The Highwayman and The Lady (Hidden Identity) Read online

  The Highwayman

  and the Lady

  Colleen French

  Copyright © 1997, 2018 by Colleen French. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of The Evan Marshall Agency, 1 Pacio Court, Roseland, NJ 07068-1121, [email protected].

  Version 1.0

  This work is a novel. Any similarity to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Published by The Evan Marshall Agency. Originally published by Kensington Publishing Corp., New York, under the title To Love a Dark Stranger and under the name Colleen Faulkner.

  Cover by The Killion Group

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Preview: Chapter One, Savage Surrender

  One

  January, 1662

  Rutledge Castle

  Kent County, England

  The knife fell from Margaret's hand, hit the wood floor, and slid under the tapestry-draped bed. She stared in shock at her blood-stained hands. The heat of the bedchamber was unbearable. The scent of the blood, his and hers, cloistering. Slowly, her gaze drifted to the dead man at her feet . . . her husband.

  "Baby . . ." she whispered. "My baby . . ."

  Margaret lifted the infant from the edge of the bed. Swaddled in linens, he too was covered with blood.

  Tears ran down Margaret's cheeks as she raised the babe to her breast as if she could somehow comfort him. He was dead. She knew he was dead—the poor thing with his misshapen little mouth and his throat slit.

  A sob wracked Margaret's body as she sank to her knees, hugging the lifeless infant, wishing desperately that she could have saved him. She knew she should pray, but no words would come. She was filled with nothing but regret for that which she could not change.

  "M'lady Surrey . . ." A voice came, barely audible, yet insistent. "Lady Surrey!"

  Margaret looked up to see the midwife. She held out her newborn son. "Mavis, can . . . can you help him?"

  Gently, the old hag took Margaret's first born from her arms and laid him on the great bed. She stepped over the body of Lord Randall as if dead men commonly attended lying-ins.

  Smelling of cloves, the midwife leaned over the tiny, still body. She listened for breath. She felt for a pulse.

  Another sob rose up in Margaret's throat as she came to her feet, reaching for her infant. "No . . ."

  Mavis covered the child's deformed face with the corner of the bloody blanket. "You must run, m'lady," she insisted in her crackly voice. "Run before I have to summon the earl."

  Margaret looked at her husband. He was an ugly man with a flared pig's nose and bristly blond hair. Sprawled unnaturally on the floor, his club foot lay exposed, its linen wrapping undone. It was said that a sense of peace came over a man at his death bed, but she saw no such peace. All she saw was years of bitterness and hatred. How odd it was that a man's cruel deeds had a way of showing on his wrinkled face.

  "But why must I run?" Margaret whispered, too numb to comprehend. "He killed my child."

  "A father's right . . ." the old woman intoned. She was moving about the bedchamber now with the same efficiency with which she had attended the birth only hours before.

  "He . . . he turned on me. First my child, then me when I tried to save my son. It . . . it was self-defense." Margaret wrung her blood-sticky hands. "Surely no man would condemn me for—"

  "No man?" Mavis yanked Margaret's bloody robe from her shoulders and dropped a clean day gown over her trembling, naked body. "Ha! Any man would condemn ye! Yer husband sought to rid himself of an abomination and you killed him for it!"

  "No. Not an abomination. A child . . . my child."

  "I only say what they'll say, m'lady."

  Margaret accepted the rough leather shoes and patched stockings the old woman thrust into her arms. "Surely the courts will—"

  The midwife gave her a push. "Don't ye hear my words? No one will believe ye! Ye just killed the Earl of Rutledge's youngest brother! Run, child! Run into the night and let it swallow ye up!"

  Margaret took a stumbling step backward, clutching the shoes and stockings to her aching, milk-swollen breasts. "Run? Run where?"

  "London! London is the only place to hide!"

  "But my baby. He must be buried." Margaret reached out with one hand toward the bundle on the bed. "He must have a decent burial!"

