At the Highwayman's Pleasure. Sarah Mallory
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stepped closer and she was enveloped in his shadow. Charity was a tall woman, but he towered over her, the caped greatcoat making his shoulders impossibly broad. A tremor ran through her, but she told herself he was only a man, and in her profession she had dealt with many such situations.
She said calmly, ‘Surely you will not attack me here, in front of everyone.’
He laughed, and again she saw that flash of white teeth.
‘Attack? Faith, me darlin’, that suggests you ain’t willing.’
‘Indeed? Well, I—’
Her words were cut off as he reached out and dragged her to him. She found herself pinioned against his chest, one arm like an iron band around her shoulders. She looked up to protest and at that moment his head swooped down and he kissed her.
Through luck or expertise his mouth found hers immediately and her senses reeled from that first, electric touch. She could not move and he continued to kiss her, his tongue plundering her mouth and causing such a rush of sensation through her body that it was impossible to resist him. The stubble on his face grazed her skin but she hardly noticed, her mind spinning with such irrelevant thoughts as the fact that he did not smell of dirt and horses. Instead her head was filled with a succession of scents. First there had been the unmistakable smell of leather and the wool of his greatcoat, but when he pulled her closer she recognised the pleasant tang of soap and lemons, spices and clean linen. As his tongue explored her mouth her bones dissolved and hot arrows of pleasure drove deep into her body. The sensations were new and unnerving. She wanted to cling to him, to push herself against that hard, male body.
Time stopped. She was his prisoner, fighting her own desire to kiss him back rather than struggling against his embrace, and when he finally raised his head she was strangely disappointed. She remained in his arms, unable to move and staring up at him. Her eyes had grown more accustomed to the darkness and she could make out his features a little better beneath the shadow of his hat. The smiling mouth and lean cheeks, the strong lines of his jaw that ran down to the cleft of his chin, the hawkish nose and most of all those dark, dark eyes, gleaming at her through the slits of his mask.
‘Mmm,’ he murmured, soft as a sigh. ‘Heavenly.’
Charity had forgotten her surroundings, the icy wind that was even now scattering tiny flakes of snow over them, the fact that he was a stranger. She had even forgotten that he was a highwayman, until he raised his head and barked out an order to the coachman and guard.
‘Keep yer hands on yer heads, me fine friends.’
His rough warning brought her back to reality. She pushed him away—no, he did not move, it was she who stepped back, hiding the trembling of her hands by vigorously shaking out her skirts. A glance behind her showed the coach still standing on the road, the driver and guard still sitting motionless on the box and the white faces of the passengers visible at the coach windows. It could only have been a minute that had passed, maybe two, yet Charity felt as if something momentous had occurred. She gave herself a mental shake. Good heavens, it was only a kiss, and she had been kissed before, but never had it had such an effect.
It was the excitement, she told herself sternly. Fear set your nerves on edge and made you feel the experience all the more keenly.
The highwayman was holding out his hand to her.
‘Having exacted my price from you, madam, you are now free to go on your way.’
Silently she took his hand and let him help her back into the carriage. He closed the door and she saw the glint of amusement in his eyes as he touched the barrel of the pistol to his hat brim in a mock salute. He stepped back and glanced up at the box.
‘Now, me lads, I’ll thank you to sit where you are a while longer.’
He whistled and the black horse trotted up to him. Charity noted the athletic way he leaped up into the saddle and galloped away, leaving everyone in a shocked, immobile silence.
As the hoofbeats faded, the spell was broken. The farmer began to rage about the impudence of such rascals while his wife fell back in her seat, fanning herself vigorously and declaring she could feel a seizure coming on. Betty muttered up a prayer of thanks and the guard clambered down to retrieve his shotgun and to ask if the passengers were all right.
‘All right? Of course we are not all right!’ shouted the farmer. ‘What’re you about, to let one rascally knave with a popgun cause us all such terror? Look! Look at my wife. Right terrified, she is. ’Tis a disgrace, I tell ’ee. One man on the road and all you can do is drop your gun!’
‘Aye, I dropped it right enough,’ replied the guard, affronted. ‘He were threatenin’ to shoot me head off.’
‘So you let ’im get away with daylight robbery!’
‘As I recall, he didn’t take anything o’ yours,’ the guard retorted.
‘He stole the mail,’ countered the farmer’s wife.
‘And he assaulted my mistress,’ added Betty.
‘Which is why I came to enquire if she was hurt.’ The guard turned his attention to Charity. ‘Well, ma’am? Have you suffered any injury?’
Charity was reliving the memory of being imprisoned in those strong arms and her lips still burned from the highwayman’s kiss, but she would never admit that to a soul.
‘N-no, I am a little shaken, but I am not hurt.’
‘The rascal stole your brooch, Miss—’
‘Hush, Betty. It was a mere trinket.’ She turned to the guard. ‘Please, it is not important. Let us get on.’
The guard seemed satisfied with that. He nodded.
‘Then we’ll be on our way. We’re stopping at Beringham to change horses, so we will report the incident then.’
He closed the door and the carriage rocked as he climbed back onto the box beside the driver.
‘Aye, and I’ll be reporting this to the mail company,’ muttered the farmer as they set off again. ‘Never seen the like, a guard and driver made to look no-how by a lone horseman—why, between the three of us we could have taken him!’
‘That’s just what my mistress sug—’
Charity dug her maid in the ribs. She summoned up a bright smile.
‘Well, I for one am glad we came off so lightly. I pray we will have no more excitement before we reach our destination.’
* * *
Her prayers were answered, and the short journey into Beringham was uneventful. The passengers were invited to go into the inn while the constable was summoned.
After the chilly carriage, the sight of the inn’s blazing fire was very cheering, and when the landlord had supplied them all with a cup of hot coffee, even the farmer’s mood improved. The local constable turned out to be a stolid individual called Rigg who painstakingly wrote everything down, explaining that the magistrate would want to have all the details reported to him. Once the guard and driver had given their version of events, he turned to the passengers. Charity glanced at the clock. They should have been at Allingford by now, but the delay could not be helped, so she stifled her impatience and gave her attention to the matter in hand.
‘He got down off his horse and ordered you all out o’ the coach, you say?’ The constable looked at his notes. ‘So you had a chance to get a good look at the fellow, eh?’
The farmer shook his head. ‘Nay, ’twere too dark to see out by then.’
‘That’s true,’ affirmed Betty. ‘And he soon ordered us all back inside, except Mrs Weston.’
‘Weston?’ The constable looked up, all attention. ‘Mrs Weston, you say? Are you—?’
‘I am an actress.’ She smiled to atone for interrupting him. ‘Mrs Weston