Lovestorm (22 page)

“How dare you?” Elizabeth cried. “You foul whoreson! How dare you sit there grinning while Sommersett's body lies in a row of cabbages? Even dead, he's more of a man than you'll ever be!”

Edward grabbed his ivory-headed walking stick and raised it defensively.

“You don't have to be afraid that I'm going to hit you,” she hissed. “I wouldn't dirty my hands.” She whirled and started from the room.

“I will excuse your hysterical behavior due to the sudden shock of your bereavement,” Edward called after her. “You may remain in your chambers until tomorrow evening.”

She turned back to face him. “I'm not a child to be sent to bed without supper.”

Edward's face hardened. “You will do as I say, Elizabeth. Your father is carrion. We both know that that puling child of a brother, Charles, is no threat to me. I am your master now. It would be wise for you to remember that and to make an effort to curb your shrew's tongue.”

Elizabeth's eyes flashed. “And if I do not?” she dared.

“Then I would begin ridding myself of those useless maids you keep about.” He licked his lower lip. “And I would forbid you the use of the stables.”

“You bastard.”

“That, my dear wife, will cost you an extra day. Remain in your room until Friday night, when—you will remember—we are expected to attend Lord Bittner and his guests for an evening of entertainment at Bittner Hall.”

“I won't go. You can't expect me to accompany you—”

“Oh, but you will, Elizabeth. And I'll not have you in mourning. No dreary black—wear the gold and coral satin, the one with the puffed sleeves and the very daring decolletage. I'm certain Lord Bittner will appreciate your charms.”

Her face blanched. “I'll wear the ruby watered silk,” she flung back. “If I'm going with you, I need to chose something that won't show wine stains.”

 

Three days later, Lord Dunmore's coachman guided his team cautiously off the Colchester Highway and onto the rutted track that led past Bittner Hall. A misty rain had been falling since morning, and the dirt road was already treacherous. The six horses threw their chests against the harness and sank to their hocks in the mire as they struggled for solid footing.

Inside the coach, an elegantly gowned Elizabeth sat beside Edward and tried to keep from touching him as the clumsy vehicle swayed from side to side. Betty sat across from her mistress, holding Elizabeth's fan and personal effects. Edward's bad leg rested on the far seat, cushioned by a folded blanket.

“ ‘Twill do you no good to sulk, Elizabeth,” Edward said, opening his gold snuffbox and placing a pinch in his nose. He sneezed and repeated the process with the other nostril.

“It is barbarous of you to refuse me time to mourn my father,” she replied. “Making small talk with you seems pointless.”

“I'll not have you embarrassing me in front of my friends,” he repeated for the third time. “Bittner is the world's worst gossip.”

“Then he'll have something to spread about, won't he?” Elizabeth said. “ ‘Sommersett's daughter seems to care little for her father's passing,' ” she mocked. “Have you thought of that, m'lord?”

“Nonsense. London is a pesthole. Those of us who have escaped must carry on as bravely as we can. Lady Bittner will play the virginals and that wretched daughter of theirs will bore us with her atrocious harp. Then we'll enjoy hazard or whist—hardly a bacchanalian evening.”

“The plague can strike anywhere.”

“Miasma spreads the plague. I'd not expect a woman to understand the principles of science, but-”

Edward's words were cut off by a musket shot.

“Stand and deliver!”

Horses whinnied as the coach stopped short and slid off the road. Betty screamed, and Elizabeth leaned from the coach window to see three men on horseback blocking the road ahead.

“What's amiss?” Edward demanded.

“Your money or your life!”

“Highwaymen!” the coachman shouted.

There was a scuffle in the boot of the coach, and another shot rang out. Elizabeth heard a low moan and the thud of a body falling into the mud. Before she could react, the far door was wrenched open and a masked man shoved a pistol through the opening.

Edward struck at the highwayman with his cane, and the pistol went off. Betty gave a startled gasp and tumbled into Elizabeth's lap with blood running from her mouth.

“She's been shot,” Elizabeth cried, gathering the girl into her arms.

Betty's eyes widened and she uttered a low whimper. “M'lady,” she whispered. “It . . . it hurts. I . . . I . . . can't . . .” She sighed once, and her body went limp.

