At the Highwayman's Pleasure Read online

  ‘Well, thankfully your undergarments are dry,’ he muttered.

  The part of her brain that was still working told her she should be embarrassed, but she could not summon the energy. She noted dully that those dark eyes did not linger on her near nakedness. Instead he turned and picked up the wrap he had brought with him.

  ‘I’m afraid it will be a little large,’ he said, helping her to put it on. ‘It is my banyan.’ He wrapped it around her and tied the belt. He ran his hands up over the sleeves until they came to rest upon her shoulders. ‘At least it will keep you warm.’

  There was a knock at the door. He released her and turned away.

  ‘The hot drinks you asked for, sir.’

  ‘Thank you, Jed.’

  ‘If there’s nothin’ else, Master, I’ll be off to me bed. It’s bin a long day.’

  ‘No, nothing else, Jed. Goodnight.’

  Charity took little notice of the voices at the door as she pushed up the sleeves, which extended a long way past her fingertips. She was feeling a little less numb now, but she was aware that her feet were aching with the cold and she realised that she was still wearing her wet shoes and stockings. She sat down and slipped off her shoes, but her aching fingers could not unfasten the knots of the garters that held up her stockings. As Ross came over she quickly pulled the wrap over her legs.

  ‘What is it?’

  She bit her lip.

  ‘I c-cannot untie my...’

  He dropped to his knees. ‘Let me.’

  ‘No!’

  Her hands grasped at the wrap and held its folds tightly. He looked up, one brow rising slightly.

  ‘Isn’t it a little late for such modesty?’

  ‘Where is your housekeeper? Perhaps she would...’

  She faltered when his look told her he thought her a simpleton.

  ‘I have given Mrs Cummings a few weeks off to visit her family in the south. Do you think I would be here now if she was in the house?’ He continued, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice, ‘If she had been here she would not have allowed the fire to go out in the kitchen and I would not have been obliged to prepare your meal for you, so we might have avoided this whole sorry business! Now, madam. Let me help you out of those wet stockings.’

  She clutched the wrap about her tighter.

  ‘No. I shall try again. Please turn away.’

  With a shrug he rose and moved away. Charity opened the wrap and tried again to release the ribbons at her knees, but her fingers refused to work properly and her clumsy attempts only made the knots tighter. She gave a little mewl of frustration. Looking up, she found he was watching her.

  ‘Would you like my help?’

  ‘Yes.’ He did not move and after a moment she added, through gritted teeth, ‘If you please.’

  He was not so ungentlemanly as to laugh, but there was a definite twinkle in his dark eyes when he knelt before her again.

  She pushed aside the wrap to display one garter and after a quick glance he drew out his pocket knife and quickly sliced through the ribbon. The second garter suffered the same fate and she was able to remove her stockings, trying to maintain a sangfroid that suggested she was quite accustomed to undressing in front of strange men—or in front of any man. He handed her a cloth and she began to dry her legs and feet, rubbing hard to restore some warmth to the chilled limbs. The heat from the fire on her bare skin was very comforting, but as she was not alone she quickly covered her legs again with the colourful wrap.

  ‘Here.’

  A steaming tankard appeared before her. She looked at it suspiciously.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Honey, lemon and ginger. Or you could have mine, which has rum in it.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ She wrapped her hands around the tankard and breathed in the comforting, sharp-sweet scent rising from the cup.

  Gradually the hot drink and the warmth of the fire took effect. Her fingers and toes stopped aching and the chill tension in her back eased, restoring her spirits. Whatever terrors might lie ahead, for the moment she was warm and thankful to be indoors. She watched Ross Durden pull up a chair and sit down on the other side of the hearth, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. He stared silently into the flames, his countenance grim and forbidding.

  ‘You should remove your boots,’ she told him. ‘They are sodden and it will do you no good at all to keep them on.’ The severe look fled. He raised his brows and she added tartly, ‘I am sure it is no odds to me if your feet rot away, only it is like to make you irritable, which would no doubt impinge upon my comfort!’

