Runaway Lady

‘Crayford made the Dog and Duck alehouse over yonder his headquarters,’ said the blacksmith. ‘Boasted about his exploits, so I heard, but there wasn’t any solid evidence against him. Those who knew anything were too frightened to speak out—afraid they’d end up at the bottom of a well.’

‘Did he often hurt those he robbed?’ said Harry.

‘He shot coach horses as a warning to his victims.’ The blacksmith’s expression was grim. ‘After that, most people he held up were too terrified to do anything but hand over their valuables.’

‘Indeed,’ said Harry, thinking of the musket that had been aimed at his heart. He had no doubt that death, not terror, had been the intended outcome of that shot.

Saskia was grateful for the kindness of the local women, but she couldn’t afford to relax her guard in their company. Harry had introduced her as Sarah Brewster, and given the impression she was a respectable widow travelling to Portsmouth on unspecified business. Saskia was far more comfortable in that role than portraying herself as the mistress to an unnamed lord, but she still had to watch everything she said. Oddly, it reminded her of times during her married life when she’d found herself surrounded by her female Dutch relatives.

When she’d first arrived in Amsterdam she’d been a new wife. Much had seemed strange to her, but she’d assumed she’d eventually have a secure and comfortable position within Pieter’s family. After his accident she’d increasingly felt out of step with the other women. She hadn’t been in Amsterdam long enough before the accident to develop any deep friendships, and afterwards she’d rejected the role of ‘poor Saskia’, instead putting most of her energy into taking care of her merchant husband’s business. It was far more common for women to take part in business in Holland than in England, but Saskia had married into a wealthy family and none of the other women needed to take on such responsibilities. The other young wives had babies, and talked endlessly of their children, their husbands and their tasks within the homes they’d created.

Saskia had never confided in anyone her hurt, confusion and even anger at the way Pieter rejected the simplest gesture of affection once he knew he’d never recover any further from his accident. She’d found a way to manage her feelings and gradually their relationship had developed into something resembling a cordial but practical friendship between business partners. She’d greeted each baby into the family with warm smiles, but every time she hugged a new babe in her arms she’d ached with the knowledge she would never experience the pain and joy of motherhood. She hated the pity she saw in the other women’s eyes, so she never let her sorrow show—but she always returned the baby to its mother as soon as courtesy allowed.

Now, as she sat in the midst of the English women, grateful for their sympathy over her ordeal with the highwaymen, but longing for the moment when they’d leave and she could finally lower her guard, she wondered for the first time whether she wanted to go back to her old life in Amsterdam. She’d always assumed she would return after visiting her brother. She’d inherited Pieter’s business and she was proud of her achievements. But if she remained in Holland would she always be Pieter van Buren’s childless widow? She could marry again, but she felt no affinity for any of the Dutch bachelors of her acquaintance.

The innkeeper’s wife complimented Saskia archly on travelling with such a fine, handsome gentleman. ‘Any woman would feel safe in the hands of such a man.’

‘I am fortunate to be travelling with him,’ Saskia replied sedately, but her thoughts instantly focused on the exciting feel of being in Harry’s arms—at least until he’d had enough of such close contact with her. That memory hurt, and she quickly shut her mind to it.

From the expression on some of the other women’s faces, she suspected they were also imagining the pleasure of being in Harry’s embrace. She suddenly realised that, for the first time in years, she was the object of curiosity and perhaps even feminine jealousy because of a man. Harry, with his dark good looks, masculine charisma and indefinable air of danger, was the kind of man most women daydreamed about at some time in their lives. And he was with her. No one needed to know it was only because he’d responded to a notice on a coffee-room wall, and that he’d made it silently, but unmistakably, clear he didn’t wish to hold her a moment longer than necessary.

‘Yes, it is good to be in his hands,’ she said serenely, hesitating just long enough before continuing, ‘Normally I do not care for travelling, but he has managed every detail of the arrangements.’ As the other women glanced at each other, she felt a burst of secret pleasure at her play with words. She had said nothing untoward. A widow unused to travelling might well ask a male friend or relative to assist her—but the picture of herself as the kind of woman who’d attracted Harry’s sensual interest was enticing.

She wished it was true. It hurt far more than it should that it wasn’t. Then she was angry with herself for caring—and suddenly she was desperate to be alone. She still hadn’t told Harry they weren’t going to Portsmouth. And somehow she had to persuade him to help her rescue Benjamin. Harry had been in a bad temper ever since the highwaymen’s attack. What if he no longer wanted to continue on with her? The possibility he might abandon her was so awful it almost brought tears to her eyes.

She gathered her composure sufficiently to thank the innkeeper’s wife and the other women and explain she needed to lie down for a while to recover. When they’d gone she sat at the window, worrying over the enforced delay to their journey and trying to decide how to persuade Harry to help her. As she did so she watched the people who came and went from the inn yard. Always, on some instinctive level, she was searching for Tancock’s face. He shouldn’t be here—but she hadn’t expected to see him on her godfather’s doorstep either.

Harry gave his statement to the magistrate and constable in one corner of the taproom. The rest of the village men remained at a respectable, but intensely curious, distance. When they’d first arrived, Harry had identified himself only as Sarah Brewster’s escort. Because Saskia wasn’t present at the interview with the magistrate, he was able to give his real name to the magistrate and put his true signature to his statement.