  Mavis ushered Margaret to the door, pinning a maid's cap to her dark, tumbled hair. "I'll see 'im buried in the churchyard, same as I seen all the others."

  Margaret stared at the woman's craggy face. "I cannot run," she whispered desperately. "I'm afraid. I haven't the courage."

  "Ha! Men's words!" The old woman's gray eyes narrowed. "Ye had the courage to kill the bastard to save yerself, didn't ye?"

  Margaret leaned against the door and slipped her feet into the stockings, not bothering to pull them up. "Which way shall I go?" She stepped into the leather shoes. "I . . . I've never even been to London."

  "Take the road east, only stay to the woods line." The midwife removed the mended woolen cloak from her own shoulders and covered Margaret's. "Flag down the first coach ye see and say yer Lady Surrey's handmaid. Claim yer headed to London to see yer dyin' mother. By the time the earl gets the high sheriff from his bed and in his boots, you'll be lost to 'im in Londontown."

  Margaret rested her hand on the doorknob. She was so numb that all she could do was follow the woman's orders. "Say I'm Lady Surrey's maid, gone to London . . . dying mother," she repeated. She stared at the bloody bundle at the end of the bed she had shared with her husband.

  The midwife reached out to stop her, but Margaret couldn't leave her son without saying goodbye. She stepped around Philip's body and leaned over the bed. She lifted the corner of the fleece blanket, and with the love born of a mother, she kissed her infant's not-so-perfect little mouth. "Goodbye, my love," she whispered, letting the blanket fall. Then, with resignation, she turned to go.

  "Wait!" Mavis grabbed her arm. "You'll not get a mile looking like that." She hurried across the room, and came back with a clean rag dipped in the wash basin. She wiped Margaret's teary cheeks. Then she took Margaret's hands and scrubbed them vigorously.

  The wash towel turned crimson.

  "Go, now . . ." the midwife encouraged, done with her. "Run from the Randall curse! Run for your life!"

  Margaret took one last look at the little bundle on the bed and then stumbled out of her bedchamber and into the cold, drafty hallway. No light illuminated the narrow stone corridor, but she knew it all too well. For fifteen years she had walke
d these hallways, alone in the darkness. Fifteen years she had been imprisoned.

  Margaret followed the corridor from the east wing into the main house. All was silent, but for her own muffled footsteps. In the main hall, she caught a glimpse of pale light from a doorway. The earl's private library . . .

  Her breath caught in her throat as she pressed her back to the wall. She had to pass the earl's library to escape the castle.

  She stole a glance into the lit room. There was the earl, her dead husband's elder brother, seated at his desk. He was sipping a glass of claret, making that odd sucking sound that he did. Seeing the earl's deformed mouth brought tears to her eyes. It was the same mouth her son had been born with. It was strange, she thought, that looking at the Earl of Rutledge's deformity, revolted her, and yet the first glance at her newborn son had brought about none of those same feelings of repulsion. Then Margaret knew that it was not the deformity of the earl's palate that disgusted her, but the deformity of his cruel heart.

  As Margaret stared at the earl in the feeble light she came to the practical realization of what the murder she had just committed meant. If she could escape, it meant freedom. Freedom from her brutal husband, Philip. Freedom from the earl's twisted words and sexual innuendoes. Freedom from his threats. Freedom from her fear.

  How ironic it was that the death of her son could bring her the release she had lost hope of so many years ago. But then, her grandmother had always said that even in the darkest moments, God shed light upon his children.

  Suddenly feeling stronger, Margaret reached down and slipped out of her shoes. Picking them up, she tiptoed past the earl's open door. She walked down the corridor and out the front hallway. She stepped into the dark, cold night and into freedom.

