The Highwayman Read online

  "I'm coming with you," Perry said. "I cannot believe the highwayman would resort to killing people."

  "Well, it would seem the bastard has resorted to it," Bart said sharply. "Await me in the entryway; I will return in a moment."

  Half an hour later, they finally reached the bridge and Bart dismounted before his horse had come to a complete stop. "Constable—"

  "My lord," Crane greeted solemnly. He held out a folded sheet of paper, the broken seal upon it his father's.

  Frowning, Bart accepted it. He swore softly as he read the contents and recalled what his father had said in his letter about sending an acquaintance to contend with the highwayman. How the devil was he going to explain this to his father?

  Perry drew up alongside him, eyes on the body stretched out awkwardly upon the bridge. "I cannot believe the highwayman would resort to this. The man is a thief, not a killer."

  "He took a shot at my son," Crane said sharply. "Clearly he is not above using violence. Your father is right to be troubled about you if you are taking to defending criminals for no good reason."

  Face going white, looking as though he had been slapped, Perry turned and walked closer to the body.

  "That was harsh," Bart said. "He was not defending so much as making a logical suggestion. Perry was always good at such things."

  Crane sighed and rubbed his forehead. "Perhaps I spoke unfairly, but I do not care to hear the defense of a criminal when the body upon the bridge could very well have been my son's."

  "Of course, my apologies" Bart replied. "He was shot, then?"

  "Yes," Crane said. "Straight to the chest, poor bastard. Not a trace of anything valuable upon him; the highwayman stripped him clean after killing him. Why did he have a letter from your father, if I might be permitted to ask?"

  Bart sighed. "He was coming to assist me with the capture of the highwayman, which is the only thing that truly bothers me in all of this. He was, according to my father, something of an expert in these matters. I find it hard to believe that someone my father trusted so implicitly would be this easily killed."

  "The greatest horseman in the world can still be killed by a horse," Crane replied. "We most often are done in by the familiar and comfortable."

  "True enough," Bart replied. "I shall have to pen a new letter to my father. This will grieve him sorely. Although on the matter of the highwayman, did Mr. Greer inform you of his problem?"

  "Sending his out alone with a set of jewels worth nearly as much as the entire village?" Crane asked grimly. "Yes. He said he wanted to speak with you on the matter, although I offered him an escort. I guess my promises are not as reassuring as yours, Lord Bartholomew."

  Bart waved the words aside. "Nonsense. How about you send your men to my home this evening? I will see that he is escorted safely across the bridge myself and send the rest along with him."

  "Perhaps we can capture the highwayman while we're at it," Crane replied. "If he is aware of the necklace, and I do not doubt that he is, then I cannot see how he would pass up such a fine opportunity."

  "What makes you say that?" Bart asked sharply. "No one has said any such thing to me so far."

  Crane shrugged. "Supposition only, of course. I have no proof. Yet the highwayman seems familiar with the goings-on of the village—he is always around when there is something worth stealing."

  "I refuse to believe a villager is responsible for these terrible things," Bart replied. "I grew up here; not a person among us is capable of shooting a stranger so coldly and for what likely amounted to nothing more than a few coins and perhaps a ring or two."

  Perry came back toward them. "His clothes seem awfully stiff for a man traveling along this road and they are still noticeably damp in some places." He did not look at Crane, but at Bart. "He smells like the sea. You said your father sent this man, Bart? From where was he traveling?"

  "My father did not say, that I recall," Bart replied. "But I did not read the letter closely. What exactly are you suggesting?"

  "He was shot in the chest and landed on his back, splayed out across the bridge. Yet there is very little blood upon the bridge, when there should be a great deal of it. There's been no rain to wash it away, so where is it? Puzzling."

  Crane looked at him, brow furrowed. "You are suggesting that he died along the coast, or something very like that, and his body was moved here. Why would someone kill a man whose only purpose was to come here and stop the highwayman? It seems to me, regardless of where the killing took place, that only the highwayman would have cause to kill him."

