The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (34 page)

“Let it be!” Elizabeth watched him rapidly clothe himself. “We've been given more than our share of chances. Don't tempt fate again.”

“But wouldn't it be a fine jest for us to spend the crown's reward? What say we return to London and invite King George over for forty pounds' worth of tea and crumpets? How can we pass up such an opportunity?”

“Very easily.” Elizabeth balled her hands beneath the quilt. “Something will go wrong, I just know it.”

“What could go wrong? Stafford thinks I'm dead. He'll believe I'm a ghost. I can't wait to see the look on his face. Perhaps I won't have to kill him. Perhaps he'll die of fright before I lay one hand on him.”

Scooting from the bed, she buried her face against the lace of Rand's shirt. “Let us ride away from the Dales. Please?”

“You're so beautiful.” Holding her at arm's length, he scrutinized her from head to toe. “I've seen you in brocade and silk and wool. I've seen you in breeches and stuffed like a scarecrow. But I think I prefer you with no clothes at all.”

“I prefer
you
alive!”

“I'll return after it's finished, Bess.”

“And if something should go amiss?”

“Look for me on the morrow. If things go amiss, I'll return tomorrow, by moonlight. 'Tis your turn to play the watcher, and I swear I'll not fail you.”

“I knew you'd leave me.” She gestured toward the bed. “I told you so.”

“And I said I wasn't a faithful dog. If you want a dog—”

“I don't want a dog. I want you.” Stepping away, she blinked back tears. “Do you know how much it hurt when I believed you dead? I felt as if my very heart had been ripped out. Don't do this to me. Please!”

The entire scenario would be played all over again, she thought. Once again, she'd wait and pray for her highwayman's safe return. She could understand how he felt about Stafford, truly she could, but Rand had taunted Death so long, thwarted him so many times. Wouldn't Death grow tired of the game and want compensation? The same way Rand wanted to pay Walter back in his own coin? Rand, however, was mortal, while Death was omnipotent. Furthermore, Elizabeth had a feeling that Death was rapidly running out of patience.

Rand cradled her chin. “One last kiss. For luck.”

She clung to him until he removed her arms, then watched him climb through the window, still as graceful as a cat.

But a cat had nine lives. How many lives did Rand have left?

Elizabeth bolted upright in her chair. From her position she could see out the casement window. She had kept vigil for endless hours, but Rand had not returned.

Had she been dreaming all along? No. She could not have dreamed the tender caress of his hands, nor the plunder of his tongue. She could not have dreamed the welt on his neck.

Even now Rand's scent lingered on her bedclothes. Even now her lips felt bruised from his kisses. Even now she felt a pleasant ache between her legs. Thankfully, that was not, nor ever could be, a dream.

Tim stood in front of the stables, speaking to a man on horseback. Tim's hair shone white-yellow in the early morning light, but it was impossible to identify the rider, although she knew it wasn't Rand. Her ostler waved his arms excitedly as the rider bent toward him. Abruptly, the rider wheeled his mount, dug his spurs into its flanks, and galloped from the yard.

Uneasy, Elizabeth watched Tim walk toward the barn. Might the scene she had just witnessed have something to do with Rand?

All day she tried to shake off her sense of doom. Feeling like a thief in her own house, she tiptoed into the kitchen for bread, cheese, fruit, and tea. One of the maids retrieved her chamber pot, then brought it back empty, along with some clean towels. When Elizabeth tried to question the young girl about unexpected visitors, she blushed furiously, curtsied, and fled.

Perhaps the maid had a lover.

Elizabeth wondered if
she
still had a lover. By God, she had mourned Rand so many times, wept so many times, the idea merely numbed her.

She tried to write. Instead, she kept pondering the various reasons why Rand had not returned. Something must have gone amiss. But if Rand or Walter had been killed, surely one of the carriages would have brought the news. Perhaps Rand had never found Walter. Perhaps Rand planned to lie in wait tonight, then come for her afterwards.

If things go amiss, I'll return by moonlight.

Desperate, Elizabeth wanted to ride across the moors until she was exhausted, beyond thought, beyond fear.

'Tis your turn to play the watcher, and I swear I'll not fail you.

“I shall play the watcher,” she said grimly, remembering how she had sat with the watchers during her mother's funeral, waiting for Barbara to come back to life.

But her mother had remained motionless, while Rand had truly come back from the dead. Pray God he hadn't abused the privilege.

***

Near sunset, Elizabeth heard the tramp of marching feet. A troop of soldiers entered the yard, their coats a scarlet stain against the gray of the cobblestones.

Why would soldiers be here?
She studied the score of faces as if their expressions might provide the answer. A troop of redcoats was an uncommon sight at any time, so why would they suddenly decide to pay the White Hart a visit?

“There's only one way to find out,” she murmured. After plaiting her unruly hair with a red love knot, she raced down the hallway. Then she skidded to a stop.