  Captain Scarlet rode low in his saddle, fighting the bitter wind in his face. It was a damned dreary night to be about business. He'd have preferred to spend the hours at the Cock and Crow ordinary with a jack of ale in one hand and a piece of the seductive Mrs. Caine in the other. He almost wished he'd let his friend Monti talk him into remaining in London tonight, but a man had a duty to his work and Kincaid understood that duty, even if Monti didn't.

  Monti pulled in his mount to ride beside Kincaid. He was a short man, with a broad face like a shovel and protruding ears. He wasn't a handsome fellow, but he was as devoted to their friendship as any man could be. "I don't like the looks of this, Captain," he hollered against the wind. "I told you I should have checked with my astrologer first. The snow's a bad omen. I can feel it in my bones."

  "What snow?" Kincaid scoffed, amused by Monti's usual litany. Monti was a superstitious man who saw ill-luck at every turn. "I see no snow, and your bones are always telling you to stay home when it's cold out." His words were no sooner out of his mouth than the first wet snowflakes hit his cheekbones. By the light of the pale, silvered moon he could see the 'I told you so,' look on his companion's face.

  "There's still time to turn back," Monti offered. "No one will be the wiser." He wiped his runny nose with a green handkerchief he extracted from inside his cloak. "We can catch this stinking cuttlefish another night."

  Kincaid frowned. No. He'd not turn back, not tonight. He wanted this one, and he wanted him badly. Nearly six months he'd waited for dear Edmund Tolliger to depart the city at a convenient time and circumstance. "Excellent try," he called good-naturedly to Monti. "But I'll not bite."

  Both men ducked to avoid a low-hanging branch as the road, barely more than a trail in places, made a sharp bend to the right. The horses' hooves sank in the rutted road, splattering horse and rider with mud.

  Just as Kincaid rounded the bend, he spotted something beside the road. He immediately whirled his mount around to go back.

  "What are you doing?" The brutal wind tore at Monti's cloak as he attempted to turn his mount. "You know it's imperative that we stick to our schedule!"

  Kincaid held up one gloved finger, signaling to his friend to wait but a moment. He rode his horse back to the spot where he had seen the bundle. Sure enough, there it was, a heap of blankets lying in the dead grass. No . . . a cloak.

  Kincaid dismounted, turning his back to the wind to see what he'd found. He pulled at the edge of the wet, mud-caked cloak and, to his surprise, found a tumble of curls.

  A dead woman lying beside the road? He thrust his hand beneath the cloak to feel warmth. No, not dead at all.

  "Madame?" Kincaid crouched beside her. "Madame, could I assist you?" He tugged back a bit more of the wool cape. She was a tearing beauty, whoever she was. Not a beauty like the ladies of the court with their bleached hair and moleskin face patches, but a natural beauty . . . an innocent.

  She was as pale as milk glass. "Madame?" He touched her shoulder.

  She stirred, her dark lashes fluttering open. The moment her eyes focused, she sought to fight him off. "No!" she screamed, hitting him with surprising force. She kicked him in the chest, knocking him into the mud, and then scrambled up the wet bank off the road. "You'll not take me alive! I'll not go back!"

  "I mean you no harm," Kincaid hollered, fascinated by the sound of the woman's voice, by her haunting eyes. He didn't know what color they were, though. He couldn't let her go without knowing what color they were.

  He chased her up the grassy bank, taking care of his footing. The falling snow made it slippery. "Stop! I only want to aid you!"

  She nearly reached the top of the bank before she slid in the wet snow that was fast turning to sleet. "No!" she called one last time before she slid into him.

  "God's bowels, what have you found? A woman?" Monti called from the road where his mount pranced back and forth nervously. "We've no time for wenches tonight, man! Come along!"

  Kincaid reached down and picked her up. This time she didn't fight him. "Where are you taking me?" she whispered, her head rolling onto his shoulder. "Not Newgate."

  Kincaid carefully placed one boot in front of the other, fearful he would slip carrying her down the bank to the road. "I sure as hell hope not, sweetheart," he crooned.