  ‘I am not so impolite as to remove my boots in front of a lady.’

  ‘Since you have forcibly abducted me and are holding me here against my will, I am surprised you would let such a little impropriety weigh with you.’

  He laughed at that.

  ‘You are right, of course. So if you will excuse me, madam.’ He pulled off his boots and stood them to one side of the fire before stretching his stockinged feet towards the blaze. ‘The difference between my footwear and yours, Mrs Weston, is that the damp has only penetrated my leather boots at the seams. Your flimsy shoes positively soaked up the wet.’

  ‘They are dancing slippers, not designed for walking abroad in such weather as this.’

  His face darkened again.

  ‘No, it was foolhardy of you to go out. Crassly stupid.’

  ‘If you had not imprisoned me here, I should not have been obliged to do so!’

  ‘If I had known you would act so imprudently, I would have put you in the cellar, as I first intended,’ he growled. ‘You might well have been killed just climbing out of that window.’

  ‘Nonsense, I tested the ivy first to make sure it was secure enough.’

  ‘And what if your skirts had become entangled?’

  ‘But they didn’t.’

  ‘And just how far did you expect to get in this weather? None but a fool would risk going out in this.’

  She sat up very straight, angry colours flying in her cheeks.

  ‘None but a fool would remain here to be murdered.’

  His brows snapped together.

  ‘What makes you think you are going to be murdered?’

  ‘How can you do anything else, now I know your secret?’

  He looked at her blankly for a moment, then closed his eyes and put back his head, giving an exasperated sigh.

  ‘I thought that once you had guessed my identity you would know I meant you no harm.’

  ‘Ha! You expect me to believe you will let me go free?’

  ‘Yes, once you have fulfilled your purpose.’

  Charity pulled the heavy wrap more closely about her before she asked the inevitable question.

  ‘And what might that be?’

  ‘To force your father to give me back what is mine.’

  Chapter Six

  Of all that had happened to Charity this night, these last words struck her as the most incredible. She stared at Ross, trying to discern some sign in his countenance that he was funning, but he looked very serious indeed.

  She said cautiously, ‘You think I am Phineas Weston’s daughter?’

  ‘I know it. I heard him say so.’

  Charity bit her lip. It would do her no good to deny it, then.

  ‘And you think he would pay for my freedom?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She drained the tankard, but even the warming properties of ginger could not dispel the familiar chill deep inside when she thought of her father.

  ‘You are air dreaming. Phineas Weston has no interest in me.’

  ‘We shall see.’ He rose. ‘We shall talk again in the morning. Would you like something to eat? I am afraid the hot food I
prepared for you has spoiled from being left on the fire for so long. I suggest a little of the game pie.’

  Charity shook her head, suddenly very tired.

  ‘Thank you, no. Sleep is all I require at the moment.’

  ‘You would be better to eat something.’

  He went out and Charity leaned forward in her chair, her head dropping onto her knees. Insufferable man, to insist she eat when all she wanted to do was to sleep. It would serve him right if she pushed the chest of drawers against the door again and went to bed, but she was so tired that even the thought of it was too much and instead she remained hunched in her chair, her eyes closed, until she heard him return.

  There was the scrape of a chair being dragged across the floor. She opened her eyes to find him sitting beside her, a platter on his knees containing a large wedge of raised pie. He cut off a sliver and handed it to her.

  ‘Eat this.’

  It was a command. Charity wanted to resist and upbraid him for his autocratic manner, but she was too tired to fight. Besides, she realised that she was indeed hungry. They ate in silence, Ross sharing out the pie. As soon as she had finished one piece he would hand her another, until all that was left on the plate were a few crumbs. He carried the platter to the chest of drawers and returned with two glasses of wine.

  She took one and sipped it, watching him as he dropped back into his chair. He caught her eye and his brows went up. She responded to the question in his eyes.

  ‘I am curious about you, Mr Durden. You are an enigma.’ The food had put new heart into her and she was emboldened to ask, ‘Which is the real Ross Durden, the sober gentleman or the reckless highway robber?’

