The Marsh Hawk (24 page)

The acrid stench of gunpowder rose in her nostrils. Barstow's voice was barking something that she couldn't make out over the frantic snorts and nervous shrieks of the horses prancing and pawing the ground. Before she could collect herself and regain her seat, the coach door was yanked open by a black-gloved hand, and she was lifted to the ground.

“Let go of me!” she shrilled, struggling against the man's vise-like grip. She cried out in earnest as he jerked her to a standstill.

“Make no resistance, my lady!” Barstow warned her from the driver's seat. “Do as the bounder says!”

“Wise words,” said the highwayman to Barstow. “I told you to get down from there! Step lively, old man.”

“Do you want to get trampled?” Barstow shouted, struggling with the reins as the horses reared. “These horses will bolt if I do!”

“Toss down your weapons, then!”

“I've got no weapons. Hurry it up and get on with it. I can't hold these beasts, I'm telling you.”

All at once the pistol fired again, and Barstow's low-crowned coachman's hat went flying as the bullet ripped a gaping hole in its wide brim.

“The next will put your lights out,” the highwayman snarled, his voice raised over Jenna's scream. “Now, like I said, throw down your weapons.”

Jenna's heart sank as Effie came crashing to earth at the high-wayman's feet.

“That's all I've got,” Barstow shouted. “Come and see if you don't believe me.”

“Keep those hands high, then,” the man charged, meanwhile shoving Jenna's bonnet back from her face with the tip of his pistol barrel. He raked her with familiar eyes.

She gasped, watching the highwayman slip his pistol into his greatcoat pocket and withdraw another gun—one more familiar to her. Even in the darkness, with no light but the coach lamp to illuminate it, she recognized it at once. She'd seen it often enough in her father's gun case in the trophy room at Thistle Hollow. It was the army service pistol that had bludgeoned him to death. There was no question. She recognized the notches and initials her father had carved in the stock.

She took the man's measure then, and her breath caught again. It could have been Simon standing there. The tricorn hat and dark clothes were nearly identical to those she'd discovered in the round tower in the orchard at Kevernwood Hall. Was the man emulating Simon—riding on his coattail, as it were? Was he sullying the Marsh Hawk's benevolent reputation to safeguard himself from making his own? Whatever the situation, it was easy to see how Lionel had mistaken this brigand for the true Marsh Hawk. The likeness was substantial.

The man's dark eyes held her relentlessly. He smelled un-washed, and of strong whiskey; his breath was fetid with it. He groped for her reticule and ripped it from her arm. Examining the contents, he did not remove the notes and coins inside, but rather crammed the little purse into his pocket and examined her hands for jewels.

“I have nothing else,” she snapped in defiance.

“Nothing, eh?” the man scoffed. “Off with the spencer. I'll see for myself, me lady.'”

She fumbled with the buttons on her jacket. Impatient, the highwayman helped her out of it with rough, pinching hands, removed her bonnet, and spun her around. Pearl combs held her neat chignon in place. He ripped them out, and her hair tumbled over her shoulders.

“Nothing, eh? What's these, then, me lady?”

“Take them!” Jenna shrilled.

“I've
got
them, little ladybird. What else have ye got, eh?”

“N-nothing else.
No
! Let me go!”

“Here! Let her be!” Barstow erupted. “Have my watch, 'tis gold.”

The groom tossed it down, and the highwayman caught it in flight.

“Thank ye!” he blurted, tossing it in his hand before he jammed it into his pocket fob, alongside Jenna's reticule.

If she hadn't been so paralyzed with fear, she would have recognized the earth trembling beneath her thin leather slippers as the vibration of horses' hoofbeats. Instead, she took it for her own helpless trembling, until another pistol shot rang out, ripping through the darkness.

Muttering a string of curses, the highwayman let her go, snatched his horse's reins draped over the branch of a sapling by the roadside, swung himself into the saddle, and galloped off into the night.

Jenna scarcely blinked before Simon leapt off his lathered mount and reached her side in two long-legged strides. She could have sworn he didn't even limp. Phelps was nothing more than a blur streaking past them in pursuit of the highwayman, his own pistol blazing.

“Are you all right, my lady?” Barstow queried, attracting Simon's attention. “I did my best to outrun the bounder. When I seen he'd stopped another coach up around the bend, I spun this buggy clean around—almost upset her tryin' to put some distance between us. But he was too quick for me.”

