Moonlight Surrender (Moonlight Book 3) Page 2

  The coach jolted to a halt a moment before the crack of a pistol being discharged rang out in the stagnant summer air. Beth stiffened, her body tense, rigid with nervous anticipation. She heard a guttural moan, followed by a sickening thud. Something had fallen from the top of the coach and had hit the ground.

  Sylvia’s tiny black eyes snapped wide open, darting from side to side like loose berries as she attempted to comprehend what was happening. Her earbobs swung back and forth like huge silver pendulums in the wind.

  Frightened, Sylvia grasped Beth’s arm tightly. “By all the saints, what was that?”

  Highwaymen. The single word echoed in Beth’s mind like a dark, foreboding chant. Her heart began beating madly in her chest. Yet she gave no outward sign of agitation as she looked at Sylvia. One of them had to keep her head.

  “It wasn’t any saint, I can guarantee you that much.”

  A deep, raspy voice that sounded as if it was coming from the depths of a whisky barrel sliced through the air and dispersed any further speculation. “You there, in the coach, step down.”

  Sylvia’s eyes were opened so wide, they appeared ready to pop out. “What are we to do?” Fear surrounded each whispered word.

  Beth fervently wished now that she had kept her pistol with her, instead of packing it in her trunk. Her father had taught her how to load and shoot both musket and pistol, but the skill was meant for sport, not protection. Never in his wildest dreams had Philippe imagined that his oldest daughter would need to know how to protect herself. He believed that all his daughters would always be safe, nestled in the midst of a genteel Virginia society. The physician had felt confident that all the horrors which had been unleashed by the war for independence were over. Nothing ugly would ever touch his family again.

  She glanced about the coach for a weapon, something to throw, to gouge with—anything.

  There was nothing.

  “Step down,” the man ordered again, “or the next bullet will be through the coach, instead of your driver!”

  The driver. He had shot the driver, Beth thought, filled with horror. Her concern immediately shifted away from the money at the bottom of her trunk. Had he mortally wounded the man? She had to see if she could do anything to help him.

  “We’ll step down,” Beth called out.

  Sylvia trembled. Huddling, she looked as if she was vainly attempting to shrink into her seat. Beth opened the coach door and stepped out. The heel of her shoe sank into the mud.

  She was not unaware of the highwayman’s appraisal, singeing her skin like hot coals. His eyes all but ravaged her where she stood. Struggling to ignore him, she looked around for the driver. The man was lying on the ground a few feet away, his face smashed into his tricor-nered hat. Beth swallowed the gasp that rose in her throat. With determination cloaking her, she took a step toward the driver.

  “Don’t bother, he’s dead.” The highwayman’s smug words assaulted her ears. “And so might you be, if you don’t mind what I say.” The man leered. “Be a pity, though, to shoot something as comely as you.” He ran his tongue over his greenish teeth in anticipation. “Right away, at any rate.”

  Beth struggled to keep the cold shiver from sliding down her spine. She couldn’t let this man see that she was afraid. Raising her head, she kept nothing but contempt in her eyes as she looked up at the man.

  The highwayman was attired in filthy clothes, with a ragged cloak slung over one shoulder. In each of his large hands he held a pistol. Looking down at her from atop a large bay, he brandished the left pistol as he spoke.

  With her trembling hand wrapped about the door for support, Sylvia slowly descended from the coach. Her eyes never left the man on the horse. Horror was imprinted on her broad, open features.

  “My Lord, it’s the devil himself.” Sylvia pressed a hand to her large bosom as her very breath felt as though it was backing up within her lungs.

  Oh Mother, why did you force me to bring this woman with me? “Don’t you dare faint,” Beth hissed between her teeth, hoping a sharp warning would jolt the other woman into gathering her senses together.

  The highwayman used the tip of his pistol to push his hat further back on his head. He wanted a better look at the young prisoner. His eyes all but glowed as he mentally tore the woman’s clothes away from her shapely form. He licked his lips, completely ignoring the quaking cow behind her.

