Stand and Deliver (8 page)

Her fingers hesitated at her throat.

“I do not have al night.” His voice was a growl of warning.

It did the trick. Her fumbling fingers unfastened her necklaces and one by one she dropped them into his waiting hand.

“And your rings. The diamonds in particular. I have a lady friend who would appreciate a fine diamond ring or two on her pretty white fingers.”

Her mouth fel open in outrage. “You would give my diamond rings to your whore?”

“That was not wise of you,” he said, his voice as cold as ice. “Take them off quickly, before I cut off your fingers and have done with you.”

In the corner of the coach, he saw Hutton’s hand creep toward his waistcoat pocket. Fearing the man had a pistol hidden away and was planning to play the hero, he almost laughed with relief when the fel ow brought out a smal bottle and took a surreptitious swig. Traveling with such a woman would make a little Dutch courage a necessity.

The woman was holding out a handful of rings. She dropped them into his palm and hid her hands in her skirt.

“You stil have one more,” he reminded her at the glimpse of gold he spied on one hand before she had time to hide it away.

“That is my wedding ring,” she replied stoutly, though her voice quavered a little. “No man wil take that away from me. Not even if you threaten to cut off my finger for it.” She held out her hand to him. “See, it is but a plain gold band, not worth the trouble of cutting off me.”

“I would not rob a woman of her wedding band,” he replied gal antly, touched at her bravery in defending what she held most dear. “Fare thee wel , and I thank you both for your gifts tonight.”

With that, he wheeled his horse about. At the last moment, he tossed Hutton’s pitiful purse back through the window on to the man’s knees before he rode off through the trees. The poor fel ow looked as if he had more need of it.

It had been foolish of them to travel without a guard, relying on nothing more than good luck to keep them safe.

Everyone’s luck ran out eventual y, as theirs had tonight.

Such coaches were fine, easy pickings. His pockets were heavy with loot. He’d made more in this one haul than he often did in a month or more.

He had more than enough now to set up as a horse-trader in the colonies. Better that he take his own advice and get out of the game before his luck ran out. Besides, if he rode hard, he could be back at Bess’ side by tomorrow night as he had promised.

A single stolen day with her was worth more to him than another pocketful of bright gold guineas.

Tim crept into the stable just before dawn, his feet sore, but his heart singing. The magistrate, though at first suspicious of his story, had eventual y been convinced of his truthfulness. He had refused to change his tale even on the threat of being whipped to within an inch of his life if he proved to be a liar.

He had missed a whole day of work and the head ostler would drive him into the ground as a punishment, but he did not care.

Bess would soon be his. He could almost smel the sweetness of her above the dung and oats smel of the stable, and the taste of her mouth was burning on his tongue.

Soon, very soon, he promised himself, as he sank down on to a bale of hay and closed his eyes in utter exhaustion.

As he drifted off to sleep, he could almost feel the warmth of Bess’ soft body pressed against his own.

They came at sunset, just as Bess was scraping clean the turnips to add to the pot of stew bubbling on the stove.

Half a dozen and more of them, their uniforms shabby and worn, but their muskets disturbingly bright and shiny. At their head rode the local squire and magistrate of the area.

A nasty piece of work he was, with wandering hands and a vicious temper when he was crossed. Last time he had come to the inn, he had pinched her bottom so sharply he had left her covered in bruises. She had dared not complain, fearing worse treatment at his hands if she roused his temper, already foul enough after her polite refusal to whore for him.

Even so, he’d not taken her refusal in good part. That same evening, he’d trumped up an excuse to have her father whipped, and had wielded the whip himself, his eyes fil ed with savage glee. Her father had not been able to walk without limping for a ful month afterward.

Bess bent her head to her turnips, trying in vain to stil the racing of her heart. Jack was gone. She had nothing to fear from the magistrate but a few more vicious pinches and another leering proposition to share his bed.

It must be a coincidence that the soldiers had arrived on her doorstep on the same day that Jack was due to return. She dared not consider the alternative. No doubt they were out recruiting for young men to join their ranks.

She would feed them and send them on their way once more, with a few of the dul er local boys marching beside them after having been tricked into taking the King’s shil ing and joining their ranks.

Soldiers were bad for business. As they entered the tavern, the locals gradual y melted away into the shadows until the soldiers had the place virtual y to themselves. Even her father melted away into the darkness with the rest, no doubt fearing another beating.

The magistrate cal ed loudly for ale for his men. Bess hurried out from the kitchen with a pitcher she had just drawn from the barrel in the cel ar.

The magistrate watched as she poured the ale into a pewter mug and set it in front of him. “That’s the highwayman’s whore,” he said to his men, jostling her with his elbow so that she spil ed some ale from her jug on the table. “A clumsy bitch, to be sure.”

She stood stock stil for a moment, just staring at the ale as it dripped over the edge of the table on to the floor, as her world col apsed around her. They had found out about Jack. Somehow or other, they had found out about him. And they were here to take him.

Jack had promised her that he would come back to see her before he sailed for the Americas. She had pushed him to make that promise. And now that promise she had forced him to make would be the death of him.

One of the men took advantage of her slowness to wrap his arm around her waist. “She’s a pretty enough wench, for al that she prefers low company.” He leered at her bosom. “How about it, sweetheart? You’l be looking for a new man to warm your bed soon enough. You be nice to me and I’l show you what a real man in your bed can do for you.”

