The Highwayman Read online

  Bart smiled. "Lord Weaver, a pleasure to see you again. You appear to be well. I met your new ward today; he seems an intriguing fellow."

  "Yes," Weaver replied, a pensive look overtaking his handsome face.

  All of his life, Bart recalled Thaddeus Chadwick, the Baron of Weaver, as being nigh on reclusive. He very seldom left the village, and then only to attend matters which required leaving his home. He must have been about six and forty years now, give or take, yet he seemed as ageless to Bart as always. Tall, stern and handsome, with an air that always reminded Bart of his more scholarly friends. Silver was threaded through the dark mahogany hair, but it only enhanced his appearance. His dark brown eyes gave none of his thoughts away.

  "I assume you have come to handle the problem of the highwayman?"

  "Yes," Bart replied.

  Weaver nodded. "We were reluctant to disturb your family over the matter, but when young William finally took harm I had to put my foot down and order that your father be informed. I did not think he would want to remain wholly ignorant with matters growing so unpleasant. It is pleasing that he entrusted the affair to you and long past time. I take it you are on your way to visit our good Father?"

  "Yes," Bart answered, more than happy to skip over having to state that his father had not wanted him involved at all. At least someone thought him fit for it. "William said something about him and Perry being estranged?"

  Weaver frowned deeply. "Yes, a sad affair. No one knows the whole of it, which is proper seeing as it is no one's business, but shortly after his return home, Father Thomas ceased speaking to Perry except when strictly necessary. Young Perry…well, he is not the boy he used to be, but you will see for yourself."

  Weaver was not the type inclined to say so much; Bart could count on one hand the number of times he had spoken so long or that amount. Always there was some great problem involved. Otherwise, he was a quiet man. Growing up, they had often wondered why he was so remote, spinning many a tragic tale of lost love and other nonsense.

  Bart had a sudden thought and gave in to the impulse. "I invited your ward to go riding with me; perhaps you would like to join us? We could do it tomorrow, if neither of you is busy. It would give me a chance to relearn the lay of the land, for I'm certain much has changed in four years, and Master Burr seemed to like the idea."

  A smile curved Weaver's mouth. "I am astonished that Alfred did not immediately set off. He loves to ride; oft times I must drag him away from the stables when something else requires doing."

  "He seemed a good fellow," Bart said. "Tomorrow, then?"

  "Yes, that sounds perfect. After lunch? I do not believe he has explored the ruins yet."

  "Excellent, that will make a splendid ride. After lunch, then. Now I must be off or the good Father will think I have forgotten him. Good evening, Baron, and the same to your ward."

  "The very same to you, Lord Bartholomew." With that, Weaver rode off. Bart watched him go a moment, and then urged his own horse forward.

  Another ten minutes brought him to his destination. When his horse had been tended, Bart strode to the front door and knocked.

  It was opened by the diminutive figure of Father Thomas, silver hair and spectacles exactly as Bart remembered. He smiled. "Good evening, Bart."

  "Father Thomas," Bart greeted warmly. "It is good to see you again. You're looking well."

  "And you, Bart. Come in, please. Mary just finished setting out dinner."

  "Thank you." Bart followed him through the cottage, as warm and simple and comfortable as ever. His eyes lingered on the fireplace, where so many times he and Perry had lingered over books and whatever treat Mary had made for them. Even the old afghans in which they'd bundled on snowy days were still there.

  When they had sat and the wine was poured, Father Thomas finally spoke again. "I am sorry that you have returned for such an unhappy purpose, Bart. How have you been? I take it that you haven't encountered our highwayman for yourself, yet?"

  "Uh, well…" Bart had been very careful to not tell anyone else about his encounter, leaving them to assume that he simply had been fortunate in slipping by—but Father Thomas compelled honestly from him as easily as he always had.

  When Bart finished his tale, Father Thomas laughed softly. "Well, I am glad that you did not take injury as William did. I should hate to see what will become of the highwayman now that your father has learned of it."