  "How the devil would the highwayman know who he was?"

  "Why do you know so much about gunshot wounds, Perry?" Crane asked. "Why are you inserting yourself in this affair? It has nothing to do with you. Go home and leave this job to those who are trained for it or I shall be forced to tell your father of your interference."

  "Yes, Constable," Perry said stiffly. He turned back to Bart. "I hope the rest of your day is not as gruesome as this, Bart. I will see you later." With that, he strode to his horse and turned it sharply around, then sped off before Bart could stop him.

  Bart turned back to Crane. "Don't you think you are being overly harsh with him? He was only trying to help."

  "If there is a murderer about and his suppositions are even the slightest bit correct," Crane said quietly, "then whoever is responsible will have no qualms about killing the nosey son of the local priest. He is safer well away from it. I would prefer not to endanger you, my lord, but—"

  "This is my land and these people are my responsibility," Bart cut in.

  "Which is what I knew you would say," Crane said. "However, I admonish you to take utmost care. You must write to your father to tell him of the death of his friend—do not make it so that we must write home to tell him of the death of his son."

  Bart nodded and looked briefly at the body on the bridge, stomach roiling. He wished that he had not eaten anything, for he feared that it would not stay settled. He turned away from the awful sight. "Keep me informed, Constable. Inform everyone they are not to leave their home at night, and if they must, then they are to go in pairs."

  "Of course," Crane replied. "Go and write that note to your father, my lord. I will come by this evening and give you a full report before we must tend to the matter of Greer."

  "Come for dinner," Bart replied.

  Crane smiled briefly. "I will do that, and thank you."

  Nodding his farewells, Bart mounted his horse and headed quickly toward home. His mind spun with problems and worries, dread and anxiety and anger—but one matter rattled through his mind loud enough to drown out everything else.

  The Perry he had known was not the Perry now. Perry had always been his father's son, despite the fact that they shared no blood. Father Thomas despised violence in all its forms, a sentiment he had instilled in Perry—so when had cheerful, peaceful Perry gained the sort of knowledge that allowed him to discuss bodies and gunshot wounds so casually?

  What had happened to his friend?

  Six

  Bart pulled on his leather gloves, flexing his fingers to settle them perfectly in place. It was an older, favorite pair, the leather worn and butter-soft, fitted to his hand like a second skin. Giving a nod to the others assembled, he mounted his horse and led the way with Constable Crane.

  Seven men total—himself, Crane, Greer, Greer's son, and three of Crane's men. Greer and two of the men carried lanterns. Bart kept his pistol at the ready, as did Crane. The fields seemed especially stark and quiet as they traveled briskly along, and Bart hoped the night ended with everyone safely abed, rather than with another body on the bridge.

  Perry's word still rattled through Bart's head. If the highwayman hadn't done it, then who had? And why? Why would the highwayman? The ostensible reason, of course, was that the man Bart's father had sent had possessed a talent for capturing highwaymen—but it was increasingly unrealistic the more Bart thought about it.

  It was hard to say whethe
r or not he wanted the highwayman to make an appearance. Obviously it would be better by far if he did not…but Bart wanted to see him again, to demand explanations. Not that he expected the highwayman to tell him the truth, but damn it—he would find some way to extract it. He'd had to write that awful letter to his father today—he would find the bastard responsible for his father's pain.

  The tension grew as they progressed, so thick by the time they neared the bridge that were it fog they'd be unable to see so much as their own hands. The constable pulled slightly ahead as they drew ever closer and Bart did not fight him for it. Some men he simply did not challenge.

  He did stay close, however, hanging just far enough back that he wouldn't impede Crane should something happen. In the center of the loose column of riders were Greer and his son. One of Crane's men would accompany the lad the whole of the journey, while the other two would go as far as the inn a few miles beyond the bridge.

  As they reached the bridge, Bart breathed out slowly, tightening his grip on his pistol.

  They reached the other side without incident.

  Crane frowned, stroking his chin in the dark. "I do not like it. Experience says that he would have tried to take the jewels."

