Pale Moon Rider (5 page)

“He is still watched, day and night, by your men, by the servants. He cannot set foot outside the door without someone questioning his intentions. Or following him.”

“For his own protection, I assure you.”

“For your convenience, you mean. What good is a hostage if he cannot be taken upon the instant?”

The bony finger finished its lazy meandering along her arm and curled upward again to rest under his own chin. His face was only inches from hers, close enough for her to smell the pomade he used on his hair, and close enough for her to see the top layer of dried skin on his lips crack as he smiled. The smile itself was an artificial and postured display of too many teeth crammed into too small a mouth; it made her think of a picket fence with all the stakes toppled together.

Roth noted where her gaze lingered and he leaned even closer, emboldened by her apparent interest. “With the weather so unpredictable these days, I took the liberty of arranging a room for myself overnight. We … could have a private supper sent up and … discuss how we might be of further help to one another in the future.”

It was not the first time he had made an overture, nor was he the first man coarse enough to suggest she use her body to win favors. Renée had come to realize, in fact, that being French, she was commonly expected to be a harlot, or at the very least, a woman not fettered by any moral inhibitions. She was not unaware of her own beauty, but had come to regard it as more of a curse than a blessing, especially when men three times older than herself pushed her into corners and offered her trinkets for a lusty fumble under the stairs. Or when clearly repugnant reptiles thought there might be a feather’s chance in a windstorm that she would willingly accompany him to a private supper in a cheap tavern.

“Colonel,” she murmured in her very best harlot’s voice, “if I thought for one second I could keep the contents of my stomach intact while I played whore for an Englishman, I would just as easily have sold myself for the glorious procreation of
Robespierre
bastards.”

Roth stared. The laugh started low in his throat, and because it was so seldom the product of genuine mirth, it sounded more like a harsh, grating bark when it left his lips.

“You have wit, my dear, and the true pride of the
ancien régime.
I imagine some men admire those qualities in a woman, although I would have thought someone in your position would be inclined to show a tad more humility—unless, of course, you have grown fond of the sound of whispers behind your back and the sight of villagers who spit in the streets as you pass.”

Renée felt a surge of warmth in her cheeks that had nothing to do with her proximity to the fire. The inhabitants of
Coventry
held no love for French émigrés. Most of the villagers had sent a husband or a brother across the Channel to fight in a war that had too many uncomfortable similarities to the embarrassing loss they had suffered at the hands of the American colonists. If the French wanted to abolish the monarchy, if they wanted to do away with the greed and corruption of the aristocracy and put the government into the hands of the people, who were they to interfere? Why should English common
folk have to send their men to fight and die in a foreign land when their own nation was ruled by a king who was given to fits of madness and the major portion of the wealth was in the hands of the ruling nobility, as it always had been. The villagers did not understand why, if their country was at war with
France
, there were so many French nobles seeking asylum, and more important, why these émigrés had full bellies and warm beds while they still went barefoot and ate crusts.

Renée was seldom inspired to venture too far from Harwood House. She was regarded with suspicion and open disdain, for although she had been a victim of Robespierre’s madness and the Terror had taken every last member of her father’s family to the guillotine, there was no sympathy to be found in the villagers’ company. Only persecution and contempt. The sooner she was away from here, the sooner she could break free …

Aware of Roth’s eyes watching for any flicker in her expression, she moistened her lips and said quietly, “The captain has agreed to think about my request.”

A coppery eyebrow quirked upward. “Only
think
about it?”

“I imagine he wants some time to decide if it is a trap or not. He … has agreed to meet with me again.”

Roth drew a deep, thoughtful breath and leaned back against the settle. “When? Where?”

“In three days’ time. I am to be at
Stonebow
Bridge
at precisely
midnight
. From there, I am to travel north on the Birmingham turnpike until he intercepts me—which he will only do if he is certain no one has followed me and there are no soldiers lying in wait.”

“The
Birmingham
turnpike?” Roth’s eyes narrowed. “There are twenty miles of flat fields and moorland flanking either side of the road.”

“Perhaps that is why he chose it.”

Roth seemed not to have heard her. “Only one other rogue, Dick Turpin, was able to evade capture so long and that was because he knew every bush and bramble, every foxhole and cave within ten miles of his lair. The villagers knew him, the innkeepers harbored him when the soldiers gave chase, and, as it was discovered at his trial, he was born less than a mile from his favorite ambuscade.

“Unlike Turpin, however, Starlight ranges freely between five parishes and on the surface appears to have no favored hunting ground. Yet by his very cleverness he betrays an indisputable familiarity with the region. He also seems to have an uncanny instinct for survival. He has avoided every trap we have attempted to set thus far, leaving one to conclude his sources of information are astonishingly accurate and far-reaching. I have been here four months now, and in that same time, I have followed every accursed rumor, chased down every scant whisper waiting for him to make a mistake, and he has not obliged me. There has not been one single clue as to his identity, not one single witness who has been able to do so much as swear to the color of his hair, or his eyes, or say if half his face is covered in scars! There has not been one murmur of betrayal from men of his own ilk who would ordinarily bear witness against their own grandmothers if they thought it would put a few pennies in their pockets.” He paused and curled his hand into a tight fist. “It has been like trying to catch air. And it has become a game to him. A cat and mouse game in which, thus far, he has managed to stay one leap ahead. Well, not for much longer, my dear. Not for much longer. I have vowed to catch him, and catch him I will, by God.”

“The man who preceded you had been trying to do so for six years, had he not?”

“Colonel Lewis?” Roth spat out the name with a measure of venom. “He should have been forced to resign his post a dozen years ago, and would have if they could have lifted his head out of the ale barrels long enough to win his signature. For five of those six years the reward on Starlight’s head did not go above thirty pounds. Who among the local peasantry would betray one of their heroes and legends for a meager thirty pounds?”