The soldiers are here because of Rand, you bird-wit.

No other explanation sufficed. Rand had somehow muddled his attempt to rob Walter and the furious magistrate had summoned the redcoats.

The White Hart had a back exit. She would sneak out that way and wait for Rand at the peel tower. But what if he rode directly toward the inn?

I'll wait for him on the road. Somehow, I'll head him off.

Grace stood by the front entrance, watching the soldiers through the door's misty pane. “Why are they here, Mistress?”

“I have no idea.”

“I'm affrighted, Mistress.” Grace twisted her apron. “Dear me. As soon as ye come home, strange things happen.”

“Then I must disappear again.” Just as Elizabeth turned toward the back rooms, the front door opened. Three soldiers entered. In their tricornered hats, bright coats, white breeches, and high black boots, they appeared inhumanly tall.

The leader of the three, a lieutenant, breathed through his mouth, since his nose looked as if it had been broken more than once. “Elizabeth Wyndham?” he asked, his voice raspy.

Fear rose tight in her throat, but Elizabeth simply shook her head. “I'm the new maid, sir.”

“Mistress, are ye mad?” Grace turned to the lieutenant. “'Tis her, sir, Miss Wyndham, standin' right next t' ye.”

“Damn you,” Elizabeth fumed, as the soldiers surrounded her. “Why can't you keep your mouth shut?”

“But Mistress, that be your name, and I dare not lie t' the king's own soldiers.”

Elizabeth faced the lieutenant. “I lied because I was frightened. What's this all about? What have I done?”

“I can't say, Miss Wyndham.”

The lieutenant wore a military sash across his chest. A steel gorget hung from a chain around his neck. He looked like someone who would do as he was told.

“You'll have to wait for Lord Stafford,” the lieutenant continued. “He will inform you of what you need to know.”

Elizabeth muttered a profanity under her breath. Somehow Walter had outfoxed her again.

***

Walter strode into the common room, his face as white as the bandages that wimpled the crown of his head. “I was so distracted by your hysteria, Elizabeth, I did not stay to make certain your highwayman was properly disposed of. I was a fool to trust Master Hodges. One can never trust the loyalty of a man who can be bribed.”

She raised her chin. “I have no idea what you're talking about. Rand was hanged at Tyburn. I saw him lower the handkerchief and
you
told me he was tarred and chained.”

Judging from Walter's appearance, Rand had indeed caught up with him. But if Rand had been captured or killed, there would be no need for the troops, which meant Rand was still out there, Elizabeth thought, and Walter planned to use her as bait.

The muskets, with their dark wood, gleaming barrels and bayonets, seemed to fill the room. One of the soldiers looked little older than eighteen. The tip of his nose glistened with sweat.

“You're a fine actress,” Walter said angrily. A rusty stain darkened the bandages at the spot where blood had seeped through. “Your grieving act looked so genuine, I almost felt sorry for you. But you knew all along that he was still alive.”

“You're insane. My distress
was
genuine. This I swear on my mother's grave.”

“Now you've added sacrilege to your other sins.” He made a disgusted sound. “Your bastard highwayman caught up with me right out of Horsehouse. I had just left the coaching inn there. He forced me to lie upon the ground and put a pistol to my head. Then he hesitated. I could have sworn he said ‘Bess has made me soft. I cannot do this.' Sensing an advantage, I began to struggle. I don't know what happened next. Perhaps he moved his hand, or the gun misfired, but the bullet merely grazed me. After I regained consciousness, I told Grosley to ride here. Even then I didn't believe… your grief… how the hell could you fool me like that?”

Grosley!
The unexpected visitor had been Walter's servant. Bundled against the cold, atop a horse, he had looked much smaller. No wonder she hadn't recognized him.

“When Grosley entered the yard,” Walter continued, “your ostler was babbling. Grosley could scarce understand him. Something about a ghost riding through the night—a ghost come to claim you. When Grosley related the tale,
I
understood.”

Elizabeth felt as if all the blood had drained from her face and body, but she managed to hold herself steady. “Tim saw two ghosts, my lord,” she said. “They haunt the inn. I saw them myself. Yesterday. Don't you remember?”

“Yes. But you asked me if I had seen a lady, not a man.”

“I swear! There was a man at the window, right next to the lady. He… he looked nothing like… the highwayman.”

Up until now Elizabeth had told the truth, but for the first time she faltered. Because Ranulf had looked very much like Rand. Ranulf's hair was curlier, his beard coarser, his smile more evil, yet the resemblance existed. Ranulf, however, wasn't the least bit soft. He'd have killed Walter without pause.

She didn't know whether to feel relieved or dismayed that Rand had not played the cold-blooded killer.

Relieved,
she decided.

