A Highwayman Came Riding (6 page)

“Macheath,” he replied. The sober mood of their parting had dissipated. An echo of his rakish grin curved his lips, but his eyes shone softly, sending a warm glow through her.

“Good-bye, Captain Macheath.”

Then she hurried into the bedchamber to pack the bandboxes. The duchess was arranging her bonnet.

“What kept you?” she asked in her usual irritable way.

“I asked the captain his name. It’s Macheath. That is Scottish, is it not?”

“Macheath? Yes, and I am Polly Peachum. Idiot! He was bamming you. Captain Macheath is a famous fictional highwayman, from Gay’s
Beggar’s Opera.
Well, it was too much to expect he would give his real name. We shall learn it when he is arrested. Hurry up, child. We haven’t got all day.”

As Marianne folded up nightgowns and shawls, she felt cheated. She had thought, for a moment, that the captain might be capable of redemption, that he was not quite rotten to the core. And all the time he had been laughing up his sleeve at her. Captain Macheath, indeed!

“There, we are ready,” she said, gathering up the odds and ends to straggle out to the carriage, balancing the second bandbox on top of the first, with a blanket trailing over her arm. The duchess carried nothing but her reticule and the heavy burden of her pride.

Chapter Seven

The roads were every bit as bad as the captain had warned. The carriage wheels creaked at each turn as they lurched through inches of mud.

“It will be better once we are out of this track and back on the paved road,” the duchess said, more to cheer herself than her companion.

Marianne scoured the surroundings for possible hiding places for the diamonds. As the forest grew right up to the verge of the lane, she could see little but trees. If there was a shed or shack in there it would be hard to find.

The captain rode in front of them on Juno, a handsome bay mare with a black mane and tail. He looked every inch the gentleman with his curled beaver tilted over his eyes and a well-cut jacket hugging his broad shoulders. Miguel, his arm in a sling, rode behind on a brown cob.

The sky was a dull gray, the countryside sodden from the recent downpour. Branches, their leaves weighted with water, drooped mournfully. Between the dreary day, the wretched road, and the loss of the diamonds, it was hard to keep up one’s spirits.

Marianne tried to be happy that they had escaped the highwayman and were on their way to the grandest wedding of the year. She was to attend. She had never met Lady Augusta nor her groom, but the duchess had arranged it as a treat for her and because she might require Marianne’s services at the reception. Marianne knew to a nicety how the duchess liked her shawl and pillow arranged—she always traveled with a pillow in case her back went out. She was a martyr to her rheumatism and was surprised it was not paining her in such damp weather as this. It was handy, too, to have someone to carry the various medicinal decoctions and powders that accompanied her wherever she went.

“There, you see! I knew we would make it,” the duchess cried as they drew out of the lane onto the main road. It had taken more than half an hour to traverse the mile of lane. Already the autumn sky was darkening. “It will be easy driving from here on. We shall spend the night at Chertsey and proceed to London tomorrow, and have two days to rest up for the wedding. I shall arrange for someone to give you a little tour of London, Marianne. It is shocking for a young lady never to have seen St. Paul’s and the Tower of London. I don’t know what you were about, never to have seen them. Very remiss of you.”

It was the shops and such delights as the theater that Marianne would have preferred to see, but that was unlikely. Her escort would be some old friend of the duchess’s. All her hopes of future happiness were pinned on meeting some respectable and undemanding gentleman at the wedding.

The road was by no means smooth, but it was better than the lane. Were it not for the grit that had invaded the hubs of the wheels and creaked at every turning of the axle, the drive would have been tolerable. They proceeded another few miles at a faster pace until they came to the river. What was usually no more than a meandering stream had swollen to a brown torrent after the recent deluge. The water rose to within an inch of the little wooden humpback bridge that would take them to the other side. The bridge was only ten yards wide, but it was a vital link in their journey.

Beeton drew the horses to a stop before crossing it. The duchess was just opening the window to holler up to him when the captain appeared at the window.

“I don’t recommend you cross the bridge,” he said. “I rode over it. The weight of my mount was enough to cause it to sway. The torrent must have loosened its moorings.”

