Edith Layton (6 page)

That amused him. “True,” he said. “And there couldn’t be a more respectable miss than you, I agree. But that also makes you bane to me. See, if you were caught traveling with me, I’d either be arrested for it, or have a pack of your relatives after me demanding my life—or my name, such as it is. Traveling with an unmarried female is an offense punishable by marriage in this country. Now, if I were all gypsy, it wouldn’t be so bad. They’d only want my death. But I’m half respectable, and so there’s always a chance your family would think that half worth marrying. That frightens me more than death.”

She stamped her foot. “That’s nonsense! My family, such as it is, wouldn’t care…” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t honestly say what the aunts would
think if she were found in the company of a gypsy, or a half gypsy, or any kind of male. They’d think her a slut, whomever she was found with. “Well, they’d cast me off,” she finally said, “but they wouldn’t care who he was, or if I married him.”

“That’s too bad. You have my sympathy,” he said. “But I don’t want you on my conscience either. I do have one. It isn’t enough to make me offer you a wedding, but it would put me off my food for a while—at least until I found a safe harbor for you. And that’s trouble I don’t need. Look, leave off. My mind’s set. You’d be a liability and a responsibility, and I want and need neither. I’m going. And you’re not coming with me. Understood?”

“You can’t be that sure of yourself,” she cried. But as she said it, she knew he was.

He stood there smiling—no, smirking, she thought: a lean young man, attractive, clean and well made, well dressed, too. He was an assured man who could act the gentleman or the rogue, and be as charming or violent as the occasion suited, or as suited him. He was also everything she was not and never could be. He was strong, self-sufficient, and free. And so in that moment, as she gazed at him, in spite of what he’d done for her, she hated him.

“I see,” she said. She blinked back tears and swallowed her disappointment. She drew herself up. “Then Godspeed and good luck. We shall not meet again, Mr. Daffeigh. I cannot belabor the issue, it’s clear your mind is made up. I don’t agree, but that matters little, doesn’t it? Oh, and again, my thanks.
I’m not unaware of what you saved me from this evening, and for that I am truly grateful and always will be. If ever I can repay you, please let me know. Don’t laugh, please.”

“I’m not.”

She nodded. “Good, because life has strange twists and turns to it, so one never knows what lies ahead. It may be that some day I can do you a good turn, too. So.” She took a deep, painful breath. “Whatever the outcome of my charge’s adventure and my employment with baron Osbourne, I know he’s a decent man. I’m sure that if you need me and sent word to him, he’ll forward your note wherever I may be. Now, if you please, would you leave?”

He frowned. Then, when she didn’t say anything else, but only stood stick straight, waiting, he shrugged. He bowed. And then, without another word, he climbed out the window, and was gone.

The morning dawned cool, bright and beautiful. Daffyd had his breakfast. He chatted with the servants, and put a word in the innkeeper’s ear about his serving wench and how cheaply her loyalty to his patrons could be bought. Then he strolled over to the
Old Fancy
, lingered in the taproom there, and watched as four coaches arrived and then pulled away. He waited until the
Brighton Beacon
collected Miss Margaret Shaw. Then he stayed watching from the shadows until it bore her down the road, and away.

Only then did he allow himself to feel a little regret. She was a pretty piece, although too prim for
his tastes. Yet if she loosed her hair and her manner, wore different clothes, and smiled more, he’d wager she’d turn a head or two. That hair was thick and soft; that mouth was made for laughter. Yes, he’d bet a man with patience and time could find what he needed under all that civilization. He could see hints of it in her flashes of anger, and in the vaunting spirit that had sent her off alone down an unknown road on her dangerous, ill-advised mission.

She was a contradiction, because she was clearly educated and intelligent. But she was also dim when it came to judging strangers, gullible as a sheltered child, and vulnerable as a shucked oyster. She was well out of it. And doubly well off away from him.

The truth was that prim as she was, he had to admit she attracted him. He liked women with clean, sweet-smelling hair, clear complexions, shapely figures, and real smiles. He liked women with soft, alluring mouths. He especially liked those who had something to say with those mouths. He was fascinated by a woman who had something in her eyes apart from desire, and he dearly loved a good argument. No question, Miss Margaret Shaw was a challenge.