  "Perhaps he thinks it a trap, especially in light of recent events," Bart suggested. "Certainly if I were a highwayman, I would not take the risk tonight."

  "There is certainly that," Crane agreed. "All the same, I do not like it. I think we shall all go on to the inn—except you and you." He pointed to Greer and Bart.

  "But—"

  "No," Crane said sharply. "My lord, I will not risk you further than this. Obviously you do not have to obey me, but what would your parents do if they were to learn that I permitted you to be slain this night? Go home and I will come pay a visit tomorrow. Greer, we will do our very best."

  Greer bowed his head. "Thank you all for going to such much trouble for me. Good night, Constable."

  Bart grimaced, but gave up arguing. "Very well; I will wait until you are out of sight, and then return home."

  "You had better, my lord," Crane said firmly. "Men, let's be off. Quickly, but with care; we do not want to find ourselves in trouble too late."

  Bart watched them go, all but vibrating in the saddle. He was so very damned tired of being pushed aside, told to wait, told to stay out of the way. No one trusted him with anything. It was true that his family would not want him to take harm, but what was so admirable about a man being alive if he never did anything with that life?

  Sighing, he turned away from the bridge. "Shall I see you home, Greer?"

  "Not at all, my lord," Greer smiled. "You have done far more than I could have dreamed. I cannot thank you enough and will endeavor to make proper recompense."

  Bart shook his head. "No recompense is required. I am happy to be of service. Let us hope the threat is indeed over and your jewels will arrive safely at their destination. I bid you good night."

  "Good night, my lord."

  He watched Greer ride away, halfheartedly urging his own horse forward. Something on the ground caught his eye. It was too dark to see what it was for certain; likely one of the men had dropped something.

  Dismounting, Bart knelt upon the ground to retrieve the fallen object—then started as his horse abruptly cried out and started running. "Stop!" Bart bellowed.

  Laughter, rich and fine as brandy, filled the night.

  Bart whipped around, but even as he did so, his feet were knocked out from under him and he landed face first in the dirt. Before he could right himself, his arms were roughly grabbed, wrists securely bound. Then he was hauled to his feet and turned, pushed slightly away from the figure before him.

  "Good evening, my lord," the highwayman greeted, smiling as though it were perfectly normal to accost men and tie them up, before exchanging greetings.

  Bart supposed it was rather the order of things for a highwayman. "Are you going to shoot me as well?"

  "If I were going to shoot you, my lord, then I would have already done so," the highwayman replied. "I have shot only one person and I think the whole village would agree with me in saying that the young Crane boy could stand to be shot more often."

  Bart quirked a brow. "Perhaps, but that is hardly your affair. It spoils it if a stranger comes along and does the shooting." He paused. "Unless you are not a stranger."

  "Tsk, tsk, such sloppy inquiries will gain you nothing."

  "It's a bit difficult to think clearly when one is tied up," Bart retorted. "Being shoved about certainly wasn't pleasant. Have I caused some manner of offense, to be so crassly treated?"

  "Well, there is the minor detail of you trying to capture me," the highwayman replied, and damned if he didn't grin. "I do find that mildly offensive, although I suppose I must be understanding about the matter."

  Bart glared at him. "Oh, yes. I would definitely consider this 'understanding'."

  The highwayman laughed. "I'm glad we can come to an agreement, my lord. It bodes well for the rest of the conversation."

  "What in the hells do you want?" Bart demanded, losing all patience. "Are you hoping to force me to help you evade justice for committing murder?"

  "I have no intention of evading anything, not permanently anyway," the highwayman replied, a deep, bitter note entering his voice. "However, I will not suffer for crimes I did not commit. That man was not murdered by me."

  Bart just stared at him. How did he get himself into these situations? "Why are you telling me this? I cannot see what you expect me to do about it."

  "Ah, but you will do something, my lord—you cannot help yourself. Everyone says that if help is needed, there is no one better to ask than the young Lord Ford."