“Rubbish,” the duchess said. With the lure of Chertsey on the other side—proffering a comfortable bed, a decent meal, and civilized company—she was not about to turn around. Where was there to go, but back to that woodchopper’s shack? “Carry on, Beeton!” she called.

Beeton joined the captain. “That bridge must be a hundred years old, madam. It’s trembling in the wind. Is there another bridge not too far away, Captain?”

“Two miles in the other direction. You’d have to turn the carriage around and go back—”

“We are not turning back!” the duchess declared. “Carry on, Beeton.” She closed the window, and Beeton, with a shake of his head, returned to his perch.

“It is some trick to steal our nags,” the duchess declared as the carriage lurched into motion. “No doubt Macheath has his henchmen waiting at the other bridge.”

Marianne looked out the window behind them. The captain and Miguel watched them from the entrance to the bridge. When the captain raised his hat and waved farewell, she felt a sense of loss, like a hollowness inside, in spite of all the trouble he had caused. It had been interesting to be in company with a handsome young man, someone so different from the duchess’s crones.

The horses balked at traversing the unsteady bridge. The bridge swayed, the carriage lurched, and both ladies hung on to the edge of the banquette with both hands. Marianne prayed. As the duchess’s lips were moving silently, Marianne assumed she was ordering God to get them across safely. They were already halfway to the other side. The bridge was not sinking, was it? That creaking sound could not be the sound of timbers failing. It was only the suspension belts of the carriage. They would make it. Surely they would make it.

There was no warning crash of failing wood. The bridge did not break under the weight of the carriage and drop them into the water, but they were suddenly driving at an odd, steep angle that catapulted the duchess off her banquette and onto the floor. The carriage began to bounce and jerk. Marianne, sitting with her back to the horses, was pitched up with her head bumping the ceiling. The sound of horses neighing in panic was followed by a shout and a splash, and suddenly muddy water was seeping in around the edges of the carriage doors. The moorings on the far side of the bridge had washed loose, causing the bridge to form a wooden slide leading into the river.

The duchess, for once, was silent. It was Marianne who spoke. “Are you all right, Your Grace?” she cried in alarm as she scrabbled to the floor to assist her mistress, who was pale and scowling fiercely, but in no dire condition.

“Of course I am not all right! I am drowning.”

The water was rushing in quickly, but it covered no more than their feet and the hems of their skirts. The carriage continued to jerk and sway as the horses flailed and the racing river raged.

“Beeton! I say, Beeton! Get me out of here before I drown. Damme, that water is cold as ice. Our trunks, Marianne! If they land in the river, I shan’t have a stitch to wear to the wedding!”

Marianne looked out the window. “The water is not very deep,” she said. “The horses are trying to scramble up the bank. They’ll never make it. Oh dear, I hope they don’t lame themselves!”

The duchess shoved Marianne aside and hollered out, “Beeton! Mind the horses!”

Beeton and Tom were in the water up to their waists, trying to help the team up the bank. But it was a sheer drop with no foothold.

“We are going to drown,” the duchess said in a voice of doom. “Drown in a dirty river in the middle of nowhere. Can you swim?”

“No.”

“Then crawl up on the roof of the carriage and shout as loud as you can until someone hears you. Go on, get out.”

“I can’t get the door open. The water is holding it shut.”

“Can you squeeze out the window?”

“I’ll try. But what about you—”

“We don’t seem to be sinking any deeper. I’ll wait here. What is Beeton about? Why doesn’t he get us out?”

“He’s trying to save the horses.”

“Damn the horses. Tell him to save me.”

Help came not from Beeton but from Captain Macheath. He had seen their predicament and ridden his mount into the swollen river to help them. He appeared at the window in water to his waist, wearing only his shirt and trousers. He handed his jacket to the duchess for safekeeping.

“Sit tight, ladies,” he said. “I’ll help Beeton unhitch the nags. The bank is less steep farther downstream. You won’t drown in this shallow water. The carriage wheels are already resting on the riverbed. There’s no danger of tipping. We’ll come back and rescue you. Miguel is riding ahead to get help at the closest inn.”