It wasn't until then that Jenna realized they were facing in the opposite direction, toward Kevernwood Hall. Choked with emotions, not the least of which were raw fright, relief, and gross embarrassment, she read the look in Simon's blue-fire eyes, and looked away. They were searing her at close range, and all she could manage was a nod.

Though he stood so close that his warm breath puffed on her face, Simon hadn't touched her. One glance toward the white-knuckled fists clenched at his sides made her glad of it. When he spoke, it was not to her, but to Barstow, though it took a moment for him to switch his glower toward the driver's seat during the delivery.

“You and I have issues”—he launched toward the groom, whose brow had become pleated in a frown—“and you can bet your blunt we'll have them out when we get back to Kevernwood Hall.”

The last place Jenna wanted to go was Kevernwood Hall, and a protest caught in her throat. If he noticed, he showed no evidence. Taking her elbow, he steered her unceremoniously toward the coach without a word.

She was just climbing in when Phelps rode back alongside. Simon jutted a granite jaw in the valet's direction, posing a silent question, and the look ran Jenna through. She'd seen it before, in the anteroom at Moorhaven Manor, when she'd come around after she'd fainted; Simon had addressed Lord Eccleston with that look. It had thrilled her then. The memory brought tears to her eyes now. She refused to let him see them.

“I lost him in the wood, my lord,” Phelps said, with a regretful wag of his head. “His mount was not so worn to a raveling as this beast of yours underneath me.”

Simon snatched the reins of the horse he'd arrived astride, and thrust them toward the valet, directing him with a nod, and followed Jenna into the coupe. Taking his seat opposite her, he struck the roof of the coach a vicious blow with his pistol barrel, signaling Barstow to move on. Then, leaning back against the squabs, he folded his arms across his broad chest, his eyes smoldering toward hers.

Jenna averted her gaze, unable to bear that riveting look.

“Are you . . . hurt?” he queried after a painfully long hesitation, in a tone that utterly contradicted the feral look in those sizzling eyes. “He didn't . . . harm you?”

“No,” she murmured emptily, shaking her lowered head. “He was . . . the one.”

“Am I to be kept prisoner here, my lord?” his wife asked coolly as Simon ushered her inside the master bedchamber at Kevernwood Hall.

He did not cross the threshold. He hadn't spoken another word to her the whole distance to the estate. Halfway there, Robert Nast joined them on horseback, at which point Simon left the coupe and rode behind it alongside Phelps and the vicar the rest of the distance. He needed time to order his thoughts, which were all tangled up with his urges.

“You cannot think to keep me here against my will,” she said to his silence.

“I prefer to call it ‘protective custody,'” he returned succinctly. “It's clear that you aren't able to manage on your own.”

“How dare you!” she shrilled.

“Oh, I dare, my lady? I
have
to dare. I cannot afford the luxury of trust here now. Too much is at stake.”

“You think I mean to expose you,” she breathed.

“Suffice it to say, my lady, that until I've taken steps to protect myself, I cannot afford to take the chance that you might.”

“You do not know me very well, my lord.”

“And you, my lady, do not know me at all!”

Blue eyes dueled with silver. What had ever made him think he could lead a normal life—marry, and live a peaceful existence? Yes, he needed time. Those beautiful eyes—even in anger—dissolved his heart.

“Good night, my lady,” he said, the words clipped and unequivocal.

Closing the door to shut that quicksilver stare out of his view, he turned the key in the lock. Ignoring the frantic pounding of Jenna's fists and shrill protests from the other side, he stalked off down the corridor toward the staircase, where Phelps met him at the landing.

“I've locked the dressing room doors as you requested, my lord,” he said loftily, after his fashion. “Are you sure this is wise?”

“Wise?” Simon blurted, incredulous. “Good God, man, it's imperative—at least until I've thought this coil through.”

“As you say, my lord.”

“You don't approve,” Simon observed, noting the valet's tell-tale raised eyebrow.

“It's not for me to approve or disapprove, my lord,” Phelps returned. He ground out a guttural, humorless laugh. “I just don't think it's practical.” He inclined his head toward the master bedchamber door. “She'll bring the house down with that god-awful caterwauling.”