  Lovely. His father saw him as a disappointment, his siblings as a nuisance, and it was a bloody damned highwayman who thought him worth seeking out for help.

  Did people really say that about him? Or was the highwayman only toying with him? Given his present circumstances, he had to assume it was the latter. If he really had such a reputation, his father would be proud of him, surely.

  "I do not assist criminals. If you did not kill my father's friend, then who did and why?"

  "A good question, my lord. Perhaps you should seek the answer."

  "Blast it, man, that is why I'm asking you!" He moved forward, too frustrated to hold still—and was abruptly shoved back against a tree, hitting it with a grunt.

  The highwayman held him in place with one hand pressed hard against his chest, the other hand occupied with a pistol. "Now, now, my handsome lord. Did I not say the first time we met that you are too pretty to be stupid?

  "You said I was too pretty to be disobedient," Bart snapped. It was the cologne going to his head, surely. A hint of rose tangled with cinnamon and night blooming jasmine, the smell of sweat and leather beneath that. The scent was far too distracting—and it shouldn't be, which just angered Bart all the more. Damn it, nothing about this situation should be appealing to him and he could not fathom why it was.

  The highwayman laughed, a sound even more distracting than his scent. Bloody hells. "You remember my words. I'm flattered, my lord."

  "I'm certain feeling flattered comes easily to you," Bart snapped. "If you are trying to persuade me that you are innocent of certain crimes, then I am obliged to say that your persuasive methods are lacking." He pulled and tugged and squirmed, but his wrists were well and truly bound.

  The hand on his chest pressed even harder. "Oh, I can be quite persuasive, my lord," the highwayman said, voice dropping to a huskiness that nearly made Bart groan. What in the hells was wrong with him? There was no way this damned highwayman was affecting him in so base a manner.

  That laugh washed over him again, a warm, slow chuckle. The highwayman was a shade taller than he, only acerbating Bart's frustration. "Would you like to see how persuasive I can be, my pretty lordling?"

  "I would like you to cease with the mockery," Bart hissed. "At present, I do not care if you are responsible fo
r that murder or not."

  "You should," the highwayman said quietly. "I sense there will be more before it can all be brought to an end."

  Bart frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "All is not what it seems in Greendale," the highwayman said softly.

  "What the hells—"

  He was cut off by a kiss, although it took him a moment to parse what was happening, and by the time he managed to mostly gather his wits, the highwayman had broken away. "Have a care, my lord. Most are happy to have you home…but some are precisely the opposite. We would hate to find your body on the bridge."

  "You make no sense. What in the hells is going on here?"

  "Be careful, my lord."

  "Just tell me—"

  "If I could, I would, but I'm afraid it's not so simple. Be careful, please. Those who would kill a retired but still respected royal guard would not hesitate to kill a peer of the realm."

  Bart bit back a scream of frustration. "Enough with these mysteries! I am going to throttle you the very moment I am free. Enough with your secrets and vague warnings!"

  "I have my reasons," the highwayman replied. He bent and kissed Bart again, teasing him with the flavor of whiskey and a hint of salt.

  "Stop doing that," Bart hissed when his mouth was finally released. His lips throbbed with use and ached for more, and his traitorous cock wasn't helping.

  "My apologies, I simply needed to know if you taste as good as you look." He abruptly let go, then grabbed Bart by his jacket and dragged him to the ground once more. "Now, I am afraid that I have put off my meeting with a certain jewel case long enough. You have my warning, my lord. Please do not insist upon investigating further. It would break the hearts of many were you to die. My strongest advice is for you to stay out of this mess and leave matters to me."

  Bart struggled to get up, but the foot in the middle of his back held him firmly in place.

  "Good night, my lord, and I apologize for the wound."

  "What—" Pain flashed through his head, and then he knew nothing more.

  *~*~*

  Bart woke with a groan, pressing a hand to his mouth when nausea threatened. His head felt as though it were being split in two. Holding a hand up to the point where the pain was greatest, Bart felt the dried stickiness of blood.