The Highwayman Page 8
Nine
Bart wished he was in bed instead of traipsing about in the middle of the night in hopes of catching the constable's son committing some crime or another. If William really was causing some manner of trouble and blackmailing Burr into helping him, then it would not be the highwayman putting a shot through the bastard. The only one who might beat Bart to it was Constable Crane himself. Of everyone, he had always been the most upset by his son's behavior—and no doubt blamed himself wholly for it.
What reason could William possibly have for going to the ruins? Bart had pondered the question all day, but no answer arose—there was nothing at the ruins save, well, the ruins. He and Perry had combed them a thousand times in hopes of proving some of the rumors and mysteries which surrounded them—only to prove their parents correct in declaring it all nonsense (not that Bart and Perry had ever admitted it).
Bart left his horse in the woods, in an area which hopefully would not be the direction from which William and Burr would come. Dark had only recently fallen, the hall clock having struck the twenty-first hour as he'd left. By now, it must be right around the twenty-second.
He was growing thoroughly sick of these nighttime adventures. When at last the mysteries were solved, his only nighttime activities were going to be dining, reading, and finding a way to get Perry into his bed—and keeping him there.
Now there was a pleasant and thoroughly distracting thought. What did Perry like? Would he be utterly pliant or would a bit of the Bloody Corsair Peregrine would emerge. Both images made the cool night suddenly too hot. Bart wanted to experience both, wanted to lavish attention upon the man who melted in his arms and be utterly wrecked by his fierce Corsair.
Shaking himself, setting the images aside to be enjoyed at leisure later, Bart made his way carefully up the hill to the ruins. He could see no sign of others about, so hopefully he had managed to arrive first. Thankfully, there was not much moon to speak of that night and he had made certain to wear suitably dark clothing.
After a few moments of hesitation, Bart at last tucked himself away in a little corner of what had once likely been part of the kitchen, crouching down so that he was well hidden. Then he waited, hoping fervently that he would shortly be seeing something and was not simply making a grand fool of himself.
Roughly half an hour must have passed before he finally did hear something, and at first he thought he was imaging it simply to give himself something to do.
The voices came again a moment later, louder this time. Bart immediately recognized Burr's, despite the low pitch to it, and he thought he recognized William, but could not be certain. What startled him was the addition of a third voice, and then a fourth. How many people were involved in this?
They moved closer his location, but did not pass it, and he listened as they talked, catching snatches here and there that seemed to be nothing more than whining and complaining. Burr's voice was notably silent other than a snapped word or two whenever William spoke. Bart dared to move, still kneeling, and just barely peeked his head around the broken bit of wall he sat against. He took in the indistinct figures just barely separated from the darkness by thin shreds of moonlight and a single lantern. What were they doing?
Bart watched as best he could, but there simply was not enough light to truly see what they were about; neither could he hear much. The next time he was forced to spy upon troublemakers and blackmailers, he was going to have to insist that they be a bit more accommodating about it.
The scrape of stone against stone was jarring in the near-silence. It was followed by a dull thud, and he stared as one by one the shadowy figures vanished into the ground.
Impossible. He and Perry had searched dozens upon dozens of times for the secret passages that were rumored to have been part of the castle. So many spring and summer days had been spent crawling over every last increment of the ruins—how had they missed it? How had these damned bastards succeeded? It was wholly unfair.
Bart cautiously stood and crept toward the spot. They had taken the lantern, but the moonlight was enough to see that they had, indeed, moved aside a bit of the remaining flooring to reveal a passage beneath.
Incredible. He could not wait to show Perry—after he had taken care of the bastards using their secret passage for nefarious purposes.
Fumbling briefly for a sure grip, Bart carefully lowered himself into the tunnel below. He landed on jagged, uneven chunks of rock, but there was a…decayed rhythm to them that made him think the rocks had once been stairs.