Still, she would slow him down, get in his way, divert him too much. He was on his way to Plymouth with a few interesting stops along the way. He’d find the runaway. He’d fling his success in his mother’s face and leave without her getting so much as a chance to say thanks. He’d pay a debt he didn’t owe. Because after all the hard times in his life, and all the ways he’d paid back hurt, this time he planned to in
flict a pain that had no payback. The bitch who’d borne him would finally see that she’d thrown away something far more valuable than she’d known. And then he’d be able to ignore her forever after, the same way she’d ignored him.

And then he’d get on with his life.

Whenever he found out what that was supposed to be.

D
affyd arrived at the inn at dusk, tired but pleased with himself and his day’s and night’s work. He’d ridden far and learned much. He could finally afford a good night’s sleep. Not only would exhaustion make him clumsy in his search, but now he was certain the runaway heiress was only a few days ahead of him. She wasn’t in any difficulty, at least so far as he’d been told.

Miss Rosalind Osbourne was in the company of a gent, and they were having the time of their lives. Or so it seemed to everyone who’d seen them. She giggled, the fellow guffawed; they’d left a trail of merriment behind them as they headed toward the coast. That both calmed and annoyed Daffyd, because it was now clear the girl was a runaway, not a victim.
There were many ways a captor could influence and subdue his captive, but however clever he was, Daffyd had never heard of one who could make his prisoner collapse into hilarity every other minute.

They were having a fine game of it, complete with wigs and costumes. Because sometimes the heiress was seen to be blond, sometimes she was dark, her hair could be straight or curled, and she’d even been sighted with bright red tresses. Her companion’s hair color changed as often as hers did, as did his hats. But she was always charming and lovely, and always lisped her thanks for favors received from the shopkeepers, maids, ostlers and innkeepers who served her. And her escort always looked at her lovingly and held her hand—and it wasn’t to keep her from straying, because all said she looked like she never wanted to leave his side.

Of course, her hotheaded fiancé was also always seen riding after them, missing them by moments every time, coursing like the wind down their backs after they’d left. Or so Daffyd was told.

Half of what he heard he disregarded. Some people would say anything for money, and he’d spent a good deal of it in the inns and stables, coach yards, taverns, and shops where he’d stopped. But the people in the fields and on the roads that he knew were as careful with their reports as they were with their true identities, and them, he believed. Half of them were his own people—in every sense of the word.

It was hard chasing after a bubble-headed chit and her illicit lover, or at least he felt it keenly when he
was tired, cold, or wet. But then Daffyd would think of the expression on his mother’s face when he returned her idiot goddaughter, and that made it better.

Now it was evening again, and Daffyd felt he could afford a night of rest. He left his horse at the stables, picked up his bags, and went into the
Thieving Magpie,
across the road from a coaching stop and another inn. Since the
Magpie
wasn’t always crammed with travelers eager to stop at the first place they found themselves deposited at after a long grueling coach ride, its table and accommodations had to be that much better for it to survive.

Daffyd spoke for a room, went up and inspected it. It was small but adequate, with a window overlooking the front so he could see what was coming and going down the road. Best of all, the bed looked soft and deep. He washed, brushed the dust of the road from his coat and boots, and then went back downstairs for a drink to clear it from his throat.

The taproom was dim but not musty, and was filled with local men.

“We’ve a table for you in our private parlor,” the innkeeper told Daffyd when he saw him looking into the taproom.

“I’ll take one in here,” Daffyd said, with a smile. “Been by myself too long as it is. A horse’s conversation gets tedious after a while.”

“As you will, sir,” the innkeeper said, and showed him to a table. Daffyd sat, sniffed, and smiled. He smelled roast beef and duck, and pie, and though
anything tasted good when eaten around a campfire, the
Magpie
’s menu smelled better than anything he’d tasted in days.

But as always, he had more than the menu on his mind.

“So then: the soup, the duck, and the ragout, and a bottle of our best claret,” the serving girl said, repeating his order. She showed him a dimple in her cheek as she smiled, and another more intimate one as she bent down low in front of him to fuss with his tableware. “Anything else, sir?”

“Just a question,” he said softly.

Her eyes brightened.

“I’m looking for a girl.”

Her smiled curled; she was about to speak, when he put up a hand. “It’s a sad story,” he told her, looking at her earnestly. “But you see, my fiancé ran off the night before our wedding day.”

She gasped.

