Winter Wonderland (7 page)

Japhet cocked the pistol and aimed. Barnaby tensed. With a cry, the lady leaped upon the felon and knocked his arm aside. Though the report made Barnaby wince and the lady shriek, the bullet flew harmlessly into the air. The other footpad did not even look round. “I found it,” he cried happily, holding up the watch.

Japhet, enraged by the woman's interference, pulled Miranda to her feet and lifted his hand to strike her across the face. She lifted her chin arrogantly. “Murderer!” she snapped. “Will you also strike a defenseless woman?”

“Finish 'em off, both of 'em,” the tall highwayman instructed. “Then we won't 'ave to watch 'em whiles we go through the baggage.”

“That would be a stupid thing to do,” Barnaby said with deliberate nonchalance. It was a tone he'd learned to use in handling difficult negotiations in the foreign service.

“Stupid, eh? Ha! So you say,” the tall highwayman sneered. “I'd say it too in yer place.”

But Japhet, the other one, was caught by Barnaby's tone. “Why stupid?” he asked, his interest caught.

“The coachman managed to hold on to his horses, isn't that so?” Barnaby reasoned. “Sooner or later he'll return for his carriage. With his coach and his horses intact, he will have lost nothing belonging to him or to his employer. He'll probably be content to return to London without further ado. But if he finds two bodies lying here, he will certainly feel compelled to go for the magistrates.”

The tall highwayman was not impressed. “So we'll bury yer bodies.”

“In this frozen ground? It'll take hours.”

“'E's right,” Japhet said, looking at his partner worriedly. “That coachy's a rum cove. 'E mought be back any time soon.”

The tall footpad considered the situation for a moment. “Then just tie 'em up to that tree,” he said at last, starting toward the back of the coach where the baggage was tied. “An' be certain sure that the tongue-paddler's hands is tied tight.”

Japhet marched his prisoners to the tree indicated. Keeping a sharp eye on them, he backed over to his horse and removed a length of rope from a saddlebag. He made the lady tie Barnaby's hands behind him and then bound them both to the tree. After checking that all knots were tight, he went to help his cohort rifle through the baggage.

“That was a clever argument you used to save our lives,” Miranda said to the man tied beside her. “You must indeed be a tongue-paddler.”

“I can't say, ma'am,” Barnaby answered coldly, “since I have no idea what a tongue-paddler is.”

“It's a thief's word for lawyer.”

“A thief's word, eh? I don't find it particularly reassuring to know that the woman to whom I'm tied is familiar with thieves' cant.”

The lady gave a gurgling laugh. “I don't see why it should worry you. Even if I were a thief, you've nothing to fear. They've already taken all your valuables.”

He glared at her over his shoulder. “I'm delighted that my losses provide you with a subject for amusement, ma'am. When you find yourself slowly freezing to death, I hope you're able to laugh at that.”

“Freezing to death? But you said the coachman would be back soon.”

“I said it to keep those felons from blowing out our brains. It's much more likely that the coachman is halfway back to London by this time. With the snow getting heavier, I'm certain he'll want to be back before it accumulates.”

“Oh, dear,” Miranda said worriedly, “I never thought—”

But she ceased speaking, for the two miscreants were coming toward them, their arms laden with loot. Japhet carried a load of assorted clothing, while his confederate lugged a wooden crate from which the top had been pried off. Inside were more than a dozen bottles of what Barnaby believed was Scotch whiskey. The thieves had got themselves a good haul.

The tall highwayman, who wanted to be certain he could not possibly be followed, approached his prisoners to make a last check on their bonds. It was then he discovered he'd overlooked something. “Well, well,” he chortled, “'ere's a rum bit I almost missed. The lady still 'as 'er reticule.”

Japhet clucked his tongue. “Tch, tch, ol' chum. Gettin' a mite careless, eh? What else mought the lady 'ave on 'er person?”