Down in the passageway, Bart could see the faintest bit of lantern light far off in the distance. He lightly touched fingers to the pistol tucked into his belt, but did not draw it. In such confined quarters, there was no telling what a stray ball would do. Instead, he followed the lantern light, taking care to never draw too close and fervently hoping his footsteps would not be audible over the noise William and the others were making. Why in the hell would anyone do this, anyway? Even the old stories of the smugglers …
Well, now—there was an interesting thought. Had the smuggling business resumed? That would certainly explain a lot. In fact, it seemed rather obvious now. The old rumors of the castle said that the builders had put in a secret escape route that led straight to the sea, so that the lord and his family could get away should the situation ever arise. It hadn't worked, of course, since the family had apparently neglected to pass down the location of the secret passage…but such a passageway would be perfect for smugglers who needed to get their contraband from the beach and take it securely inland.
But what had they smuggled back then? Everyone told stories, most if not all of them made up, of the old smuggling days—but now that he thought upon it, no one had ever said what the they had been smuggling. He would have to inquire about that later. The constable or Father Thomas would very like know. Or perhaps he'd find out for himself tonight, although what they were smuggling now—if they were smuggling—was not necessarily what they had been smuggling before.
For the moment, he refocused on the lantern and drove all other thoughts from his head. He focused so well, in fact, that he did not take care with his footing and tripped over a large chunk of stone, hitting the ground with a startled cry.
Ahead of him, the lantern and voices abruptly stopped.
"Who goes there?" a voice demanded.
The sound of footsteps rushing toward him made it clear that he should perhaps opt for a strategic retreat. Regaining his feet, Bart bolted. He stumbled twice more, but did not quite fall, and to judge from the swearing behind him, he was not the only having trouble staying upright.
Bart had just gained the broken remains of the steps—realizing belatedly that getting back up top might prove problematic—when the unmistakable crack of a flintlock echoed through the tunnel. The sound was deafening enough that it took him a moment to realize that his right arm hurt something fierce. A quick check revealed that it also felt unpleasantly wet and sticky. Damn it. At least it seemed to be only a scrape.
Hopefully his arm would still take his weight. Fumbling up the broken steps, he scrambled to reach the ledge—but he was yanked down even as he managed it, letting out a startled, panicked cry. They all landed in an awkward heap. Bart grunted and attempted to right himself, but with three men against one in this infernal tunnel, he was less than surprised to find himself pinned quite firmly to the ground.
"It's Ford," one of his captors said. "What should we do with him?"
"Kill him," said the unfamiliar voice from before.
Bart wondered where Burr and William were—clearly smart enough to keep their mouths shut. The others he did not recognize, but those two he would.
"I won't be responsible for killing a lord," said one of the men holding him, the other two muttering in agreement.
"Cowards," the man hissed. "We will simply do with him what we did with that damned fool a few nights ago. Dump him on the bridge and they will assume the highwayman is responsible."
"That'
ll still bring the crown down on our heads," one of the men protested.
"They will get rid of that damned fool for us!" the man, who clearly seemed to be in charge, said sharply. "Fine, if you are all such cowards, I will do it."
Bart felt numb. But whatever he'd expected when the pistol went off, it was not a sudden urge to sneeze as dust was abruptly kicked up. Voices exploded, a cry of pain and several panicked protests.
"No one is blaming anything on me again," bellowed a voice like brandy. "My lord, come."
Bart was yanked forward and shoved toward the tunnel entrance, all but thrown upward by his rescuer—he refused to believe it could possibly be whom he though it to be—and pushed further along the moment they were aboveground.
"Come," the highwayman hissed. "You have made a fine mess of things indeed, my lord."
Bart did not get a chance to reply, merely went as he was shoved about, nearly stumbling three times and caught at the last by the highwayman. He wasdizzy and tired and afraid as shots seemed to fire at random, mingling with shouts and curses and threats.
At last it all seemed to fade, the rush of wind through the trees the only sound in the night, apart from his own ragged breathing and the highwayman's softer pants.