“Let her,” Simon replied, cracking a grim smile. He clapped the valet on the shoulder and continued down the stairs. “She'll keep,” he said. “Right now, Rob is awaiting me in the library, and then I have a few choice words for Barstow.”

“Will you want me to draw your bath, my lord?”

“Bath?” said Simon, wheeling around on the step. “There won't be time for that, old boy. Meet me at the stable. We're going to try and find that whoreson.”

Jenna's hands were red and smarting when she finally gave up her assault on the master bedchamber door. She sank down on the bed, her posture hunched in defeat, flexing her fingers and soothing the knuckles she'd scraped against the ancient wood. It had only been an hour since Simon left. It seemed like an eternity. She had only ceased her attack on the door during that time long enough to discover that, while the dressing room doors which led to the master bedchamber on either side remained open, both of the doors giving egress to the corridor outside were locked.

No one had come to her rescue, not even the mouselike Molly, whom she had been certain would liberate her. Did Simon mean to imprison her here indefinitely? Angry tears burned her eyes at the thought. She batted them back with moist lashes, and pounded the counterpane with clenched fists. The man had turned her into a veritable watering pot. She had shed more tears in the few short weeks since she'd met her paradox of a husband than she had in her entire life beforehand.

She pounded the bed again and vaulted off it. She hadn't lit the lamps, but a weak shaft of moonlight breaking through the clouds laid itself at her feet, and she followed it to its source and strained the darkness below for some sign of activity on the grounds. All at once her scalp began to tingle, and cold chills riveted her spine.

There was a light in the tower.

Scarcely breathing, she waited, her smarting eyes fixed upon the ghostly glow in the orchard until it disappeared and two figures emerged, their identity shrouded in the swarthy darkness, their images detectable only through their motion, as they mounted and rode off into the blackness. One of them was Simon. She recognized his ragged stride. But where could he be going in the wee hours, and who was with him?

She stood beside the window for some time pondering that before exhaustion dragged her eyelids down and tampered with her balance. Haloed in an eerie puddle of fractured moon glow, the bed looked inviting. Dared she accept? She shuffled toward it wearily, and crawled beneath the coverlet, shoes and all. No. She would not disrobe. She would be ready to make her escape the minute a hand turned the key in that lock across the way—no matter who that hand belonged to. That was the plan. Having decided upon it, she closed her swollen eyes, and slept.

For all her resolve, her plan was foiled when she awoke to bright sunlight streaming through the mullioned panes, and to Simon standing over her with a breakfast tray in his hands. She bolted upright and threw back the counterpane. Before she could rise, however, Simon tethered her with the tray, planting it squarely over her lap, and stood back, arms akimbo, an eyebrow raised, taking the measure of her wrinkled gray serge traveling costume and morocco leather slippers.

“Did you imagine that I would take advantage of you, my lady?” he said, frosty voiced. “You really don't know me, do you? No matter. I expect much of that is my fault. So says Rob, at least.”

She set the tray aside with not a little force, and swung her feet to the floor.

“I am dressed, my lord, because I mean to leave. You cannot entomb me here.”

“Jenna,” Simon entreated, his tone turned solemn. “May we have a truce? We need to talk.”

“We have nothing to discuss, my lord. You made it perfectly clear at Holy Trinity that you don't care to hear anything I have to say. I think it best that we leave it at that.”

“But I have something to say to you. May I sit?” he inquired, sweeping his arm toward the hearth-side chair.

Jenna didn't answer. Seeing her chance, she bolted toward the door and tugged frantically at the knob, but it was locked, and she spun around to face Simon exhibiting the key.

He strolled toward her, his limp scarcely noticeable, and she backed away until the door made an end to her retreat. He was so close that his body heat warmed her, and the aroma of latakia drifting from his moist skin dizzied her like a drug. Tears welled up in her throat and puddled in her eyes. She choked them back. His image swam before her, and her heart began to hammer visibly, moving the dove gray bodice of her traveling dress. Something wrenched her heart and turned her knees to jelly. For a moment, she thought he was about to kiss her. If he had taken her in those strong, muscular arms, she would have yielded to his kiss—a single kiss. But no, those sapphire eyes holding her so relentlessly were not dilated black with passion; they were glazed over with anger and pain, and the look in them turned hers away.