  "What are you doing?" Monti demanded as Kincaid reached the road and pursed his cold lips to whistle for his horse.

  "Taking her with us."

  "Bloody hell you are!"

  How could Kincaid explain this to his friend? Yes, he'd always had a weakness for females, but the moment he had seen this woman's face, he knew she was different from the others. He knew he had to protect her, shield her, though from what, he was unsure. "She'll freeze to death on a night like this."

  "Who is she?" Monti badgered. "Where did she come from? Whose wife do you carry off tonight, Captain Scarlet?"

  Kincaid attempted to sit her on his horse, ignoring Monti. "Come on, sweetheart," he murmured into her muddy, tangled hair. "You're going to have to help me a little here. I have to mount behind you."

  Either she heard him, or in her state of unconsciousness she merely reacted. She grabbed the silver pommel of his saddle and leaned forward, resting her head on the horse's braided mane.

  Kincaid swung into the saddle behind her and, opening his cloak, pulled her close to his own body for warmth.

  Monti reined in beside him. "So now we go home?"

  Kincaid took up the reins in his gloved hands. "No. Our plans stand."

  "Are you mad?" Monti urged his mount forward to keep up with Kincaid. "You can't bring a woman along! She'll surely vex our luck and we'll be hanging from the triple tree of Tyburn before the month's end."

  "Nonsense. We're invincible and luck has nothing to do with it." Kincaid slid one hand inside his cloak to wrap his arm around her waist. She was dirty and shivering, but, sweet heaven, she smelled good. "Skill. Skill and charm is all it is." Then he sank his heels into his mount's flanks and the horse leaped forward, breaking into a gallop. Kincaid knew he'd have to make up for lost time now, or miss Tolliger. He'd waited too long for the Puritan bastard to let him go.

  Captain Scarlet and his companion, Montigue Kern, thundered down the center of the r
oad from Kent to London. Ahead lay a copse of trees and if Kincaid was correct in his mathematical calculation, as he usually was, Tolliger and his mistress would be passing through in a matter of moments.

  As the men grew closer to their destination, Kincaid was forced to remove his arm from the warmth of the woman's body to draw his blunderbuss. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Monti unsheathing his musket. Firepower was Monti's trademark. Every man on the highway had a trademark these days.

  "What's your fancy this fine night?" Kincaid asked, wiping the freezing rain from his mouth. "The fallen log, or the drunken jig—your choice, my friend."

  Monti scowled. "If you think I'm dismounting—"

  Kincaid hushed him with a wave of his broad hand. "The fallen log it is."

  Shortly they reached the designated spot. Kincaid dismounted and led his horse behind a giant, leaning oak tree. He tucked the woman's cloak tighter around her. "Listen, sweetheart," he whispered, trying to better shield her from the driving snow and sleet. "This will take but a few moments and then we can be on our way. A warm bed and a bit of hot porridge is all you need."

  When he touched her, the woman lifted her head from the saddle's pommel. She looked at him, dull-eyed, as if she saw him, but did not see.

  He couldn't resist reaching out to catch a lock of hair between his fingers. "What's your name, sweet, can you tell me that?"

  "Lady S—M . . . Meg," she whispered in the same haunting voice. Then she laid her head down again.

  "Meg," Kincaid repeated, pulling a second pistol from his saddle bag. "Meg." He liked the name. It suited her heart-shaped face, rosy lips, and nut-brown hair.

  "Captain!"

  "Coming," Kincaid answered in a carefree tone.

  "I hear the coach," came Monti's anxious voice.

  "I'm coming, I'm coming." Kincaid secured his horse's reins to a tree limb and then walked back to the road. Tucking his pistols into his breeches, he caught the line Monti tossed him. The two had followed the routine so often that there was no need to speak as they worked.

  Kincaid tied one end of the rope to a decent-sized fallen tree and Monti used his horse to drag the log into the middle of the roadway.