“Let's see.” He pulled off Miranda's gloves and examined her wrists and fingers. He made her remove her wedding ring. (
So she
is
wed
, Barnaby noted.) Then he removed her bonnet and the lace cap she wore under it, causing her hair to tumble down over her shoulders, but no clips or jewels were revealed among the auburn tresses. He finally pulled open her pelisse at the neck with so rough a jerk that he ripped out the hook. “Nothin' much else,” he muttered, disappointed. “Just this pretty bauble hangin' round 'er neck.” And he yanked her cameo from its chain.

“Please don't take that,” Miranda pleaded. “Please. It isn't very valuable, but it's very dear to me.”

“That's whut they all say,” the highwayman sneered, looking over the piece appreciatively.

“I didn't say it about my watch,” Barnaby pointed out.

“Wouldn't do ye much good if ye did. I knowed the minute I seed it that it was a fancy timepiece. I wouldn' take a cent less than twenny quid fer it from my fence.”

“Only twenty guineas?” Barnaby snorted disparagingly. “You'd be a fool.”

The highwayman peered at Barnaby intently with a gleam so calculating that it was apparent even behind his mask. “'Ow much would it take fer me
not
to be a fool?” he asked.

“Give the lady back her bauble, and I'll tell you exactly what it's worth.”

“Not a chance.” He pocketed the cameo and walked toward his horse. “I'll ask the fence fer fifty quid, then. That'll be a good enough price fer me.”

The two miscreants tied their loot on their horses' backs, jumped up into the saddles and rode off without a backward look. Soon the sound of their horses' hooves was swallowed up by the wind.

Barnaby stared straight ahead of him at the swirling snow, the flakes growing thicker and coming down heavier every minute, and silently cursed his fate. He could imagine nothing worse than being out in this freezing weather tied helplessly to a tree beside the last woman in the world he would have chosen for company.

A slight movement—the tiniest tremor—from the woman beside him made him turn his head in her direction. Flakes of snow were accumulating on her bare head. Her thick auburn hair was tumbled about her shoulders, hiding her face from his view. “I say,” he asked, surprised, “are you crying?”

“No, no, of c-course not,” she retorted in a choked voice. “Why should I be c-crying? I'm tied to a tree with a man who thought I should have run off with a lecherous toad, it's snowing, I'm likely to freeze to death in my bonds, my portmanteaux have been rifled and my clothes are lying tossed about on the ground, all my money has been taken from me, and I've even l-lost my l-lovely c-c-cameo. What on earth is there to c-cry about?”

“Crying is wasted effort,” Barnaby responded calmly. “We should be using our energies to cut ourselves loose.”

She drew in a trembling breath. “I would be happy to use my energies in that way. What do you suggest I do?”

“Try to wriggle closer to me. The less room we take, the looser the bonds. If we can loosen these ropes enough to allow you to move your hands, you might be able to reach into my coat pocket there on my right. There's a pocket knife in it.”

“A knife?” Her voice took on a glimmer of hope. She began to inch closer to him. “How is it possible the knife escaped the notice of those thieves?”

“Carelessness. I think the tall fellow was so overjoyed at the weight of my purse that he looked no further.”

She was quite close to him now. He could feel her pressing against his side. Her arm twisted against the ropes, giving her just enough slack to permit her hand to inch slowly up his leg to his coat pocket. The effort made her breathe heavily. “I can feel the opening,” she said, “but I can't reach in. Can you lower yourself a bit?”

He managed to do so, but the ropes cut into his chest painfully. Her hand was in his pocket now, feeling about for the little knife. “Hurry, can't you?” he gasped. “I can't keep bent like this much longer.”

“I'm doing the very best … There! I have it!”

But that was only the first step. The next problem was to pull out the knife's intricately-imbedded blade, a trick that required two hands. “You'll have to try to bring your other hand over,” he told her.

The effort caused so much friction against the ropes that her wrist was rubbed raw. By the time she managed to open the little knife, it was getting dark. She sawed the rope closest to her hand with the little blade, but it was slow work.

