The Perfect Princess (16 page)

In turning away, Richard almost knocked over a young lad who had come tearing into the stable.

As he steadied him, the boy cried out, “Mr. Bleecher! The militia are coming! I saw them myself. In boats, they was. They found something under the dock, a boat, I think, and now they’re knocking on doors and searching people’s houses.”

Richard kept his expression impassive, but every sense was alive to his danger. He said curiously, “The militia? Here? In Kennington?”

The boy nodded. “Aye.”

The ostler spat on the floor. “Militia,” he said, “always throwing their weight about.” Then to the boy, “Get to work, Danny. And don’t you worry your head about no militia. Old Bleecher ’ere knows ’ow to ’andle them.”

Richard thought for a moment, then said casually, “Perhaps my brother and I should wait before continuing our journey.”

“Why would you do that?”

“The militia . . .” Richard let his words hang on the air.

He hadn’t misjudged his man. The ostler said, “You looks like a respectable gent to me. As for that rabble,” he spat on the earth floor again, “they’ve never seen service. All they wants is a scarlet uniform and the glory that goes with it. ’Alf of ’em don’t know their elbows from their arses.”

Good Lord
, thought Richard,
could Bleecher be another Harper?

He looked at the ostler then, really looked at him, and he no longer saw a grubby little man with a stained leather apron and dirt beneath his fingernails. He saw lines on a face that had been baked dry by the hot Spanish sun; he saw a war veteran, a man who deserved his utmost respect.

He extended his right hand. “What regiment?” he asked.

Bleecher looked at Richard’s outstretched hand and wiped his own on his breeches before accepting it. His spine straightened, his shoulders went back. “Ninety-fifth Rifles,” he declared.

“One of the best,” said Richard, and meant it. He added, “Good luck to you,
Sergeant
Bleecher?”

The other man nodded. “Aye, Sergeant Bleecher, once upon a time. And good luck to you, sir.”

When he came out of the livery stable, Richard looked toward the river. The sky was getting lighter by the minute, but he could see no redcoats in the distance. All the same, speed was of the essence, but speed to where? Not only was the road to Twickenham cut off, but with the militia now in Kennington, so was the road to Brighton. There was only one way out of here and that was west, on this side of the river, the route he’d planned to take himself.

He thought of Rosamund and cursed fluently. What could he say to her? That the militia were closing in on them and he’d been forced to change his plans? Oh, yes, he could just picture how that would act on her. She
would cause trouble, and he’d be forced to leave her behind, then the militia would surely be on his trail.

He couldn’t leave her behind. He’d tell her about the change of plans once they were well clear of Kenning-ton. Or maybe before that, when they were in the chaise. She wouldn’t like it, but she was an intelligent woman. He’d make her understand.

On that dismal thought, he trudged back to the inn.

She was ready and waiting for him when he entered their chamber. His face was set in a scowl, but there was nothing new in that. In fact, she was becoming so used to his scowls that they had no effect on her. Besides, now that she believed in his innocence, his scowls didn’t frighten her, nor his threats, nor the gun he poked in her ribs, nor the prospect of being gagged and tied up.

The simple truth was, she trusted him, but he didn’t trust her.

The thought of seeing her father’s face when she walked into his arms, with Caspar and Justin standing by, brought the sting of tears to her eyes. She’d been missing for almost twenty-four hours, and she knew it would be the longest twenty-four hours of her father’s life.

The chaise was waiting for them in the stable yard, with the postboy already mounted on the lead horse. She was eager to get under way, but Maitland had a private word with the ostler and tossed him a coin before joining her.

She entered first. When she saw the saddlebags on the floor of the chaise, it struck an odd note, but she wasn’t alarmed. Without a word, Maitland entered the chaise, duly gagged her and handcuffed her hands behind her back. He didn’t even bother to say a few words to mark their parting. She huffed a little at that, but the prospect of going home to her family took the edge off her pique. But when he sat beside her on the banquette, slammed
the door shut, and told the postboy to get going, she stared at him in disbelief.

When the chaise took off at a spanking pace, Maitland held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Listen to me, Rosamund,” he said. “There’s been a change of plan. I can’t let you go yet. You see . . .”

That’s when she stopped listening to him. They were leaving Kennington and they were going the wrong way. She didn’t have to reason things through. She knew at once that this was another of his betrayals, and if she didn’t act now it would be too late. She tried to rise to her feet, but Maitland pushed her back and told her to be reasonable. If she behaved herself, he said, everything could still work out for the best.

She stared at him in shock—then, with the panic of a cornered wild thing, she flung herself at him. She lashed out with her feet; she struggled to free her hands; she bucked; she arched; she tossed her head. He did no more than subdue her with the press of his weight, until her struggles gradually ceased.

When she stilled and went limp in his arms, he said in the same placating tone, “All I want from you is a promise that you’ll behave yourself, then I’ll remove the gag and handcuffs.”

Her eyes flashed with an emotion powerful enough to make him draw back. He nodded slowly. “Hate me, then, but until I have your promise, the gag and the handcuffs remain. Promise me, Rosamund. All you need do is nod your head.”

Her answer was to struggle to a sitting position, lift her chin, and deliberately stare out the window.

