along with marriage, she felt a deep, aching sorrow. She told herself that the mothering instinct was just another basic animal urge, like the need to protect one's territory. After all, she lived in an age of reason, where everything could be explained away by science, including inappropriate yearnings.

The parlor was deserted save for a handful of locals playing cards or billiards. Since John's arrival, Elizabeth figured business had decreased by half.

“Be ye ready t' finish our draughts game, Miss Elizabeth?” called out Daniel, one of the regulars.

She slid across the bench opposite him. “I've not bested you in so long, I don't know why you bother.” Daniel had recently lost his wife of forty years, and he spent much of his time at the inn. Although Elizabeth made it a point of honor never to acquiesce to a man in anything, she generally let Daniel triumph.

While he agonized over every move, her mind swirled as relentlessly as the fog. Where was John tonight? she wondered, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. Was he gazing into the darkness, remembering their all too brief encounters?

Hardly,
she thought, expelling her breath on a derisive sigh.
A man of broken promises is what ye be.

Suddenly, Elizabeth had the strangest feeling she'd uttered those exact words before, and she couldn't control the small gasp that escaped her lips.

“Don't be so impatient,” Daniel admonished. “You young folks nowadays are always in such a hurry.”

“I wasn't. I'm not in a hurry, truly.” How could she explain that her gasp had been evoked by fear, not impatience?

While Daniel tentatively fingered the board, Elizabeth vowed to ignore her recent unease. Instead, she contemplated her next move—with John.

Once she had retrieved her two hundred pounds, she would forget him, for the truth was plain enough. He didn't care one whit about her. If he did, he would have been as irresistibly drawn to her as Ralf Darkstarre had been drawn to Guinevere. Besides, while John was attractive, he was a disreputable sort of handsome. Chapbooks wrote that highwaymen were romantic and dangerous and bound for the gallows, where women would weep and men would cheer. Which seemed an apt summation of John and his impending fate.

I won't shed a tear,
she vowed.
You are neither a proper hero nor a proper villain, John Randolph. My lovers would never be so cavalier in their treatment of the heroine. They would not dare, or I would kill them off in the first chapter.

“I've bested ye again,” Daniel cackled. “A second game, Miss Elizabeth?”

She shook her head. “I believe I shall go for a ride.”

“In this weather?” Daniel gestured with his pipe toward the window, where mist clung to the glass like a frightened child. “'Tisn't fit for man nor beastie.”

“Then it should suit me just fine.”

Vapor rimmed the wooden sign above the inn's front door. The painted white hart seemed to leap from the surrounding darkness, as if seeking the warmth and laughter of the interior. Elizabeth raised her face to the drizzle, perversely enjoying its cool caress against her cheeks and brow. Heading toward the stables, her petticoats swished upon the cobblestones like whispered voices, and once again she thought of the watchers.

What is wrong with me tonight?

As she passed the shoeing shed and smithy, she heard a man say, “Pay close attention, you dolt,” and she stiffened like a fox who had just heard the first bay of hounds.

“You must check every cloak-bag,” Walter Stafford continued. “If you find one empty, sound the alarm. Highwaymen carry bags for show rather than to burden their horses.”

“Damn,” Elizabeth breathed. She had thought Stafford would be well on his way home by now. Yet here he was, making a nuisance of himself with poor Tim the Ostler.

“Aye, m'lord,” said Tim. “Ye've told me all this before.”

“Notify Master Wyndham immediately if any guest seems unduly concerned over the owners of the horses,” Stafford persevered. “Or if they question you about the owners' occupations, their destinations, or when they plan to resume their journ—why, Elizabeth, what are you doing out here?”

“Obviously, I'm taking a stroll.”

Stafford held her knuckles to his lips, and the ruby ring on his finger caught the stable light. “You are looking especially enchanting this evening, my dear.” He rearranged her shawl, which had slipped from one shoulder. Then he
tsked
his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Whatever could you have been thinking of to have left your hat and gloves inside?”

“I was contemplating a brief stroll, my lord,
alone.
”

Walter Stafford hesitated, unsure whether to use the frontal assault he usually reserved for his social inferiors, or to feint. With Elizabeth Wyndham, one never knew what might work, if anything would. The woman was a conundrum, which was precisely the reason why he had been unable to forget her.

“Dear Elizabeth, this meeting is extremely fortuitous,” he said, bowing his head so that his nose was leveled at her thick dark lashes. “I see so little of you these days with your writing and other, er, pastimes. Really, all that close work must be hard on your eyes, not to mention your personal life.” Stroking the froth of lace at his throat, he laughed mirthlessly.

Angry, Elizabeth refused to look at him. Instead, she stared at the ruby on his ring, which glistened like a drop of fresh-pricked blood.

“My personal life is as I wish it to be,” she finally retorted, lifting her chin.

Walter scowled, for a woman should never be so openly contradictory. Elizabeth Wyndham had neither tact nor good manners, but she did have damnably fine breasts. There wasn't a finer pair in all the Dales. “Speaking of your personal life,” he said, keeping his voice steady, attempting a sangfroid he didn't feel, “I assume you're still planning to do me the very great honor of acting the devoted companion during next week's fête. I have been keeping company with a wealthy widow who yearns for my escort, but you agreed so many months ago and your mother—”

“Stepmother!”

“—said that you have been eagerly anticipating our engagement.”

“If you have found yourself a wealthy widow, my lord, I'll not hold you to your promise.”

“Dear Elizabeth,” he began, clasping his hands in front of him, purposefully flashing the ruby ring that dwarfed his index finger. “Dear, dear Elizabeth, I would not consider reneging on my promise. It's just that sometimes you seem more concerned with making a statement than acting the woman, and many men might find that a bit off-putting.”

She arched an eyebrow. “And you, my lord?”

Stafford hesitated once again, his eyes raking her body. Damnably fine. “No, I don't find you off-putting,” he said, and even to his own ears, his voice sounded rough, throaty. Aware that such naked desire would only further alienate her, he shifted his attention back to Tim. “I've been helping your ostler sharpen his powers of observation, my dear. Even someone as dim-witted as Tim might inadvertently supply information which will rid this area of the scourge that has descended upon us.”

“Yes, we all know how lawless the Dales are. Even the sheep have criminal records. Really, my lord, from your attitude one would think that you were a member of London's Bow Street Runners, rather than someone who spends his time issuing alehouse licenses.”

Stafford's smile was peculiar. “I have not always lived in the Dales,” he said. “And you comprehend very little about me, though I remain eager to rectify that deficiency. Despite your doubts, my dear Elizabeth, I am confident that those two scoundrels are very nearly within our grasp. I've studied them and their minds, and I know them better than they know themselves. I must confess, I'm more concerned with the quiet one than his flamboyant partner.”