He nodded, hunched his shoulders, stared at his locked hands on the tabletop, and added, “That’s her right, and my sorrow. I ought to just let her go and forget. I tried. But when the liquor cleared from my head I realized I couldn’t. I have to hear it from her own lips before I can go on. So I’ve been looking for her. She’s been seen on this road. I think she’s headed toward the coast, to leave England, I suppose before the autumn storms prevent her.” He heaved a sigh. “I heard there’s a man in her company. It could be my best friend, George. That would be worse.”

He shrugged. “But I have to find them. She’s blond, with blue eyes.” He gazed up into the serving girl’s own sympathetic eyes as he added, “I also heard she’s been wearing wigs, kerchiefs, and suchlike to throw pursuers off her trail. Her family’s not best pleased either. She’s very beautiful, whatever colors she chooses to sport. She talks with a lisp. Have you seen her?”

“Oh, sir!” she sighed, one hand to her bosom. “How terrible! If I knowed I’d tell you for certain. But I don’t know nothing. I’ll ask ’round the inn, if you’d like. A fine gent like you—left in the lurch! It’s a dirty shame, no female with a bit of Quality would never of done it, I’m sure. I’m that sure you’re better off, too!” she added indignantly.

Daffyd sat with a sad smile as she went on about how badly his fiancé had acted. He tried to look oblivious as her sympathy turned to not too subtle hints about how some other girl would be glad to help him mend his broken heart—or at least tend to another more intact organ—in the meanwhile.

“I’ll just get your dinner now,” she said. “Don’t worry. I’ll find out what I can whilst you wait.”

When she’d bustled off, Daffyd sat back and stretched out his legs. It never hurt to ask. He was thinking about how weary he was, and deciding that though the serving girl was kindness itself, he wanted that big warm bed upstairs all to himself, when he became aware of someone standing in front of his table. Several someones, in fact.

There were at least six men standing staring down
at him. Or rather, he realized, as his muscles involuntarily tensed, glowering down at him. Six local fellows, with a few more standing behind them. They were hard men with weather-bitten faces who obviously worked with their backs and hands. It was their minds that concerned him. He knew danger when he ran into it.

Daffyd slowly rose to his feet. A sitting man was only at an advantage when he had power. Otherwise, a man should face another as an equal. He was acutely aware that he was at a disadvantage now. He was in a strange place with no mates to see to his back. And these men meant him no good.

“Aye,” one of them muttered. “Dressed up like a Christmas goose, but he’s a filthy gypsy, anyone can see it.”

Daffyd went still. He was dressed for traveling, neither well nor poorly, because he’d had to speak to all kinds of people on this journey. But to these men, he was dressed like a nob. Because a man couldn’t do a decent day’s work loading, or plowing, in a tight-fitted jacket, breeches and good boots.

“Black hair, black heart, skin’s dark as an olive,” another said, eyeing him carefully. “I thought they wasn’t allowed in decent places. Old Thomas out of his mind letting him in here?”

“His gold must have blinded Old Thomas. Business at the
Magpie
ain’t been good,” another said.

“They been seen in the woods,” a harsh faced man added. “Like I said. We was going to go see if they was still there tomorrow. This saves us the trouble.
Gypsy,” he said, staring at Daffyd, “tell us where the girl is, and we’ll let you go, maybe.”

Daffyd kept his face expressionless, and thought fast. Had someone said he was the one who had kidnapped the Osbourne girl? The prim pansy-faced miss he’d met last night had thought so. Well, then, he’d only have to give them a few good names, and they could verify his story. But these didn’t look like men in the mood for verifying. He’d met their sort before, too many times, in too many places. They wanted justice and injury to whomever did the injustice, whichever came faster.

Daffyd took swift inventory. He carried two knives and a pistol, and was good with his feet and hands. But still: at least nine of them to his one. He decided on tact, and luck, and a swift silent prayer.

“The girl,” he said calmly. “I was just asking after her. I’m her fiancé. I’ve been tracking her from her home, all the way down the Brighton Road. She ran away the night before our wedding day. I wish I did know where she was. I’m trying to find her myself.”

This was met with a silence so stony that Daffyd’s heart began to race.