  “It’s a fair treasure I see I’ve found today.” His lascivious look grew as the grayish stubbled cheeks spread in anticipation. He leaned forward, his elbow on the pommel of his saddle, his gaze burning into Beth. “What is it that you have for me, wench?”

  “Nothing but the utmost contempt.” Her cold demeanor belied Beth’s growing fear. She spat on the ground before the highwayman’s horse.

  His laugh, dark and evil, tainted the air. “Oh, a spirited one. Those are the best for bedding. Usually.” There was a warning in his words. He motioned to her with his pistol. “Come closer.”

  Beth raised her chin, her sapphire eyes darkening. “No.”

  Duncan Fitzhugh looked over his shoulder at the snow-white horse calmly following in his wake. “Fine time to throw a shoe, you miserable nag. We must be five miles from the manor. Couldn’t you at least have done it when we were closer?”

  The horse snorted.

  Duncan had the distinct impression that the animal was laughing at him. He had to admit that despite these last few years, which he had spent landlocked, he had never gotten used to horses. A ship was the only thing he felt comfortable traveling on, not a four-legged nuisance that ate hay and did what it wanted to, when it wanted to. A ship knew who was master.

  Duncan sighed as he fondly remembered his privateering days.

  But all that was behind him now. He was the acting agent for the absent Earl of Shalott. In exchange for his duties, he had the run of the manor, food and shelter for the extended family he had come to care for during his years on the London streets and on the high seas, and more comfort than he had ever dreamed of.

  A little too much comfort, actually. It was all a bit too tranquil for him, too easeful. Duncan couldn’t help yearning for his old life. Trapped within a respectable position, he felt a longing burrowing through his innards, a longing for the excitement he had once known. There was no danger to pit himself against, no test of courage to endure.

  It could easily turn a man soft, he thought disparagingly.

  He pulled his shoulders closer. His wet shirt stuck to him like a leech beneath the vest he wore. It was too hot, too wet. Duncan’s humor was fouler than the weather.

  His trip into the small township just beyond the manor had been far from satisfying. These last few months he had been keeping company with a pretty slip of a thing. Elaine. Elaine, of the ripe hips and the ruby lips. She had informed him this morning that they were either going to come to an agreement about their future together, or he could just take himself and his smooth tongue away.

  Duncan smiled unconsciously, remembering how she had looked, her hands fisted at her waist, her dark hair thrown back as she waited for his answer. Elaine, he knew, had been confidently counting on his capitulation. She had warmed his sheets more than once and proved to be a very satisfying bed partner.

  But it would take more than a warming of the blood for him to give up his freedom. She must have been a little daft to think that he would willingly place his head in a noose to be led around like some lamb by a woman with shapely hips and a sharp tongue.

  Only honey dripped from Elaine’s lips. Until this morning, of course.

  He laughed to himself. This morning, after his refusal, she had shown her true colors, reviling him with a razor tongue she had kept hidden till now. All women developed sharp tongues; it was a basic law of nature. They developed sharp tongues just as surely as they developed breasts, and while he enjoyed the latter, the former was too great a price to endure for being allowed to fondle them.

  He had left her rather quickly, letting the rain so
othe his fevered brow—and various other fevered parts of him as well. Freedom, he had learned long ago, often came at a high price. But high or not, it was dear, and worth any sacrifice.

  The crack of the pistol in the not-too-far distance brought Duncan instantly to life. It was like the explosion of warm whisky in an empty belly. All his senses immediately sprang to attention; he was alert, eager.

  He’d never reach the scene on foot quickly enough, he reasoned. With an oath, he swung himself into the saddle. “Come on, you useless horse, something’s afoot, and I’ve no intention of missing it. You can hobble a bit for a good cause.”

  Anything taking place on or near Sin-Jin’s manor was Duncan’s business. He owed it to his employer to look into the disturbance as quickly as possible.

  Beyond the obvious necessity of employing speed, if there was trouble, Duncan knew he cast a more imposing image astride a horse than he did walking it. He kicked his heels into the horse’s flanks and urged the animal on. At the same moment, he drew his pistol from his waistband. There were highwaymen about, and he had never taken any unnecessary chances.