‘I was given information a month ago I’d find Crayford at the Dog and Duck with his latest booty,’ said the magistrate grimly, ‘but when I got there he’d gone. You did well to protect Mistress Brewster from his attack.’

‘He’s not the first bandit I’ve dealt with,’ said Harry. ‘I take it you’re satisfied with my account?’

‘Yes, of course. Your coachman’s statement agrees with yours in all essential details. Will you take supper with me this evening? I am eager to hear first-hand the experiences of one who has recently returned from Turkey.’ The magistrate’s eyes lit with genuine interest. He’d had no difficulty recognising Harry as a gentleman—but then Harry had made no effort to pretend to be anything else during their conversation.

‘Thank you. I would be honoured to do so, but I am afraid I must decline,’ said Harry, with real regret. He liked the magistrate’s down-to-earth approach to his duties. ‘I promised I would escort Mistress Brewster safely to Portsmouth. I have not spoken to her since we arrived here and I must consult her wishes for the rest of our journey.’

The other man nodded. ‘Perhaps you will have an opportunity to call upon me when you are returning to London,’ he said.

Harry took his leave of the magistrate and went out into the courtyard to stretch his legs and breathe some air untainted by the pipe smoke filling the taproom. The hot summer day had become a warm, golden evening. Across the fields he could hear church bells tolling for the evening service. Such a familiar sound from his boyhood, but one he hadn’t often heard as an adult. There were synagogues and churches in Smyrna, but though Jews and Christians were free to follow their own religions, church bells were forbidden. Harry was more accustomed to hearing the muezzins calling the faithful to prayer five times a day than the sounds of his childhood.

His memories of the Levant were interrupted when several of the men who’d been sitting in the taproom accosted him with cheerful greetings and eager questions about the highwaymen’s attack.

From her window, Saskia saw Harry enter the yard and her pulse quickened. Even at a distance she was immediately aware of his self-assurance and the poised strength in his lean body. He was surrounded by a group of men. She began to feel frustrated because she wanted to speak to him, not watch complete strangers slap him on the back. She was just about to go down into the yard when another man spoke to him. As the man turned more fully towards her, her instincts buzzed a warning. She’d seen him before. At first she couldn’t remember where, but she immediately tensed at the sight of a man she recognized, but couldn’t identify. It wasn’t Tancock, but—

Trevithick House! She’d seen him at Trevithick. He was one of Tancock’s underlings.

Sick fear gripped her as she watched Harry speak to him. It seemed to her horrified gaze that, though their conversation was brief, they were making arrangements to meet later. She watched Tancock’s henchman slap Harry on the back. For an instant she was overwhelmed by crushing disappointment. She’d trusted Harry—but she knew little about him except he was fast and dangerous with the weapons he carried. Had he been working with Tancock from the beginning?

She dared not challenge him. If he was in league with Tancock, he would never give her the chance to escape once she’d revealed her suspicions. She backed away from the window. For a few seconds despair almost overcame her that once again her plans had gone astray. But she couldn’t afford to despair, any more than she could afford to hesitate. She dived across the room to her bag.

Harry extricated himself from his new friends and went in search of Saskia, but the innkeeper’s wife was alone when he found her.

‘Mistress Brewster said many times how thankful she is you were with her today.’ There was a mixture of curiosity and admiration in the landlady’s gaze as she looked Harry up and down. ‘You have a hardy way with villains, sir, but I’m sure any woman would feel safe in your hands.’

‘I did what was needful,’ said Harry curtly, ill at ease with both the blatant appreciation in the landlady’s eyes and the tone of her compliment. ‘I do thank you for your kindness to Mistress Brewster,’ he added, trying to make up for his initial brusqueness. ‘Where is she now?’

‘I put her in a room overlooking the yard. I will show you—’

But to Harry’s relief, the landlady’s attention was claimed by another customer, so she was obliged to give him directions. He didn’t mind being slapped on the back by the village men for dealing with a local villain, but the landlady’s admiration was another matter.

Saskia didn’t respond to his knock, nor to his voice when he identified himself. The first breath of alarm whispered through him. He opened the door without hesitation. One sweeping glance told him the room was empty. There was a discarded lady’s glove lying on the floor. He picked it up, recognising it immediately as one he’d seen Saskia wear. His hunting instincts went on to full alert. He stepped out of the room and quietly closed the door. He hadn’t seen any sign of Saskia on his way into the inn, so he continued further along the passage until he came to another set of stairs. At the bottom he found he had a choice of going back into the main yard he’d just left or towards the stables. He went towards the stables. He was in time to catch sight of a stripling in a plain brown coat and brown breeches disappear around the corner of the stables. A stripling with Saskia’s hair and carrying her familiar bag.

She was alone. Harry’s fear that she’d been snatched by her enemies receded. But was she going to meet someone else? He lengthened his walking stride to a deceptively ground-eating pace until he’d passed two grooms chatting by the stable door. As he turned the corner of the building he saw the apparent lad hurrying away from him, staying in the shadows behind the stable. Now there were no witnesses Harry ran, swift and silent in pursuit of his quarry. He caught Saskia by the shoulder and spun her around.

The instant he touched her, she gave a sobbing gasp of pure terror. He saw the dull glint of a knife blade as she struck wildly at him. He knocked her arm aside, but she kept attacking him in desperate silence.