Jack would not stand a chance against half a dozen soldiers with muskets, especial y not if he were to be taken by surprise. Somehow or other, she needed to lul their suspicions for long enough to warn Jack they were after him. Though her stomach was churning and she wanted more than anything to be sick, she extricated herself with a saucy wink and a smile. “Your comrades might not appreciate it if you distract the woman who is in charge of feeding you al supper tonight.” She looked around at them al invitingly, her mind working furiously. “You look hungry, gentlemen.”

A murmur of assent went around the group and even the man leering at her breasts licked his lips at the thought of a good hot meal.

“I have yesterday’s rabbit stew that just needs to be heated up,” she offered ingratiatingly, the glimmer of an idea forming in her brain. “I could have it ready for you in a trice. It’s ful of sweet carrots and turnips and leeks too, and hunks of potato as big as your fist.”

“We’l have none of your warmed-over leavings,” the magistrate barked at her, a look of distaste of his face at the mention of al the vegetables. “You’l bring us out a decent dinner, or I’l know the reason why.”

“We do have a brace of fine fat eels in the larder,” she said slowly. “My mother was planning to serve them to the gentry in the private parlor, but they might not even like eels.

Not everyone appreciates a fat river eel. I could bake them into a fine pie for you.”

The magistrate’s stomach rumbled loudly at the mention of eels. “That’l do better than warmed-over rabbit stew at any rate. Bring us an eel pie, and be quick about it.”

She bobbed a curtsey. “Right away, sir.”

Once in the kitchen, she leaned against the wooden butcher’s block and took a deep breath to steady her nerves. If she did not manage to distract the soldiers, they would shoot Jack down like a dog, and Jack would go to his death thinking that she had betrayed him.

She could not let that happen. She would rather die herself.

Her mother was in the kitchen as always, busy with the endless round of cooking. A frown spread across her face when she looked up from her work and caught sight of Bess. “What do they want?” she asked, gesturing with her knife at the common parlor where the soldiers had ensconced themselves. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

“They’ve come for Jack.”

Her mother’s knife didn’t falter even for a moment in its chopping rhythm. “I might have guessed he was on the run from the law. His breeches were finer than I’ve seen for many a moon. So what’s he wanted for? And before you take it into your head and ask, no, it wasn’t me who put the soldiers on to him. I might not like him sniffing around my daughter’s skirts, but I’d never turn in a man you fancy. Not unless he’d earned it.”

In her panic at seeing the soldiers, she’d not thought about it before, but now this new worry would not leave her alone. Just who had ratted on Jack? Few enough people knew he was here, and fewer stil knew that he was on the run. “He’s only a highwayman, but they’l hang him if they find him.”

Her mother shrugged. “Better an honest thief than a magistrate who’l rob you blind under the guise of the law.

What are you worried about Jack for? He’s ridden over into the next county by now.”

Bess pushed herself upright and headed toward the door that led to the kitchen garden. “Someone must have told them he was here. And that he promised to come back.” Just as soon as she had gotten rid of the magistrate and his ragtag bunch of soldiers, she would find out who the traitor was.

Walking purposeful y now, she strode down to the bottom of the garden. A rotten fishy smel led her to the exact place in the compost heap where her mother had discarded the eels the day before. Luckily, the rats hadn’t gotten at them yet. She poked at them gingerly with a stick.

They were probably too nasty even for the rats.

Gagging at the vile smel , she picked them up careful y by their tails and carried them in to the kitchen.

Her mother wrinkled her nose and flapped her apron at her as she returned. “Get those out of here, girl. Whatever are you thinking of to bring them back inside? You’l chase away our few remaining customers with the stench.”

“The magistrate has ordered an eel pie. These are the only eels we have.”

Her mother looked grim. “Do you know what you are doing, Bess?”

“I am making an eel pie,” she replied stoutly. “Nothing more. It wil not be my fault if the eels turn out to be bad.”

“The magistrate wil see it differently.” She fixed Bess with a steady gaze. “Is Jack worth it?”

“I would poison twenty magistrates for his sake.”

A slow smile spread over her mother’s face. “If anyone deserves to have such a scurvy trick played on him, it is the magistrate. His accounting of our taxes was outright robbery. I doubt a single farthing ended up in King George’s coffers. And I, for one, would dearly love to see him writhing on the floor with a bel yache to end al bel yaches.”

The smel was less overpoweringly awful when the eels were washed, chopped and simmering in a pan on the stove. She’d discarded the worst of the slime, leaving the bits of meat that looked the most edible.

She opened the lid of the pot and let some steam escape. The smel was stil nasty, but not so strong. A good handful of black pepper in the bottom of the pie crust, enough garlic to flavor an entire horse, and a pinch of other spices, and the putrescence would be hidden wel enough.

She’d not grown up in an inn for nothing. Every innkeeper worth her salt knew the best way to disguise the flavor of rotting meat.

By the time she took the eel pies out of the oven, their crusts baked a golden brown and curls of pepper and spice scented steam escaping form the vents she had cut in the pastry, they looked good enough to eat.

Certainly the magistrate was pleased enough to see them, as were his soldiers. Cal ing for more ale to wash it down with, he dug into the largest pie with his spoon, ladling a huge portion out on to his plate, before passing it over to his men.

In a few minutes, al that was left of the pies was a scrap of gravy in the bottom of the pie dish.

The magistrate stretched his booted feet out in front of him and belched loudly as she cleared away the plates.