“Aye,” the first man said with a sick caricature of a smile. “You was engaged to a six-year-old, was you? And one you never seen afore you came here? Well, maybe a filthy gypsy would’ve thought a little mite’s laughter was fetching. And maybe you dirty dogs think nothing of stealing a child—we all know that. But bedding one? Fah.” He spat. “You’re among decent men now. You won’t be doing that no more.” He
snorted. “Ah—let’s string him right up,” he told the others. “We’ll get his story out afore we cut him down.”

Daffyd’s eyes widened and he moved. But it was much too late. They seized him, smothering him in their onslaught. One man took his arm and grabbed hard before Daffyd could grasp the hilt of his pistol inside his jacket. Someone else grabbed his other arm before he could get to the knife in his boot. He couldn’t kick because there was no room to raise a knee or foot. Worst of all, someone seized his neck from behind and held it in the crook of an elbow, cutting off his last and best weapon: his voice.

“Now then!” one of them said, triumphant, “The old oak, in front. It were good enough for traitors in good King Charles’s day, it’ll do for him. Let’s take him there.”

“But we got to find out about the little girl,” another protested.

“We will. When we hang him up and let him down often enough, he’ll cough it out. We just got to take care we don’t haul him up too long afore he does, but we can after, that’s certain.”

They tried to frog march him out the door, but he had fury enough to resist. So they picked him up and held him fast, and carried him, head first, as though he was a battering ram and they were going to charge an enemy’s gates with him.

The blood throbbed in Daffyd’s ears, his breathing became difficult. He became aware that for all the certain deaths he’d managed to elude, this time,
incredibly enough, he would die. But this time, for someone else’s sin. He’d survived beatings and prisons, been sentenced to death, and been sent halfway around the world instead of being hanged so he could die more slowly but just as surely now. He’d been left for dead many times and come back to health each time, too.

He was a fighter, a street rat, sly and slick and quick to take advantage, otherwise he wouldn’t have gotten to the age he was now. He’d cheated death at every turn.

Now, here in his homeland, in England, rich at last and free from prison, it seemed his luck had at last run out. He’d die without judge or jury at the hands of angry men, merely because of what he looked like. He thought of the irony, the injustice of it. But that was the way of his life, after all. So it would be the way of his ending.

A tilted world passed under his gaze, and then he saw darkness and felt night air on his face. He could only hope he died bravely, without pleading, without kicking too long or strangling too slow, as so many brave lads had, dangling on the ropes on Tyburn Hill.

He was roughly turned. Now the starry night sky was all he could see. That, and the bulky bodies of his captors and their angry faces above him. But he could hear.

“Wait!” a woman’s voice cried.

The men paused.

“What are you doing with my man?” the shrill fe
male voice shouted. “Oh, my love, my dear, what are you doing to him?”

The men all turned to the sound of that frantic voice.

“Let him go!” it cried.

“Lissen, ma’am,” one of the men holding him said, “See, he’s…”

“Let him go!” the voice cried imperiously. “What can you be thinking? I leave for a moment, simply to nap, and you
abduct
him? Where were you taking him? Why? Is this not England? Where’s the law? I shall have the law down upon you, you villains!”

Daffyd felt himself lowered to the ground. A moment later, he was released, and then covered by the soft weight of a slight female form, as a woman flung herself on top of him. Gentle hands cradled his head. He looked up to see Miss Margaret Shaw. But she ignored him. She glowered up at the men who stood in a ring around them.

“I demand to know the reason for this!” she shouted.

“Well, see, we thought he…” one of them muttered.

“See, ma’am, your man,” another ventured to say, “he was asking after a girl, and see, we got one gone and went missing all day…”

“We was looking in the fields and hedgerows,” the first man said, “and we seen a gypsy camp, or what was one…”

“And he looks like a gypsy…beggin’ your par
don, ma’am,” another man said quickly, “I mean, what with his skin and hair and all.”

“A
gypsy
!” she shrieked, “Wherever have you seen a gypsy with such eyes? Blue as bonny English bluebells, like his mama’s,” she said, her voice momentarily softening. “His grandfather was consul in Spain, which is where he met his grandmother—Oh! I have no time for such nonsense.” She rose to her knees. “Where is the law? I’ll have you clapped in irons, the lot of you! And don’t dare even think of laying a hand on me, my buckos,” she announced, as she rose to her feet. She shook a finger at them, “My parents know our direction, and be sure—if we go missing His Majesty will hear of it! To think,” she marveled, “we attempt to travel as any ordinary young couple might, and it comes to this.”