The duchess tossed the captain’s jacket aside and reached out the window to clasp his hand in her bony, bejeweled fingers. “Hurry, Captain,” she said.

His mount half swam, half walked on to the front of the carriage as he gentled it by soft urgings. He dismounted and began working with Beeton and Tom to rescue the team, with water churning all around them. Marianne put her head out the window to watch. Macheath’s sodden shirt clung to him, revealing his body through the linen material, which had become transparent from the water. That darker part in front would be a patch of hair on his chest. The muscles of his shoulders and upper arms tensed to bulges as he strained to steady the horses. His broad back tapered to a slender waist. He had an athlete’s body, strong yet agile and graceful, even under great physical exertion. She had never seen a man so close to naked, which she felt accounted for the unusual heat growing inside her.

When Macheath turned and glanced back at her, his little smile told her he liked the chance to show off in front of a lady. She quickly drew her head in.

The duchess immediately took her turn at the window. “A fine figure of a man,” she said grudgingly. “It is the inbreeding that robs the nobility of a figure.”

The carriage swayed a little, but the fear of death had passed, leaving Her Grace somewhat chastened.

“Fancy that,” she said. “Rescued by a thief and a scoundrel. I knew there was some good blood in the lad. Did I not say his papa was a gentleman, Marianne?”

Marianne did not answer, but she wore a little smile of satisfaction. “Lift your feet up out of the water, Duchess. Here, let me wrap the blanket around them.”

“I’ll have a sip of that wine, Marianne, to restore my nerves. What a blessing I didn’t have one of my attacks, or you would be lumbered with a corpse. It might happen yet. If it does, take my body home. I want to be buried at Bath. My lawyer has all the details.”

“You have no intention of dying, and you know it,” Marianne scolded.

The old girl was fairly docile during the interval while the men were rescuing the team. She did not allow Marianne another shot at the window. It was twenty minutes before Macheath returned to the carriage, at which time Her Grace pulled her head inside and pretended her interest had been for the horses. Macheath’s complexion was even more highly colored than usual after his exertion. One shock of wet hair tumbled over his forehead, giving him a youthful air.

“We managed to save the team,” he assured them. His navy eyes turned to Marianne and surveyed her closely, as if looking for signs of damage. When he ascertained that she was well, he addressed himself to the duchess. “One of the nags has a stretched tendon, but he’ll recover. Beeton and Tom are taking them to the inn. They’ll come back or send men back to rescue the carriage. Are you able to walk, duchess?”

“Of course I can walk. I am not a cripple, but I can’t walk on water.”

“That surprises me,” he said blandly. “You’ll have to scramble out the window, I fear. We won’t get the door open against the pressure of the water. Can you make it?”

“If I must.” She stuck her head out the window but seemed unable to get through.

Macheath peered in at Marianne. “You push her from behind, I’ll pull. Ready?”

“Ready.”

She put her hands around the duchess’s bony hips and tried to push her out. With Macheath pulling at her shoulders, she was finally hauled out the window grumbling and complaining and threatening a heart attack and enjoying it all keenly. Macheath gathered her up in his arms and waded through the muddy river until they reached a spot where the slope of the bank was gentle enough to allow her to clamber up, with his help.

“It’s chilly,” he said. “Are you going to be all right?”

“My shawl is not quite drenched. Thank you, Captain.”

“My pleasure, Duchess,” he replied, and gave a gallant bow before darting back down to rescue Marianne. She was young and agile. By bracing her feet against the banquette, she got out the window with no trouble, carrying the captain’s jacket, as she feared he’d catch his death of cold.

Macheath gathered her into his arms. She had never felt so uncomfortable in her life. It seemed shamefully intimate to be held against that hard, wet chest, with his arms around her and his chin brushing the top of her head.

“Put your arm around my neck,” he suggested. “It’ll help balance the load.”

She shyly put one arm around his neck. “I hope I’m not too heavy,” she said.

“Light as a feather.”

“I weigh eight stone.”

“It’s well distributed,” he murmured. She peered up at him, wondering if he referred to her arm around his neck. She saw the laughter in his eyes. “It would be running after your harpy mistress that keeps you in such good shape. Why do you do it?”