The masked man yanked Edward from the coach just as another opened Elizabeth's door.

“Out!” the man commanded.

“Murderers!” Elizabeth accused. “You've killed a helpless girl!”

“You'll be next if ye don't do as yer told. Get out, me foine lydy.” The outlaw thrust the muzzle of a flintlock into her face.

Badly shaken, Elizabeth laid Betty's still form against the seat and climbed from the coach onto the muddy road. She kept her eyes fixed on the robber's face and tried not to think about the dead girl's blood soaking the front of her gown.

The masked man dragged a limping Edward around the back of the coach and tied him against a tree. “Do you know who I am?” Edward cried. “I'm Lord Dunmore. You can't treat me like this!”

Elizabeth caught sight of the footman's body. The second footman, Robert, and the coachman stood shivering near the lead horses' heads.

“Please,” the coachman begged, “I've a wife and four younguns. Don't shoot me.”

The man with the mask wore a military coat of faded blue with tarnished buttons. He glanced at the coachman, then at Robert. “I s'pose ye got a sad story, too.”

“Don't wan' no trouble,” Robert said. His speech was slow and slurred, and he tilted his head to one side.

Elizabeth's brow furrowed, and then she realized what game the footman was playing. “Robert will give you no problem,” she said. “He's slow-witted.”

The masked man laughed. “What? A big laddie like ye? Clod-skulled, is 'e?” He gave Robert a shove. The footman staggered backward and looked frightened.

“He has the mind of a child,” Elizabeth insisted.

“Leave him alone.” The third man, still on horseback, spoke with authority. “We've no time for your games.”

Elizabeth turned her attention to the speaker. Her gaze traveled swiftly up the high military boots, over the full breeches, black wool coat, and broad leather baldric. His hands were expensively gloved, and a plain serviceable sword hung from his left hip. He wore a starched, white linen cravat, damp now with rain. The upper part of his face was covered by a black silk mask, and on his head was a wide cocked hat.

He smiled and swept off his hat, revealing long yellow curls. “Captain Thomas, at your service, m'lady.”

Elizabeth knew the name. Bridget had come home from the market singing a song about the rogue.
Captain Thomas, the scourge of the highway,
flashed through her memory. She raised her chin and stared back at Thomas bravely. “I don't know you,” she replied, “but your occupation is obvious. You're a common murderer and a thief.”

“Your maid's death was a regrettable accident, and more
his
fault”—he waved toward Edward—“than mine.”

“Betty was hardly more than a child. She never hurt anyone in her life. Her blood rests on your soul and that of your cowardly accomplices.”

“Shut yer gob,” ordered the blue-coated man who had taunted Robert. “Ye'll get nowhere wi' that high-nosed talk.”

“Yes,” Edward agreed. “Hold your tongue, for God's sake. Would you see us both as dead as your maid?” He looked back at Thomas. “I've little money on me, but you're welcome to what I have. Take it. Take it all.”

The third man, the only one not wearing a mask, searched through Edward's pockets and came up with his snuffbox and some silver coins. “They's little enough ‘ere, cap'n,” he said. “Shall I strip 'im?”

Elizabeth pulled off her rings and her ruby necklace and earrings. “You'll want these,” she said, holding them out. The horseman nodded to the blue-coated man, who snatched them greedily from her hand.

“Now you have everything,” Edward insisted. “Take your ill-gotten gains and go.”

Captain Thomas reined his black horse closer to Elizabeth. “This bold young woman, Lord Dunmore, is she your sister?”

“She is my wife,” Edward replied.

“Good. Then you should be willing to pay a handsome ransom for her safe return. Have a thousand pounds English ready. I'll send a messenger to tell you where and when to have it delivered. If you report this to the authorities, you'll not see her again alive.” The highwayman leaned from the saddle and caught Elizabeth around the waist.

“No!” She struck at him with her fist, and he twisted her about to sit sideways in front of him. “Put me down.” She kicked and squirmed, but her legs were hopelessly tangled in her cloak and wet skirts.

“Cease your caterwauling, woman,” Thomas threatened, “before I knock you senseless.”

