What a Rogue Desires (2 page)

The noise and the shaking were mind-numbing. Incredibly enough, the man beside him had gone to sleep, his head lolling on his broad chest, his mouth agape. David leaned further away in disdain. He finally closed his eyes, determined to try to sleep as well, when he heard a distant crack. A sharp, ringing report almost like a gunshot. In fact,
very
like a gunshot. He opened his eyes.

“What, what?” The man next to him jerked up abruptly. “We’re stopping!” he said indignantly.

“Indeed,” said David dryly, pushing up the shade and putting his head out the window as the coach shuddered from side to side, swaying like a sapling in high wind but most definitely slowing down. He could see nothing on his side of the vehicle, but heard shouts, and then another shot, much closer and this time unmistakable.

“We’re being robbed!” cried the older woman opposite. “God have mercy on us!”

How utterly splendid: highway robbery. The only thing lacking in his day so far.

As Mrs. Fletcher continued calling out to God, David mentally said a few choice words to that deity himself. The two men beside him began arguing over the best way to proceed, and Mr. Fletcher had his head out the window, spurring his wife to latch onto his back and plead with him to be cautious and not get himself shot. The young widow sat motionless, her eyes wide, and her reticule clutched in her hands. She looked petrified.

David leaned forward. “Are you going to be ill?” he asked. His boots were directly in front of her, and he could ill afford to replace yet another pair.

Cornflower blue eyes turned in his direction, but she made no sign she understood him. She was completely terrified.

The coach door flew open barely a moment after the coach jerked to a halt. “Out,” grunted a mountain of a man. He wore a long black coat, a dark hat pulled low on his head, and even his face was dark. Blackened with soot or dirt, David decided as the man raised a pistol in threat. It was difficult to make out his features in the encroaching dusk, as shadows slanted across the road. Silently the passengers climbed from the coach. Mrs. Fletcher clung to her husband’s arm, her face twisted with fear. The tall gentleman stood aloof, frowning furiously, and the portly fellow looked as though he would wet himself with terror. The young widow stood mute and pale, her huge eyes fixed on the highwayman. David remained at the back of the group, wary but resigned.

“The baggage,” called a voice. There were three robbers, it turned out: the large man who stepped into the coach’s doorway and sliced through the baggage traps with a wicked-looking knife; another man, seated on his horse several yards away who appeared to be the leader and who kept his own pair of pistols trained on the driver and outriders; and a tall, thin man who moved toward them as the first man began kicking open trunks and rifling the contents. All wore dark clothing and had their faces blackened.

“Your valuables, if you please,” said the thin one, holding out a sack. “Jewels and money.”

“This is intolerable,” burst out Mrs. Fletcher with a sob. “You brigand! You thief!” Her husband quickly put his arm around her and turned her into his side, silencing her. Without a word he fished a pocket watch from his waistcoat and dropped it into the bag.

“Any jewelry?” asked the thief. His voice was very young, David thought, and perhaps Irish, from the faint lilt to his words. He raised a pistol at Mrs. Fletcher. “Any rings, mum?”

She clutched her hands together, and sobbed louder, but her husband spoke into her ear, and she wrenched off a glove and added a thin gold band to the bag. The portly man tossed in a silver snuffbox and his purse, and the tall man handed over a purse, thin-lipped with anger.

“You, mum? Give it over,” said the thief to the widow. For a moment, she hesitated, her eyes flitting around the group. Slowly she opened her reticule and dug out a single shilling. She dropped it into his sack with trembling hands, and David felt an unexpected burst of outrage that she’d been robbed of her last coin. The highwayman turned glittering eyes on him.

“Hand it over, guv,” he said with quiet menace. Silently David took out his pocket watch and purse. He pulled the pearl stickpin from his cravat and dropped it in the sack, too. He never took his eyes from the young thief’s face. The highwayman’s eyes scanned up and down. “And the ring,” he ordered.

David glanced down involuntarily. He’d forgotten about the signet ring on his hand.

“Oh, no! Not such a ring!” the young widow whispered then, sounding horrified. David looked at her in surprise. Color had returned to her cheeks in two bright pink spots. Why she was protesting the loss of his ring after the thief had relieved her of her last shilling, David couldn’t guess, but he wished she hadn’t. He wasn’t about to lose this ring, but he didn’t want to see her get hurt over it.