“Have it your own way” was all he said.

They had not gone far when she saw the village of Chelsea across the river. If they kept to this road, they would come out at Richmond, and across the bridge was Twickenham and home.

But even as her hopes revived, the chaise came to a
crossroads and made a turn. They were going southwest, to a place called Morton.

She sat back against the banquette and closed her eyes to hide her tears. To come so close,
so close
, and now this. She wanted to curl up and die.

She heard him sigh, then her gag was removed, and after that the handcuffs. “Don’t try anything,” he said, “or I won’t hesitate to use force to subdue you.”

He flexed his hands as though to make his point. It wasn’t necessary. She knew just how brutal those hands could be.

She couldn’t bear to answer him or acknowledge his presence. She was seething, and ashamed now of how gullible she’d been. She’d helped dress his wound! She’d believed in him! She was going to try to clear his name! And all he’d done was make promises he never had any intention of keeping.

“Look,” he said, “circumstances changed. The militia could have surrounded the inn at any moment. If I’d left you there, they would soon have discovered, if not from you, from the landlord and serving girl, that I couldn’t be far away. Rosamund, you have to understand how desperate my situation is. I have no intention of being recaptured and sent back to Newgate. But I promise you, when the time is right, I’ll let you go.”

She gave him a look she hoped would scorch him. He was trying to placate her, trying to bring her round. Well, he was wasting his time. From now on, she was going to suppress her softer feelings and be as hard as he.

She settled back in the corner of the chaise and cleared her mind of everything but her favorite game. At least in her mind she could escape from him.

Richard, meantime, was still debating what to do about Rosamund. Like Harper, he recoiled from the thought of abandoning her on some lonely country road where anything could happen to her. He toyed with the idea of hiding out till nightfall and leaving her at
Morton. It would be hard to track him in the dark. But by that time, Morton could be teeming with militia. He couldn’t chance the delay. They had to keep moving.

Surely, there was some hamlet between Morton and his destination on the Berkshire downs where he could leave her without any risk to himself? And if not, what was he going to do with her?

At Morton, he sent the chaise back to Kennington and hired horses for the next stretch of their journey. Morton was the last village they were to pass through. The man seemed to be obsessed with the thought of militia, so they left the roads and traveled through woods and pastures. It was slow and wearisome, and miserable past bearing when it started to rain.

They stopped a time or two to rest and water the horses. All they had to eat themselves was bread and cheese, and water to quench their thirst. She marveled at Maitland’s stamina. She was ready to drop, but he pressed on regardless.

Only when the darkness became impenetrable did he call a halt, and they took shelter for the night in a deserted cowshed. But the next morning, they were up with the dawn and moving on.

Once, when they took shelter under a bridge to get out of the driving rain, it came to her that her captor was worse off than she. His face was gray. She could hear a slight hiatus in his breathing; a constant shifting as though to ease his discomfort, and she wondered if his wound had started to bleed again.

She was on the point of warning him that if he didn’t rest, he could bleed to death, but he was up and telling her that it was time to move out, and she was just too tired to argue with him.

At first she tried to keep track of the direction they were taking, but as darkness fell again, she lost her
bearings, then she lost interest in everything except the thought of a warm bed, and a soft pillow to lay her head.

She suddenly felt herself falling, and came awake with a panicked cry. His arms were there to catch her.

“We’ve arrived,” he said, sounding as groggy as she felt.

As he steadied her—or was she steadying him?—she blinked the fatigue from her eyes. She didn’t know where they were or how far they’d traveled.

“Arrived?” Her eyes strained to identify the dark shapes shrouded in lighter shadows. There were no lights anywhere. “Arrived where?”

There was no answer.

She was vaguely aware of him leading the horses away, but she was too tired to care. She didn’t care if it was a cottage or a palace.

A bed, that’s all she wanted.

He was gone for some time, but she didn’t move an inch. She didn’t think she had the strength to take another step. She no longer cared for a bed and a soft pillow. She just wanted to lie down on the ground and go to sleep. Then he came out of the shadows, grasped her elbow, and propelled her forward. Like a blind person, she allowed him to steer her along a flagstone path and up a short flight of stairs. Then they were inside the house. Though it was as dark as pitch, Maitland seemed to know where he was going.

Impressions came and went: her boots clicking on what might have been a marble floor; the faint scent of beeswax; Maitland striking flint on flint and, wonder of wonders, getting a fire going. This wasn’t a house, it was a Palladian mansion. Then she saw the elegant tester bed, and after throwing off her greatcoat, collapsed upon it.

W
hen she awakened this time, her mind was crystal clear. She knew exactly where she was and that the man stretched out beside her on top of the bed was Richard Maitland. She wasn’t handcuffed; there was nothing restraining her. There was no Harper and no servants. There was only Maitland and her.

Holding her breath, she turned slightly to look at him. Sunlight streamed in one of the long windows, touching his hair with threads of pure gold. He looked younger in sleep, almost boyish. Like her, he’d done no more than toss off his greatcoat before throwing himself on the bed.

She noticed other things. There was fresh blood on his shirtfront; his skin looked clammy; his breathing was labored.