  Bart fought not to fidget. Hopefully Father Thomas would not think to comment on the fact that his father had sent him to tend to the matter. How long until he received a note from his father to return home, no doubt to be shortly followed by letters from his brothers reprimanding him for his abominable behavior.

  He'd show them all.

  At the moment, however, Bart was more interested in a glaring lack of something—or rather, someone. Only two places were set at the table. There was none for Perry; there was no Perry whatsoever.

  Bart ignored the burning question as long as he could, plodding through small talk, learning more about what had changed in the village over the years, even returning to the highwayman, but when the talk came around to old times, he finally could no longer resist. "Father Thomas, forgive me, but I cannot help but notice that Perry is not here. I was looking forward to seeing the both of you."

  "Perry is about somewhere; I am certain he will be home before too long," Father Thomas replied, voice level enough, but his eyes becoming…not hard, exactly, more…dead, or near enough to it. He'd never seen a man so quietly unhappy.

  "I did not credit what I was told, even when Baron Weaver was the one to tell it," Bart said quietly. "Father Thomas, what manner of rift is so great that it manages to separate you from your son?"

  Father Thomas shook his head. "That is between me and my son."

  "I did not mean to pry, forgive me." But Bart wanted desperately to pry further. This wasn't right—Father Thomas and Perry had always gotten along in a way he and his own father never had. He'd always been jealous of the way Father Thomas trusted Perry with so much, how much he doted upon Perry—and how much Perry had returned those affections. It did not seem right that these two were estranged.

  Biting back further questions, Bart returned to small talk. A few minutes later, the clock on the wall chimed the twenty-first hour and Mary reappeared to clear away dishes as Father Thomas led him to the study for brandy.

  "So—" Bart stopped at the creak of the front door opening and closing.

  The sound of footsteps on wood grew louder, and then the door to the study opened. "Father—" Perry drew up short as he realized that his father was not alone. "My apologies for interrupting you."

  Bart could scarcely believe what he was seeing. Where was the boy with whom he had grown up? Who was this man before him now? Could so much change in eight years?

  The Perry he remembered had long hair like spun gold, always neatly tied back in ribbons. He'd always had a bright smile, the pale green eyes constantly sparkling. He'd been the very definition of cheerful.

  Bart stood, helplessly drawn to look more closely upon the man who stood before him now. The long hair was cut ruthlessly short, so close to Perry's head that it looked more like a dark blonde than the beautiful gold it had been. There was not even enough length to hold. His green eyes were chips of stone; no trace of cheerfulness remained.

  "Perry?"

  "Bart," Perry said quietly, and for a moment his eyes seemed to soften a bit. "It's been years. You look well."

  Bart shook his head. "I look the same as ever. What—you don't look the same."

  "No," Perry agreed. His gaze strayed to his father, who looked briefly at him, and then turned away. Pain flickered across Perry's face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "Perhaps I will see you again sometime, Bart. It really is good to see you again. Good night, Father."

  Not 'Papa'—his entire life, Perry had called Father Thomas 'Papa.'

  Before Bart could say anything further, Perry was gone. Bart tu
rned back to Father Thomas. "I cannot bear this, Father. It is truly painful. What happened?"

  Father Thomas shook his head.

  Bart's stomach twisted. It was unbearable—he could not stand it. There had to be some way to repair the rift between them. Perry and Father Thomas were both in pain—and in Bart's experience, that meant there was some small chance of resolution. First, however, he would have to figure out what had gone wrong, for the whole of the problem must be understood before it could be fixed. And he would fix it, damn it. The highwayman was not so consuming a problem that he could not manage this as well.

  And that would still leave time to fight with his family when then invariably yelled at him.

  For the moment, however, Bart was calling a retreat. "I thank you, Father, for having me over. I should leave you in peace, now."

  "Yes, I suppose so," Father Thomas sighed. "I am sorry. Our private matters should not be affecting you."