  With renewed spirit, his foul temper all but forgotten, he rode in the direction of the pistol shot.

  Though his lust was raging in his loins, business always came first for Jeremy Jones. That meant counting riches before mounting bitches.

  He chuckled to himself at his own cleverness. He had been quick to spy the trunk atop the coach and order the women to take it down. He’d been treated to a glimpse of long-stockinged leg as the pretty one had struggled to bring the trunk to the ground.

  The trunk now at his feet, he looked down and found it locked.

  He raised a brow toward the young one. “Open your trunk for me,” he ordered.

  She had brought the trunk down because the highwayman had threatened to shoot Sylvia, but now enough was enough. The money in the trunk might be the only hope she had of rescuing her father. She wasn’t about to lose it because of the likes of him. Anger got the better of her common sense.

  Beth fisted her hands on her waist. “I’ve lost the key.”

  Dismounted, the man stood barely half a foot taller than Beth. His eyes became small slits as he regarded her. He didn’t want to be wasting powder and ball shooting off a lock if there was a way around it.

  “Don’t sass me, you little bitch, or it’ll go harder on you.” To make his meaning clear, he raised the pistol that hadn’t been fired yet and aimed it at her breast.

  “Would seem a pity to ruin such a fine pair. But I will. Make no mistake about it.”

  “Tell him, Beth!” Sylvia bleated, hanging on Bern’s arm. “For heaven’s sake, where’s the key?”

  Beth shook her off. When she made no answer, the highwayman cocked his pistol slowly. “If you kill me, you’ll never find it.”

  “On the contrary,” he countered. “If I kill you, I’ll have the pleasure of searching your person without getting scratched for my trouble.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at the hint of soft cleavage that peered out from her bodice. His fingers itched. “I’d wager the key’s being kept nice and warm.”

  Beth raised her chin stubbornly, then gasped as a shot rang out. Her hand flew to her breast, but there was no sticky trail of blood, no fiery pain, nothing. She was unharmed. It was the highwayman who crumpled in a ragged heap, his bloodcurdling scream piercing the air.

  Stunned, confused, Beth stared down at the bleeding man. When she looked up, there was another man on horseback approaching. This one was far better dressed, his golden mane flying in the wind as he rode toward them. He held a smoking pistol in his hand.

  Two of them in one day, she thought in disbelief. The country was crawling with highwaymen. Quickly, she wrenched the pistol from the man on the ground. Holding it in both hands, she stepped forward and took aim at the rider.

  “Hold,” Beth ordered. “Sylvia, get behind me.”

  Duncan pulled up his horse. The short, squat woman scurried behind the pretty one with the pistol. It was like a bear trying to hide behind a sapling, he thought. A very beautiful sapling. He wondered why he hadn’t seen her before.

  Duncan stayed where he was, but he nodded at the weapon she held, his amused smile mocking her slightly. He surmised that the pistol in her hand was the one he had heard discharge a moment ago.

  “You have to load it again before it works.”

  The green eyes were mocking her, she thought, annoyed. Beth cocked back the hammer with her thumb. ‘This one hasn’t been fired.”

  She realized that in her haste, she had picked up the wrong pistol. It was the other one that hadn’t been discharged. But luckily, this man had no way of knowing that.

  She hoped.

  His first inclination was to lean over and push the pistol she was holding away from him. It made him exceedingly uneasy to be staring down the barrel of a firearm. But she looked as if she would fire it at him with no qualms. It was prudent to keep a safe distance, for the moment.

  “I’ve just saved your life,” Duncan pointed out.

  He swung one leg over the pommel and dismounted, his eyes never leaving hers. His men had often said he was capable of talking the down off a duck and the virtue out of a saint. But he was never foolish when it came to firearms and a woman’s freshly raised ire.

  Beth relaxed marginally, though her thumb was still on the hammer.

  “True, but are you a good Samaritan?” She studied him cautiously with eyes that looked far older than she, “Or a lecher?”

  “I’ve been known to be a little of both at times,” Duncan said truthfully.