“Hand it over,” repeated the highwayman. The pistol wavered in his grip, and sweat beaded his upper lip. “All valuables.”

David curled his hand into a fist, never taking his eyes off the man. “No.”

The thief’s eyes widened; he hadn’t expected to be denied. “Do you want me to shoot you?” he exclaimed.

The widow gasped. “No! Oh, please don’t shoot him! Over a ring? Have some compassion!” She put out her hand beseechingly. The robber started as she touched his arm, whirling about and bringing his arm up, catching her across the body and knocking her backward into the dirt. She hit the ground with a soft thud and didn’t move. Instinctively, David stepped toward her.

“Hie!” shouted the man on the horse. “Hie, there!” The highwayman spun around again, his throat working. The other bandits were retreating, pistols still trained on them. The rifled baggage lay strewn about the ground, and the driver and his men still had their hands on top of their heads. The widow lay in a huddled heap on the ground, and David glanced at her again. The lady had stood up for him, defended him to an armed bandit, and now she lay senseless at his feet.

There was another shout. The thief near David turned again. “You bloody bugger,” he said furiously, raising his gun. David ducked, but too late, and the last thing he saw was the ground rushing up to meet him.

He came around with a splash of water on his face. With great effort, David pried open his eyes and squinted up at the darkening sky. “Are you awake, sir?” asked a female voice.

He pushed himself upright, squeezing his eyes closed against the violent clanging inside his skull. “Yes.”

“Do be easy. That outlaw gave you quite a blow.” It was Mrs. Fletcher dabbing at his face with a damp handkerchief. David took a deep breath, and gave his head a tiny shake to clear it. “Unfortunately they got away,” she went on. “If only the constables had been a few moments sooner. I vow, they should be shot! Striking a lady and leaving you for dead!”

“Not to mention stealing,” he mumbled.

“The outrage of it! Why, I told Mr. Fletcher we ought not to take anything valuable with us on our travels, and wasn’t I right? Now he’s gone and lost his pocket watch, and you, sir! Wasn’t I right, I asked Mr. Fletcher, just wasn’t I right, these roads are still dangerous. I never thought I’d see the like, a thief ripping the ring right off a man’s hand!”

David thought to himself she’d see a lot worse in certain parts of London, but he was just then realizing that his whole hand felt as though it had been stepped on. He turned it over, holding it up to his face in the weak light. It was swollen, with a scrape along the side of his palm, but when he flexed his fingers everything still seemed to work. The signet ring, though, was gone.

He swallowed a curse as Mrs. Fletcher continued to fuss over him. It was just a ring, he told himself, and another one could be made just as easily as Marcus had had that one made. It wasn’t really his fault it was gone, either. But David felt the loss like a hot coal in his gut, a searing taunt that he wasn’t up to his task. That Marcus has been right to keep tabs on him all these years, that he would never be more than a hapless scoundrel who got by on his family name and his brother’s money. He couldn’t even make it to London without mishap.

Ignoring Mrs. Fletcher’s protests and the ache in his head, he staggered to his feet. Somehow, he would get back that ring, he vowed to himself. And he would make that highwayman regret ever picking up a pistol. “The lady,” he asked, as something else occurred to him. “The widow.”

“Oh, she was so upset! When she came to and saw you lying on the ground like the dead, with blood all over your face, she set to weeping and carrying on like I’d never heard before. Not until Mr. Fletcher assured her you weren’t actually dead did she calm herself a bit, but when the constable came, she went all to pieces again. He had a man escort her to the next town to rest. But it’s very good of you to ask, sir. Are you acquainted with her?”

David shook his head, very carefully. “No. I wanted to be certain she wasn’t hurt. That highwayman struck her.”

Mrs. Fletcher nodded vigorously. “He did. Another reason for her to go on to the next town and rest.”

“Yes. Thank you, madam.” David began walking toward the cluster of men who appeared to be in charge. “Who is the constable here?” he asked.

A tall man with iron gray hair spoke. “I am. And you are, sir?”

David introduced himself. “Have you any hope of apprehending the thieves?” he asked, cutting to the heart of the matter.

The constable swelled with offended pride. “Of course we have, of course,” he huffed. “Not the first time those brigands have struck hereabouts. We’ll have them soon enough, sir, depend upon it.”

“Not soon enough, clearly,” said David. The constable flushed. “What are you doing to find them?”