Certain that he meant what he said, Elizabeth stopped her struggling and caught hold of the horse's mane. The captain's arm tightened around her waist, and he pulled hard on the reins. The animal reared, pawing the air. The highwayman set his spurs into the horse's sides, and they galloped off down the road with the other bandits close behind them.

Elizabeth clamped her eyes tightly shut. The last glimpse she'd had of Edward's face in the lantern light caused her greater fear than the roadway rushing past beneath the horse's flying hooves.

Edward looks relieved, she thought.
He's not
going to pay the ransom.

E
lizabeth was soaked through to the skin by the time the highwaymen reached their destination. When Captain Thomas reined up his horse in the courtyard of a tumbled-down manor house and released his hold on her, she slid to the ground and lay there like a broken doll. The steady rain against her face no longer felt cold; she was too numb to feel anything but terror.

Betty's dying face came back to haunt her. Again and again Elizabeth's mind replayed the awful picture of her little maid lying in her arms with blood seeping over them both. For nearly a year now, Betty had been a constant presence in her life. The girl had driven her to tears with her whining, her irrational fears, and her lack of common sense, but Betty had remained doggedly faithful. Elizabeth had loved her despite all her faults, and now she was dead.

I should have left her in Jamestown, Elizabeth thought. I saved her from drowning in the shipwreck to cause her violent death here in England.

Someone grabbed Elizabeth roughly by the shoulder and yanked her to her feet. “Get on wi' ye,” a man ordered. Her weary mind didn't know who was speaking to her and she didn't care. She took a step and stumbled.

“Easy there,” Captain Thomas said, lifting her off her feet. His mask was gone. “You'll feel better after we get these wet things off and something hot into your belly.”

A pretty dark-haired young woman held a lantern high. “Jackie?”

“Aye, Tess,” Thomas replied. “We've company for you.”

“God's bowels! What have ye done now?” the woman demanded shrilly. She led the way ahead of them, her light bobbing to and fro as they threaded their way through fallen timbers and piles of litter.

Down a flight of stairs and through another doorway Thomas strode, carrying Elizabeth as though she were a small child. At last they came into a firelit room, and he lowered her gently to a high-backed oak settle near the hearth.

“Have ye lost whatever wits ye ever claimed?” Tess fussed. “To bring
her kind
here?”

“Enough,” Thomas rumbled. “Where's your manners? The lady's wet and cold. Find her a blanket and something dry to put on.” He turned to Elizabeth. “Would you care for a sip of brandy?”

Elizabeth held out her hands to the fire. Nothing had ever felt as good as the warmth of those flames. Her teeth began to chatter, and she was seized with tremors. Thomas thrust a flask into her shaking hands, and she drank without thinking. The strong liquid burned a fiery path down her throat, and in a few seconds, she felt warmer.

“Here.” The woman threw a blanket at Elizabeth. “Put this around ye and strip off that fancy gown. God's bowels, Jackie, look at all the blood. Ye might have pulled the gown off her before ye tried to murder her. What a waste of good silk. The dress won't fetch a quid in that condition.”

“Leave off, wench, before I slap some manners into you,” Thomas said. “The blood's not hers. Her maid was killed in the game.”

Elizabeth tried to speak, but her teeth were chattering so hard she couldn't get the words out clearly. “I . . . I can . . . can't take off the—”

Tess swore a sailor's oath and sliced the lacing at the back of Elizabeth's gown with an eating knife. The gown fell forward, baring Elizabeth's shoulders, and she stood to step out of the ruined garment. Vaguely, she was aware that Thomas was still in the room and staring at her, but she didn't care. The petticoat strings were so wet that they had to be cut away too. Next, Elizabeth removed her shoes and stockings and stood before the fire clad only in a thin linen shift.

“The rest of it,” Tess ordered. “Must I undress ye like a babe?”

Elizabeth turned to look at the highwayman. “Sir, if you please,” she managed, exhausted and near tears.

“Madame.” He gave a half bow. “I will give you the courtesy of my back.”

Quickly, Elizabeth shed the rest of her wet clothes and pulled a coarse linsey-woolsey shift and gown over her head. Tess bundled Elizabeth's garments into a ball and carried them away.

Elizabeth gazed at Captain Thomas. He was a rather handsome man, younger than she had first supposed, with a large nose, a squarish chin, and laughing blue eyes. “What are you going to do with me?”