  He glanced toward the highwayman. The man was motionless. Dead, no doubt. But he wasn’t in a position to verify his supposition. The girl raised the pistol higher, its muzzle aimed directly at his chest.

  “A Samaritan at the moment,” he added, hoping that would placate her.

  He assessed the situation quickly as he smiled warmly at Sylvia. The older woman hesitantly returned his smile. “We’ll need to bury these two.” He nodded toward the two bodies that were in close proximity. “And it appears that you’ll need a driver.”

  She gave him no opportunity to volunteer. There was something about the look in his eyes. Beth wasn’t certain she could trust him. There was too much amusement within them to make her feel comfortable in his company. “I can handle the horses myself.”

  An independent wench, he decided. A rarity indeed. “Good. As it happens, my horse has thrown a shoe and I need a ride to my manor.” Taking up his reins, he took a step toward the rear of the coach to tie his horse to it. “You can take me. It’s due east. You can’t miss it.”

  She didn’t trust him. He smiled too quickly, too broadly. His manner was too smooth. She turned, pistol still cocked, its target still his chest. One look at the barrel had Duncan halting in his tracks.

  “Sorry, I’m on my way to Dover. I’ve no time to take you anywhere.” Beth motioned Duncan away from the coach. “Sylvia, get in. And as for you,” she addressed Duncan, “you can make yourself useful by loading our trunk on top of the coach. I—“

  The whine of a bullet cut into her words.

  Duncan’s eyes widened in surprise a moment before he crumpled at Beth’s feet. Beth whirled and saw that the highwayman had momentarily rallied. He had fired his pistol at Duncan, then fallen back motionless into the blood that had flowed from his mortal wound.

  Behind her she heard a thud, and knew without looking that Sylvia had finally fainted.

  Chapter Three

  The rain began to fall from the heavens in earnest again, the clouds shedding horrified tears as they witnessed what Beth saw.

  Beth stood alone in the clearing. Waging a battle to blanket her anxiety, she stared at the bodies surrounding her. They were strewn about like so many cast-off, tattered dolls. Broken dolls in need of attention.

  Indecision tore at her. She did not know who to turn to first.

  Friendship would have had her hurrying to see to Sylvia
. But her traveling companion was in the least need of Beth’s skills. Sylvia had only fainted and would be all right. The rain would undoubtedly revive her, by and by. And there appeared to be no rocks nearby upon which she might have hit her head.

  Compassion would have dictated that Beth see to the driver to ascertain if he was truly dead. Or, at the very least, it would have her directing her attention to the handsome Samaritan who had come galloping to their aid. Instead of being rewarded, misfortune had fallen upon his shoulders.

  But as much as Beth wanted to be in all places at the same moment, she knew that the highwayman was the one in most urgent need of her attention. Not because she feared for his life, but because she feared for hers and Sylvia’s. And quite possibly the others, if they were still alive.

  If the spineless blight on society—even for England, she thought vehemently—was not dead, if he was only wounded, then the highwayman was a danger to them all.

  A danger only she, at the moment, could protect them from.

  Beth glanced at the pistol that lay a few feet from the highwayman’s hand. Its muzzle was partially embedded in mud. She lifted it, then carefully cleaned it with a corner of her skirt. She sighed a little as she watched the deep green material darken as it absorbed the filth. This was no time for vanities.

  Her eyes never left the highwayman as she watched for signs of life. For a moment, thinking of the grief he had caused, she contemplated quickly reloading the pistol and discharging it once more. She knew her inclination would have shamed both her parents. But then, she knew quite well that she was too willful and far too aggressive to suit the norms of the day. She had certainly heard it said and been directly told as much by enough people in her time.

  Beth tightened her hand around the hilt of the weapon and walked toward the would-be thief. With pistol cocked as if it were loaded—for how was he to know the difference?—she nudged the man’s side cautiously with the toe of her shoe. Beth took care to keep out of reach of his hands, should he be only pretending.

  The wound in his chest oozed, the blood mixing with the rain as it flowed into the puddle forming just beneath his body. The mud reddened as the blood soaked its way into the earth.