Until Walter said, “You conniving bitch, do you honestly think I'd believe one word you say?” He nodded sharply toward the lieutenant. “You've been given your orders. Proceed.”

The soldiers all looked from Walter to Elizabeth. The lieutenant appeared uncomfortable. “Are you certain about this, sir?” he asked.

“I've never been more certain of anything in my life.”

***

The hours crawled by, toward midnight. Clothed in a pure white gown, Elizabeth knelt at the foot of her bed, facing her casement window. On the floor, in front of her knees, two heavy marble bookends secured a flintlock musket whose barrel was bound beneath her breasts. Her wrists were roped together. She had repeatedly tried to twist her hands free, but the knots held.

Ironically, the musket was called a Brown Bess.

Her room was dim, lit by a small fire and the moon, so that Rand would not detect the soldiers underneath her casement. Flat on their bellies, they cradled their long-barreled muskets.

Other soldiers were positioned behind the inn's second-story windows.

Walter sprawled at her writing desk, drinking from a bottle of wine. He had read the first chapter of her book-in-progress. Then, in a snarling fit of fury, he had used the pages to fan the fire, watching their edges slowly blacken and burn.

It didn't matter. The words were indelibly printed on her brain. Rand was indelibly printed on her brain.

“If you should try and warn your lover, I'll pull the trigger,” Walter said with a sneer. “I'm gambling you'll keep silent and let him ride into a trap. After all, you preferred to let your lover hang rather than admit to Robert Whitney's murder. When the moment comes, you'll choose your life over his.”

Elizabeth's rump pressed against her bed. If only she could dissolve into its frame, into the wall.

You're wrong, my lord,
she thought, working the ropes.
Now that I know what it's like to live without Rand, without hope, I would rather be dead than experience such pain again.

“He won't come,” she said. “He's far too smart for you. All you'll get is a sleepless night.”

The lieutenant, situated halfway between Stafford and the window, stared intently outside. Walter continued drinking. Elizabeth continued working the ropes. Her hands and fingers were raw from the struggle. At the point where the musket barrel rubbed her chest, her gown was soaked.

Her entire being concentrated on two things: Rand's arrival and the musket. Despite her defiant words, she knew Rand would come. Which meant that, unless a miracle occurred, she would have to choose.

Death for Rand, or death for herself?

Walter rose and walked unsteadily toward her. Bending, he breathed wine fumes into her face. “I curse the day I first laid eyes on you,” he said. “Why don't we end it now?”

Terrified, she could only stare at his face.

“If I pull the trigger, I'll be a free man,” he said.

“Nay, my lord. If you pull the trigger, you'll be gaoled with the very felons you've captured. Robbers. Murderers. Pickpockets,” she recited, remembering his words inside Newgate. “Underworld scum, all coming and going precisely as they please.”

Walter's expression altered and she caught a hint of fear in his eyes. He squeezed her chin rather than the trigger. Spinning on his heels, he returned to the table and groped for his chair.

Elizabeth worked diligently at the knots. Her hands were slick with perspiration, or blood, she couldn't tell which. Sometimes it seemed the ropes might be looser, other times they felt even tighter.

Stafford took a long pull from the wine bottle, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then jerked his head toward the window. “Are you keeping good watch,
dearest?
”

She didn't answer. The barrel brutalized her rib cage. Her legs ached. Her arms and hands felt numb. She looked beyond the soldiers to the ribbon of road, visible in the moonlight. The night was as still as the inn, as if it too watched and waited.

Had she heard something? The trot of a horse's hooves? Sound would carry far on such a quiet night. She thought she glimpsed a shadow on the road. But it was far away, of no more substance than a bat flitting across the mouth of a cave.

“Let me go,” she pleaded. “If you do not and something happens to me, you'll hang for murder.”

Walter laughed, a harsh sound. “You don't have the courage to warn your lover. You forget, Elizabeth, I've been obsessed with you. I know you better than you know yourself. You'll keep silent.”

Abruptly, the lieutenant turned toward the desk. “He's coming, my lord!”

Walter lurched from his chair. “Are you certain? I don't see anything.”

“Out there on the road.” Turning, the lieutenant pointed.

Elizabeth heard the clock chime midnight. At that very moment, her ropes loosened. Her finger reached between the bookends until she found the musket's trigger.

It curved so smoothly and fit so easily. This was the moment of decision. If Rand's stallion's hoofbeats were distinct, the sound of a gunshot would surely shatter the night's eerie silence. Unlike Janey, Elizabeth had a second chance, a chance to set things right. One squeeze. The falling hammer would strike the frizzen, the priming powder would flash through a touchhole, and the resultant shot would alert Rand.

Is that why we were allowed to remember our previous lives? So that I might make the final choice?

She saw Janey framed in the White Hart's window, staring down at the yard. She heard Janey's voice inside her head:
Don't you remember? Don't you know?