"Idiot!" the highwayman finally said again, voice low but filled with fury. He clapped Bart upside the head.
"Do not treat me so!" Bart snapped. "I will not take reprimand from a criminal."
"You will take it, all right," the highwayman snarled, reaching out and shaking Bart so hard he half-thought his teeth were rattling. "It's damned lucky that I saw your horse and the others, and thought to explore the ruins. If not for me, you would be dead—and then where would everyone be?"
"What was I supposed to do?" Bart retorted. "I thought only to find out why William was blackmailing Burr; I did not intend to get caught up in a mess such as this! Unhand me at once, you bastard!"
The highwayman froze. "What? Blackmail? What in the hells are you going on about?"
Bart glared, utterly putout that the darkness kept the highwayman from seeing it. "Yes, blackmail. He is holding some secret over Burr's head in order to force his cooperation in whatever they are about down there."
"Smuggling in dragon blood," the highwayman said quietly. "I told you to stay the hells out of it."
Dragon blood. That was a highly popular—and highly illegal—drug imported from a country that was definitely not an ally. No wonder the smugglers were so willing to shoot a peer of the realm. The stuff had been outlawed in the reign of the last king and the current king hated it with equal fervor. If the smugglers were caught with dragon blood, they would swing.
If villagers were involved…then they would stop at nothing to protect their investment. No one got into smuggling dragon blood lightly. They wouldn't be the kind of men to hesitate over killing even their fellow villagers—not if they'd been willing to kill him. If another villager became aware of it, running to turn them in would have likely resulted in his death or the deaths of others, if the authorities did not capture all of the parties involved soon enough.
Bart swore softly as it all came suddenly together in his head. "You're trying to stop them."
"You are still bleeding, my lord," the highwayman replied. "You are also in great danger, as well as everyone you love, now that you know and are still alive." He reached out to take hold of Bart, fingers gently examining the wound on his upper right arm.
"It's only a scratch," Bart argued. "I've taken worse damage in fencing matches." He was more concerned about the fact that the smugglers would, indeed, be after him now—or worse, that they would go after someone he cared about. Coming out here really had been monumentally stupid.
"Go home, my lord," the highwayman said softly. "Leave the hunting of smugglers to those who will not be missed should they fall." He shifted, and suddenly Bart knew only the scent of jasmine and cinnamon, a hint of roses, and warm lips pressed firmly against his own.
He gasped, startled, although perhaps he should not be, and the highwayman took it as permission to press the kiss deeper, taking Bart's mouth as though he had every right. Bart could not seem to muster the energy to pull away, to tell him to stop. Instead he kissed the bastard right back, tasting every corner and crevice of his warm mouth, sucking on his tongue, reveling in the heat of his body and perhaps a bit giddy on life after nearly losing his. And it wasn't every day that a man was kissed senseless by the strangest highwayman in existence.
Then the warmth was gone, and Bart was alone. Distantly he heard the nickering of his horse; he should head home before someone found him and finished the job of killing him. Rising stiffly to his feet, clutching at his wounded arm, he half-walked, half-stumbled to his horse. Mounting proved to be a bit problematic, but he at last managed it, and ordered his horse home.
Thoughts tried to form in his head—the smugglers, his family and friends, that kiss—but he was too tired for them to take hold, and each one at last gave up and slipped away, leaving his mind blissfully empty and numb.
When at last he reached home, Bart managed to dismount and knock upon the door before finally passing out.
Ten
Bart was beginning to wish that the shot had lodged in his chest rather than merely taking a chunk out of his arm. What was it about people that when a man wanted only to rest, they insisted upon bothering him so that he felt worse at the end of it all rather than better? Did they not realize that an injured man would naturally prefer peace and quiet?
"Let them in," he told Rogers with a sigh, taking a fortifying sip of his hot toddy as he waited for the crowd of visitors clamoring about outside.