While she labored, Barnaby had time to examine her face at close range. His earlier assessment of her appearance had been hasty, he decided. She was still quite lovely. Snowflakes glistened on her cheeks, emphasizing the translucence of her skin; they caught on her long lashes and bejeweled her marvelous, thick, red-tinged hair. And her throat! How well he remembered that voluptuously shapely throat. It was her throat that had first caught his eye all those years ago. And it was still the same. She was not so changed as he had first thought.

Her closeness stirred his blood. He could feel her breast pressed against his arm and her thigh against his leg. And her breath, warm and sweet-smelling, blew against his neck as she labored. It was enough to make any man weak in the knees. If only she were someone else …
anyone
else but Miranda Pardew. He could not let himself forget who she was, and what she'd done to him.

Once the first piece of rope was cut through, the rest went quickly. She unbound them from the tree and then set to work on the bonds that tied his wrists. “That took long enough,” he said ungraciously when he was at last freed.

She threw him a look of astonishment. “What a very sullen fellow you are, to be sure,” she remarked. “But I suppose I should understand. You've lost more even than I.”

“You needn't make excuses for me, ma'am,” he retorted, rubbing his wrists. “I am sullen by nature. But we have no time for bibble-babble. It's getting dark, I'm already chilled to the bone, as you too must be, and we have at least three miles to walk.”

“To where, may I ask?”

“To a small inn we passed back there, a few moments before those footpads stopped us.”

“You are admirably observant, sir,” she said, “but shouldn't we rather go forward, in the direction in which we were headed?”

“No, for who knows how far we'd have to walk to find habitation. It's better to go toward certainty than doubt.”

“Yes, I suppose you're right,” she agreed. “Just give me a few moments to gather up what's left of my things.”

“I won't give you a few moments. In the first place, it's growing too dark. In a little while, we won't even see the road. In the second place, I have no intention of lugging a portmanteau three miles through the snow.”

She stiffened in offense. “I had no intention of asking you. I'll ‘lug' it myself.”

He grasped her cruelly by the arm and turned her toward the road. “No, you will not. You'll need all your strength and breath to manage the three miles—and it may be more, for all I know—in this wind and cold. Perhaps someone at the inn can be coerced into coming back for your things. Move along now, like a good girl.”

She shook off his hold angrily. “May I at least have a moment to retrieve my bonnet?”

His answer was an impatient grunt. She picked up the mistreated headpiece from the ground where the highwayman had dropped it, brushed off the snow and set it on her head. Then she hurried down the road after him, rubbing her arm where he'd grasped it. “Sullen is too kind an adjective to describe you,” she snapped as she caught up with him and fell into step beside him. “I've never before met such a rudesby as you. One would think that, sometime in the past, somewhere, somehow, I had done you an injury.”

He did not bother to respond.

Six

They had to walk more than five miles, Barnaby estimated, before they saw the lights of the inn flickering through the snowflakes. It felt like twenty-five miles. His feet were damp and icy-cold, his fingers frozen and his ears numb. And the woman beside him was in an even worse case. Her nose was red, her teeth chattered and there were frozen tears on her cheeks, tears more likely to have been brought on by the assault of the icy wind than by self-pity. She was a game chit, he had to grant her that, for she never made a word of complaint. He was certain that her feet were colder than his, for she wore only little leather half-boots—like a man's high-lows—which were too short and too flimsy to protect against the rapidly deepening snow. Despite his old, unchanging dislike of her, he was unable to keep from feeling pity for her plight. He could not supply her with protection for her feet, but he'd twice offered to give her his greatcoat. Each time she'd waved him off. “I will not be beholden to such a rudesby,” she'd said dismissively. And those were the only words they exchanged during the long, cold march.

The lights of the inn made a welcome gleam in the darkness, and when the travelers slogged into the courtyard, the actual sight of it was truly comforting. The inn looked warm and inviting. Its snow-spattered sign, lit by the guttering flame of a brass lantern and creaking as it swung in the wind, read
Deacon's Gate Inn
. It was small for a public house, with two picturesque bow windows and a thickly-thatched roof, quite like a cottage in a Mother Goose picture book. But the most welcome sight of all was the smoke billowing from the two chimneys at each side of the house; evidently there were some goodly fires burning within.