  "We're friends," Bart said quietly. "Of course it should affect me. I do not like to see either of you like this. Is there not something I can do? Anything? Surely… "

  "There is nothing," Father Thomas replied with finality. "It is between him and me. We all must live with the choices we make and the consequences of those choices. Perry made his and he is living with them. That's all there is to it." He smiled faintly and stood to escort Bart out. "I know you well, Bart, and that look in your eyes, but do not trouble yourself over our problems."

  Bart reluctantly nodded and headed off with a final farewell. Outside, he mounted his horse and rode off. He paused at the end of the drive to take one last look at the cottage—downstairs the study light went out, followed by the dining room light. Upstairs, he could see a lamp was lit in the room that had always belonged to Perry, and there seemed to be a shadow of movement.

  Sighing softly, he set off for home. The sky was clear, every last star visible and bright. The moon, although not full, was plenty large enough to cast light down upon the open valley, reflecting upon the sea as he approached it. Beautiful.

  Bart kept his horse to a slow pace as they traveled, in no real hurry to find his bed for he knew he would not sleep well; not with such an unhappiness on his mind. Of all the ways he might have imagined his reunion with Perry…

  The shadow of his home was in sight when he heard the nickering of another horse. Turning, he immediately saw the figure perched atop a hill not far off. A man sat on a dark horse, watching him. Bart bristled as the damned highwayman lifted a hand in salutation. Then he turned and was gone, over the far side of the hill.

  Cursing loudly, Bart urged his horse into action and set off to chase down the highwayman, grateful that this time he had remembered his own pistol. This time, he would catch the bastard, and finally put an end to the whole mess.

  Four

  Bart went as fast as he dared given the hour and lack of light. What the devil was the highwayman doing this way? His haunt was the bridge, not the coastline. Well, Bart would ask that very question the moment he caught the man—except that the highwayman was keeping well ahead of him; not quite getting away, but Bart could not manage to catch up either. Confound it. Why had the bastard taunted him?

  Snarling more curses, Bart urged his horse to a faster pace. He fought against the urge to pull out his firearm, for it could easily misfire or be dropped while he raced along through the dark.

  The highwayman vanished over another hill and Bart realized that they were headed for the scraggly forest that served as an informal southern border around the ruins of Castle Greendale, which had been razed in some century or another. Crispin would have been able to rattle off the dates and circumstances and all else in a moment, but Bart was not quite as sharp. He remembered the beheadings that followed the razing were the reason that the title had passed to his own family, but that was about all.

  As he crested the hill and looked down, Bart saw…nothing. Not a damned thing. The bastard had vanished into the woods below. Just visible in the moonlight, up on a rise beyond the thin line of woods, Bart could see what remained of the crumbling castle: most of a tower, a couple of walls, and a few piles of rubble.

  "I'll find you, bastard," Bart muttered, firmly ignoring the part of his mind that sounded remarkably like his brothers, remonstrating him for reckless stupidity. Fie on that. He would not let some upstart highwayman provoke him so and not act upon it.

  Urging his horse on, Bart ventured toward and into the woods, reminded of last night and his humiliation. Damn it, he would not mess this up. How difficult could one highwayman truly be?

  He burst from the woods and into the field before the ruins. Blast! The bastard had gotten away after all.

  Feeling sick with the shame of this second failure, Bart guided his horse up the rise to the castle proper. Dismounting, he withdrew his flintlock and carefully explored the area.

  Several minutes later, Bart finally gave up in disgust. What was he hoping to accomplish? The highwayman had bested him a second time. Infuriating bastard was probably already at the bridge, having quite the laugh at Bart's expense.

  Well, to the bridge he would go, then. The sooner he dealt with the bastard, the sooner he could focus all his attention on Father Thomas and Perry.

  Bart guided his horse back to the woods and to the road beyond them, taking the road toward Ford Bridge. The sound of a voice, just barely audible, drew him to an abrupt stop. His horse protested noisily, but Bart soothed him into silence as he once more drew his pistol.