"It is not even the ninth hour of the morning," he said as at least half a dozen people spilled into the library where he had been hoping to spend the day enjoying some peace and quiet.
He saw Father Thomas, Weaver and Burr, Perry off to the side, and Constable Crane and his son right before him. This visit was for the best, though: he could nip in the bud the problems he had created last night. If they believed him frightened and thoroughly cowed, maybe the smugglers would not see a need to do his family or friends any harm.
"Is it true that you were injured last night?" Crane demanded.
"Yes, what happened?" Father Thomas asked. "Your father and mother would be crushed to learn that you have taken such harm."
"It was nothing more than a nick," Bart replied irritably. A nick that had required stitches that thankfully the housekeeper had been able to do for him. "That is what I get for gallivanting about hunting highwayman in the dead of night."
Crane frowned. "He took a shot at you?"
Bart looked at him as though he were mad. "Shot? What madness is this about me being shot? I was riding through a dark forest in complete darkness, nothing more than a branch took a shot at me, I assure you.
"My lord—" Father Thomas began sternly.
"It was most certainly not a pistol wound," Bart said sharply, cut him off. "I assure you, I would know full well if I had taken a round in the arm. As I said, the forest and I had a disagreement—the forest won. Perhaps that will teach me to go dashing about like a hero from a novel."
"Villagers claim they heard shots being fired last night, my lord," Crane said firmly. "You took serious harm. I cannot think it was a branch. Perhaps if I might see the wound?"
Bart snorted. "I am not undressing just so you may tell me what I already know—that man against nature in the dead of night has only one victor. If someone heard pistol shots, then perhaps he or they should be doing fewer shots of the local brew before taking to their beds. Perhaps I was not the only one hunting a highwayman last night. Are there any young men in the village who might have taken it into their heads to play hero?"
Crane sighed and gave up. "I am glad to see you mostly unharmed, my lord. You had the village in fits, thinking you had come to serious injury. You must take more care, my lord; only think of your family, of the villagers, if we were to learn of your death."
At least, they wouldn't after he had solved all of the problems still to be sorted out. Gods, hopefully last night had not somehow managed to cause more problems for Burr. It took the greatest of efforts not to simply blurt out all he knew right then and there: that Burr was being blackmailed, and by the constable's son no less, and all because a handful of villagers had decided to make their fortune by smuggling in dragon blood.
He couldn't, though; not when the smugglers knew he was aware of them, which put everyone he cared about at risk. It put the village at risk. If he didn't keep his mouth shut and play scared, runaway noble, a body would wind up on the bridge—his own or someone else's.
With that hard truth to face, playing cowed lord didn't require too much acting.
He let them fuss and lecture for another half hour or so, until at last the ringing in his aching head became too much to bear and he finally ordered them all out, playing up his exhaustion and weakness and humility for all they were worth until at least only Perry remained in the room.
"It really was stupid of you to do that," Perry said. "I can see you realize it, however, so I will not continue to harangue you about it. Does this mean that you will return to the city and leave well enough alone?"
Bart snorted. "Don't be stupid. I'm not going anywhere until the bloody mystery is solved."
"A dead lord is no good to anyone," Perry replied.
"Depends on the lord," Bart retorted. "And a cowardly lord is no good to anyone, either. This bloody highwayman has run amuck long enough, and I will take care of him once and for all. Now cease to pester me on the matter, for even you will not change my mind."
Perry sighed. "As you wish, Bart. Please, at the very least, take someone with you if you go running about at night. There is safety in numbers."
Bart nodded, although he had no intention of doing any such thing.
Damn, that reminded him that he'd wanted to ask Crane and Father Thomas about the old smuggling days. He certainly couldn't now. Blast! What was he going to do? He had mucked things up rather neatly. William and the rest of the bloody bastards were likely having a good chuckle right about now. It could not be often that such scum managed to so neatly snare a lord.