He approached the hearth and took the opposite chair. “You heard what I told your husband, m'lady. I intend to hold you here until he pays the ransom. Then you will be returned to your family unharmed.”

“I don't believe you.”

He took another drink of brandy. “I'm not a cruel man. Have you ever heard that Captain Thomas was cruel?”

“I put little faith in the honor of a highwayman.”

“Aye, put yer faith in steel, I say.” The other two outlaws entered the room with a great stomping of boots and flinging of wet cloaks. The man who had shot Betty was speaking. Without the mask, Elizabeth saw he had thinning brown hair with streaks of gray and a scar puckering the left side of his mouth.

“Or lead and black powder,” the other added.

“You have met me, but you've not been properly introduced to my companions,” Captain Thomas said to Elizabeth. “This is Will.” He indicated Betty's killer. “And Shiner.” Shiner grinned, exposing two missing front teeth.

Tess returned with several mugs of ale and a great platter of roast pork and bread. “Thought ye might be hungry,” she said. “It bein' such a nasty night out.”

“There's my good girl,” Thomas replied. She set the food and drink down on a stretcher table, and Thomas pulled her into his lap. “Give us a buss, Tess.” She giggled and kissed him on the mouth.

The men began to eat, and Tess offered Elizabeth a portion. She shook her head. “No, I couldn't.”

“Suit yourself,” Tess said. “Starve fer all I care.” She returned to sit on Thomas's lap again, sharing sips from his ale and trading small talk with the men.

Elizabeth pulled her chair closer to the hearth and wrapped herself tightly in the blanket. She was warmer now, but still miserable. Her eyelids felt heavy, and her whole body ached. I must not sleep, she thought, but the more she concentrated on staying awake, the more difficult it became.

Captain Thomas's gentlemanly behavior did nothing to alleviate her fears. What if Edward doesn't pay the ransom? What then? She had seen the faces of the highwaymen and she knew their names. Could they afford to let her live, even if Edward produced the thousand pounds?

The penalty for highway robbery was death by hanging. Elizabeth knew it, and she knew well that her captors knew it.
They'll kill me. No matter what happens, I'm going to die.

And worse than the thought of death was the sure knowledge that she would never see Cain again.

 

It was two hours before dawn, and the chief huntsman at Sotterley lay snoring beside his wife in their sturdy plank bed. The fire on the hearth had burned down to dying coals, and the single room of the timber-framed cottage was dark.

The floorboards creaked, and one hound stirred in his sleep, then settled back down, its nose touching the still-warm hearth. A shadow detached itself from the blackness and moved silently across the room to the wall where the huntsman's bow and quiver of steel-tipped arrows hung on a rack of deer antlers.

Cain took down the great English longbow and balanced it in his right hand, gauging the weight and the strength of the cast. Then he slung the quiver over his shoulder and removed a steel hunting knife, sheath, and belt from the hook. He glanced over at the sleeping couple and smiled, then crept from the room as quietly as he had come.

The first rays of dawn filtering through the oaks found the Lenape warrior, clad only in moccasins and breechcloth, crouched over the spot where the robbery had occurred the night before. The man called Robert had told him what had happened and that Lord Dunmore seemed little concerned by his wife's kidnapping.

“It ain't natural, I tell you,” Robert had protested vehemently. “The Lady Elizabeth be worth every penny of a thousand quid. Were she mine, I'd give the whole shooting match for her, I tell you.” Robert had sunk down on his bed in the servants' quarters and buried his face in his hands. “My Bridget will have my hide that I let those outlaws away with her mistress, not to mention the killing of the little one.”

Cain had listened to every word, keeping his features immobile, hiding the pain that threatened to rip him in two. “Where happen?” he had asked the footman. “How far?”

Robert's detailed reply had led Cain to this place. The fresh mud told the story clearer than the white man's paper-that-talks could ever do. Here was where the coach slid from the road. Cain put his fingertips into the prints left by Elizabeth's shoes. She had taken only a few steps, and then her trail vanished. Yet the tracks of a mounted horse sank deeper into the roadway here. Clearly, this man had taken Elizabeth up on the animal with him, as Robert had said.