The constable and his men began talking at once, gesturing in every direction while making no effort to move in those directions. They hadn’t a prayer, he realized, as the pounding in his head worsened. “And are we to stand here in the middle of the road while you argue over it?” he interrupted to ask.

The constable closed his mouth. “What was your name again, sir?”

“Lord David Reece. I’m expected in London tomorrow on business for my brother, the duke of Exeter, and have little patience to wait here in this thief-infested county until you reach a decision.”

As usual, Marcus’s name worked wonders on the man’s attitude. “Yes, sir,” he said with a bow. “No, sir. Thomas!” He waved one of his men forward. “See that the passengers are carried on to the next town at once. We’ll conduct our investigation from there.” With a flurry of activity, everyone was returned to the coach, the constable and his men rode on, and at last they were off. The other passengers gave him a little more space than before, and David leaned his aching head into the thinly padded corner of the coach, his eyes falling on the empty spot opposite him.

“What was her name?” he asked.

“Who? Oh, you’ll mean young Mrs. Gray,” said Mrs. Fletcher, who seemed intent on mothering him. “Such a poor girl, widowed and left alone so young! She’s on her way back to her family, although I don’t think she’s happy about it—we had a nice long chat at the Three Roosters, you know—and now this! I vow, the poor dear has suffered enough…”

David quit listening. Mrs. Gray. He wondered what her first name was. A poor relation, it seemed, unhappily sent back to her family. He half-smiled to himself; he seemed to have a partiality for poor young widows—especially attractive ones—although of course he couldn’t pawn this one off on his brother. Not that he particularly wanted to do that.

His head felt like it would split open. Mrs. Fletcher talked on and on, as if the trauma of being robbed had relieved her need to breathe, and each word was like a pebble striking him in the temple. He opened his eyes a slit, hoping to look so invalid she would take the hint and be silent, but she wasn’t even looking at him as she recounted every moment of the robbery and her own outrage. David let his eyes fall closed in defeat, and tried to refocus his thoughts on something more pleasant. Like the pretty widow, and where she might be now.

After what seemed an endless journey over a thousand ruts and bumps, they reached the next little village along the road, barely more than a coaching inn, as far as he could see. The coach lurched to a stop, and David gingerly climbed down, wincing at the loud bustle of the yard. The constable and his men had already arrived, and were issuing meaningless announcements in a booming tone that made David consider murder. He ignored them and went straight into the inn, catching the innkeeper by his sleeve.

“A private parlor,” he said. “At once.”

“Ah, yes, sir, yes, sir, right this way.” David followed him to a small parlor that thankfully didn’t face the road. He dropped onto the tiny sofa with a groan, resting his head with a great deal of relief.

“Will you be wanting anything, sir?” asked the innkeeper.

“Privacy. Quiet.”

“Yes, sir.” The man bowed, rubbing his hands on his apron, but didn’t leave.

“I was robbed, my good man,” said David wearily. “Put it on account.”

There was a pause. “Shall I add it to the rest, then, sir?”

Again David pried open his eyes. “The rest of what?”

“The rest of your account, sir,” said the innkeeper, deferential but firm. “From your last visit?”

David just blinked at him. Had he ever been to this place before? He certainly couldn’t recall it, at any rate.

“Two broken pitchers, several pieces of smashed crockery, a chair leg broken off, and one mattress fair ruined with water, sir,” the innkeeper added. “Eighteen quid, two shillings, and nine pence, sir.”

Mention of the chair leg stirred a vague memory. His friend Percy, several bottles of wine, and two barmaids figured prominently, at least in as much as he could remember. When had that been? Last year? No, this spring, perhaps. “Oh, yes,” he murmured. “Yes, add the room to…that.”

The man sighed. “Yes, sir.” The door closed behind him, filling the room with heavenly silence. David made a mental note to send payment as soon as he returned to London, and to ask Percy what was what with the chair leg, then let his head fall back.

All too soon the constable himself knocked at the door, and David dutifully related his tale. The constable asked several questions about the thieves, but David had little to say. He hadn’t seen where they’d gone, or where they’d come from. He couldn’t describe them, because they’d struck at the perfect time, when the onset of dusk would obscure their darkened features while still leaving enough light for them to see. He described what he had been robbed of and what he recalled of the robbery. All his questions about the chances of recovery and the highwaymen’s capture were vaguely brushed aside.