“Another Judas, perhaps?”

Roth’s eyes flashed his contempt. “Need I remind you that however romantic and daring the tales of his escapades might seem to you, he has murdered three men—
in cold blood
—that we know of, and would not have hesitated to blow the top off of your Mr. Finnerty’s fine gray head—or yours, for that matter—if he had seen the old man reach for a pistol tonight.”

“I have told you, I will do what I can to help you catch him,” she said carefully.
“Vraiment
, it does not mean I have to take pleasure in what I do, m’sieur.”

Having allowed an uncharacteristic spark of temper to show, he forced himself to settle back against the wooden riser and to fold his hands together in his lap. “No, you do not have to enjoy it, but I do expect your full and absolute cooperation. Starlight will most assuredly be convinced he is being led into a trap and I will expect you to do whatever is necessary to convince our noble prince of thieves otherwise, for I am determined nothing will rouse his suspicions this time.”

“May I know what I am to tell him when he asks about the time and place for the robbery?”

“When the time is right, you will know enough to whet his appetite.”

“You do not trust me, m’sieur?” she asked mockingly.

“Not as far as one foot outside that door,” he replied smoothly. “But I do have faith in the fact that you love your brother. I believe you love him enough, for instance, that if I were to tell you to stand up right now, walk up those stairs to my room, and prepare to receive me, naked, on your knees … you would do so. Moreover, you would do so with such enthusiasm, your lovely mouth would be kept far too busy to annoy me with your witticisms. Indeed”—he reached over and curled his fingers around her wrist, drawing her hand over the bulge at his groin—“see how your drollery has affected me already?”

CHAPTER THREE

A
s hot as it was in front of the fire, Renée felt herself go stone cold inside. Her hand turned to ice where he held it over his lap, and even though her fingers shrank back in revulsion, his grip was firm enough for him to rub the heel of her palm back and forth across his hardened flesh.

“There are four rooms at the top of the stairs,” he said matter-of-factly. “Mine is on the left, at the rear. You should have no trouble finding it.”

Renée’s mouth went dry and her skin clammy. The filthy vermin was calling her bluff, smiling his mirthless smile and watching her reaction in a way that suggested he would not hesitate to follow through his threat and punish Antoine for her stubbornness.

He tilted his head a few degrees, feigning astonishment at her hesitation. “I confess your curious sense of loyalty does fatigue me at times, my dear. You express feelings of remorse over a murderous highwayman and seem almost unwilling to help your own brother. I warrant there are dozens of beautiful women in Warwickshire alone who would beg for the opportunity to keep their loved ones out of gaol.”

“Then by all means, invite one of them to take my place. I am sure Captain Starlight will not question the substitution.”

“And your brother?” Roth’s eyes glittered. “When he feels the coarseness of the noose tightening around his neck, will he not be somewhat bewildered as well?”

Renée felt the blood pounding in her temples. Somewhere—it sounded as if it came from the end of a very long tunnel—she heard a door slam and a volley of raucous laughter and stamping boots. A moment later, the privacy of the common room was shattered as four young gentlemen, drunk as owls, staggered through the doorway, their shoulders bumping off the walls and each other as they struggled to hold one another up.

Startled, Renée jumped to her feet. The toe of her shoe caught the edge of the small table beside the settle and overturned it, sending her goblet into the stone hearth with a loud metallic
clan-n-ng.
Behind her, high beaver hats were being flung aside and clouds of dust slapped from the sleeves of elegantly tailored jackets, and in the midst of boisterous shouting for fresh bottles of wine, one of the gentlemen heard the crash and spun unsteadily around to stare at the cloaked and hooded figure silhouetted in front of the fire.

At almost the same instant, Mrs. Ogilvie came hurrying out of the back room, demanding an explanation for all the noise.

“ ’Twas an unblessedly long ride from
Meriden
an’ my companions an’ I a
r
e
parched with thirst!” said one of the newcomers.

“P-positively p-parched!” Another agreed through a rapid spitfire of hiccups. He grinned and tried to lean on the first man for support, missed, and crashed into a third, who happily spun him around and pointed to the silent figure standing behind the settle. Drawing himself upright, the hiccupping man fumbled to straighten his cravat. “D-damm my eyes if they l-lie, gents, but I believe we have a l-lady in our midst.”

“Did I not tell you she would be here?” exclaimed a blond, round-faced member of the group. “Lizbeth, my peach! My swan! My light o’ love! Come let me introduce you to my very good fren’s!”

Bertrand Roth, concealed until then by the solid wooden back of the settle, shot to his feet beside Renée and made his presence known with a scowl. “I am afraid you gentlemen are mistaken in your expectations. The lovely Lizbeth is
not
in attendance this evening.”

The blond stopped cold in his tracks. He stood swaying on the balls of his feet a moment, peering from one shadowy face to the other, then retreated the two steps he had taken. “Beg pardon, m’lady. Beg pardon, sir. An honest mistake.”

Two of his three companions welcomed him back into their midst with a snort and a round of tippled laughter, while the third simply stood and hiccupped and stared raptly at Renée as she started to adjust her hood forward again over her face.

On further thought, she pushed the satin dome back off her head, baring her face and the surrounding cloud of golden curls to the light. A second man joined the first in staring, and to insure she drew the attention of the remaining pair, Renée unfastened the lace frog at her throat and ran her hands across the nape of her neck to lift the long, gleaming mass of curls free from the collar of the cloak. Like liquid sunlight it spilled around her shoulders, the waves and spirals catching the firelight behind her and glowing like a halo around her head.