Cain's lips thinned as he studied the hoof-prints. The animal had shifted from side to side and reared, proving that something or someone had startled it. Elizabeth had fought her captor. There were three horses, but only the one carrying his woman concerned him. A horse, like a man, had a print different from all others of his kind. The horse would lead him to the warrior who had taken his wife, and that man would give her back before he died.

“Eliz-a-beth,” Cain whispered in the Lenape tongue, “I know you carry our child, even if you do not.” He had been a father before, and he had witnessed the changes in a woman's body when she conceives. He had felt Elizabeth's swollen breasts and seen the hint of deep rose around her nipples when they made love in the forest. “I should have spoken.”

He paused for a moment in the shadows of an ancient oak, dropped to his knees, and offered a prayer to the Great Ones.

“Give me strength,” he prayed. “Give me courage to do what I must do. And if I am far from my own land, the distance should be as the width of a bee's wing to you who knows all and created all. Give me back what is mine or let me die with honor.”

Only then did Shaakhan Kihittuun take the tiny paint pot from the medicine bag he had reconstructed so meticulously over many nights. With the skill of an artist, he performed the ritual of donning full war paint. At each step, with each change of color, he repeated the ancient chants, handed down from warrior to warrior among his people for time out of time.

When the ceremony was finished, Shaakhan Kihittuun rose and began to follow the highwaymen's trail. Behind him he left marks of his passing so plain that a blind man could follow them. If he was killed before he rescued Elizabeth, he must be certain that Edward's people would find her.

 

Elizabeth lay on a pallet on the floor in the dark. She had slept since Captain Thomas had brought her here in the late hours of the night, awakened, and slept again. She had no idea what time it was, or even if another day and night had passed.

She'd been frightened when he'd risen from his chair and taken her arm. “Come, m'lady, 'tis time you were abed.”

“No. Leave me be,” she'd protested, knowing all the time that she was at his mercy, knowing that she might face rape or worse.

“The
lydy
thinks ye mean t' tumble 'er,” Will scoffed.

“I've never 'ad a gentlewoman,” Shiner said.

“No,” Tess said, “and ye never will.
Ladies
such as ‘er fancies their men wi' full sets o' chompers, even if they're made o' wood.”

“Hold your foul tongues, the lot of you!” the captain ordered. “There's no need to frighten the lass. Come along, Lady Dunmore, your honor's safe enough with me. I fancy my women willing.”

“Willin' or not,” Tess said, “keep yer hands to yerself, Jackie me boy. If ye've any energy left tonight—it's fer me.”

Captain Thomas had taken a candle and led the way to a small room that must have once been a buttery, a storeroom for provisions and bottles. There were shelves, a built-in table along one wall, and even a fireplace. The shelves were bare now, except for a few empty bottles and a broken cask. There was one door and no window, and the floor was relatively free of debris. Rolled up in one corner was a pallet and a blanket.

He'd handed Elizabeth the candle. “I'm sorry I can't offer you finer accommodations, but this is the only room I can lock you in and be certain you'll still be here when I come for you. You'll be safe enough from Will and Shiner. Pay no heed to their talk. You can slip the bolt on the inside of the door if you please. Just don't try and lock it on me. It ruins my disposition for the day if I have to break down doors in the morning.”

“When can I go home?”

“We'll give your lord a day or two to stew in his own juices, then I'll send a messenger to ask for delivery of the money. You'll go home as soon as I get it.”

The candle had burned out during the night. Elizabeth had risen once and felt her way around the room. She'd thrown her weight against the two-inch-thick oaken door, but it had only creaked. The bolt on the far side held firm.

No one had come with food or water, but that didn't matter to her. She wasn't hungry. In fact, she was sick to her stomach; she hoped she wasn't getting ill from the wet ride and the cold. Her head didn't feel hot to the touch, but she was nauseated. Even the thought of food was enough to make the room spin.

The darkness was unnerving.
What if they leave
me
here to die?
If she had to die, she hoped they would have the decency to shoot her. Even the air here was stuffy. Would it get worse and worse? She wondered how long it took a woman to die of thirst. After the time in the open boat, she'd never wanted to experience that feeling again.
I'll take my own life before I die that way.