  The road he traveled was a primary one, and more than a dozen smaller roads and farmers' paths connected to it at various points. Immediately to his right was one of those paths, this one coming out of the forest as Bart drew closer to the bridge. He paused at the intersection of road and path, waiting for whomever he could hear to emerge.

  Whatever he'd expected to see, it wasn't who appeared.

  "Master Burr, what the devil are you doing about at this hour?" Bart dismounted immediately and strode over to the man who limped slowly along, holding onto the reigns of his horse. "You look as though you took quite the nasty fall."

  Burr nodded. "Yes, quite. I am fond of midnight rides, although Thad is forever admonishing me not to do so, what with the highwayman, but…"

  Thad, was it? It only made sense, of course, if Weaver was thinking of making Burr his heir, but Bart had never heard anyone refer to Weaver by his given name. It seemed like something that was not permitted, one of those unwritten rules in life.

  Bart grunted and knelt, gently reaching out to test the leg Burr was favoring. "Your ankle?"

  "Yes," Burr hissed painfully. "As I was saying, I was out riding when something crashed through the brush somewhere behind or beside me—hard to tell for certain. It startled my horse and he threw me. My ankle took the brunt of it, I'm afraid. On that note, what are you doing out here?"

  Bart shook his head. "I was just to see Father Thomas and did not feel like going home quite yet." He wondered if the highwayman was the one to have startled Burr's horse, or perhaps himself.

  Or perhaps Burr was his highwayman and had managed to take a tumble from his horse while running about in the dark. It did not really make sense, though, if Burr was so close to Weaver.

  Well, the matter could wait. Good or bad, Burr was hurt. "Come to my home; we'll tend to that ankle and get you a bracing drink."

  "I am certain I can make it home just fine," Burr replied. "I would not want to be a bother, especially when we have only just met." His face was hard to see in the dark, but what Bart could make out was definitely marked with strain, and his voice was tired. Worn down to such a point, a rough, husky note underscored his voice.

  "You are not a bother," Bart said firmly. "Come, I will help you onto your horse. My estate is much closer than the baron's."

  Burr frowned. "Truly, if you can help me onto my horse…"

  "You can more easily follow me home," Bart said, not giving him further chance to protest. "His lordship would not want you go go
ing all the way home on horseback, I know him well enough to know that."

  Reluctantly, Burr nodded and followed along quietly as Bart led the way to his home. When they arrived, Rogers came promptly down the steps to assist with their horses.

  "Rogers," Bart beckoned. "Assist Master Burr into the house; have a care for his ankle. See that it's tended to and that he gets a stiff drink. Food, if he likes. Have we a footman still awake?"

  "Lawrence, my lord," Rogers replied.

  "Send him to Baron Weaver, let him know that Master Burr injured his ankle while out riding and that he is resting here. If he cares to send a carriage, that is fine, or I will send him home in my own come morning. Tell Lawrence to take care with that damned highwayman about."

  "Of course, my lord," Rogers said, sketching a quick bow before moving to do as ordered.

  Several minutes later, Bart found Burr sitting before the empty fireplace in his own parlor, a room of leather and warm, gold wood, with accents of deep red and honey. Burr sat with his leg propped up on a footstool, sipping at whiskey.

  Helping himself from the decanter on a tray near his own seat, Bart sat down and regarded his guest. In the light of his parlor, ever last bit of Burr's weariness was visible. In fact, he looked rather more weary than even a miserable trudge through the dark while injured would incur. No doubt part of it was that Bart knew all too well what internal weariness looked like. Did he not see it enough in the mirror?

  Heavens above, was no one around here happy anymore?

  "I thank you," Burr said at last. "You are going to far too much trouble for my simple person, especially at so late an hour." He sighed and took another sip of whiskey. "I wish I knew who or what spooked my horse. I should like to thank him for the tumble." He drained the glass. "Or perhaps for failing to break my neck."

  Bart's brows went up at that odd statement, but did not pry. Perhaps the letter he would be composing in the morning would include more questions than he had first surmised. "Would you care for another whiskey? You look and sound as though you could use it."