  ‘Which do you think?’

  She considered. ‘I would like to believe it was the gentleman,’ she said at last. ‘Although I do not like to think that you are really quite so sombre. You never laugh.’

  ‘I find little to amuse me. Your father has seen to that.’

  Her hands tightened on the glass. Somehow it did not surprise her that Phineas was involved in this. Dear heaven, would she never be free of him?

  She said quietly, ‘Will you tell me why?’

  His mouth thinned. ‘It need not concern you.’

  ‘I think it must, since I am your hostage. I have a right—’

  ‘Hostages have no rights, Mrs Weston.’ He drained his glass and reached out to pluck her empty one from her hands. ‘You should sleep now.’

  His tone brooked no argument. She went to rise, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. It was quite gentle, but there was sufficient strength for her to know it would be useless to resist him.

  ‘First let me warm the sheets for you.’

  He scooped hot coals from the fire into the warming pan and slipped it beneath the bedcovers. He looked up and caught her watching him.

  ‘I hope this is the correct way to go about it. It is not something I have done before.’

  Despite her exhaustion she felt a smile tugging at her lips. He was certainly an odd sort of villain.

  ‘It looks correct to me.’ She pushed herself to her feet. Heavens, how weary she was. ‘I shall need to relieve myself before I retire....’

  ‘We do not yet run to an indoor water closet here, Mrs Weston.’

  His answer made her look towards the window, where despite the thick curtains the howling wind could still be heard.

  ‘However, I would not ask you to step outside again tonight. There is a chamber pot in the cupboard beside the bed.’

  ‘You appear to have thought of everything.’

  ‘I hope so.’ He emptied the coals back onto the fire and stood the warming pan on the hearth before picking up his boots. ‘Oh, I ordered Jed to nail the window shut. My room is only next door and I am a very light sleeper, madam. You may be sure that I shall hear it if you attempt to break the glass and escape.’

  She said, with a last tiny spurt of energy, ‘Much as I object to being held prisoner, Mr Durden, you may be sure that the most pressing matter for me at this moment is sleep!’

  With a short laugh he went out, and she heard the key turn in the lock, but this time it did not rouse her to fury and frustration. She was too exhausted for that. Besides, he had said he had no intention of hurting her and strangely enough she believed him, although she wondered what he would do when Phineas refused to pay a ransom for her. She gave her head a little shake; she was far too tired to think about that now.

  She pottered around the room, collecting up her clothes and arranging them over the chairs before the fire so they would dry. Whatever was in store for her tomorrow, she would face it when it came, and did not intend to do so wearing Ross Durden’s garishly coloured banyan.

  * * *

  Charity had no idea how long she slept, but when she heard the key in the lock she was instantly on the alert. The line of light around the edges of the thick window curtains told her it was morning, but she kept the bedclothes pulled tight to her chin as the door opened.

  ‘Good morning. It is ten o’clock and time you were out of bed,’ Ross Durden greeted her cheerfully as he strode across to the room and threw back the curtains. The dazzling light made her put one arm across her eyes and she heard him chuckle.

  ‘It is a fine morning, but it snowed again in the night and is now knee-deep everywhere, so I would not advise you to go out of doors. I have brought you a jug of hot water so you may wash. Get dressed and come down to the kitchen. Breakfast is waiting for you.’

  She bridled at his tone, but he did not notice, for he was reviving the fire that had burned itself down to a dull glow. She noted he was not wearing a jacket and the full sleeves of his white shirt billowed from the waistcoat, accentuating the width of his shoulders and tapered waist. Tight buckskins stretched over his hips and thighs. She found her mouth going dry at the sight of him hunkered down before the hearth, and an unfamiliar yearning gripped her. He exuded a disturbing amount of strength and energy, which in her present sleepy state put her at a disadvantage and made her assume a haughtiness that would have had her friends staring in astonishment.

  ‘I am not accustomed to breaking my fast in the servants’ quarters.’

  That brought forth nothing more than another deep chuckle.

  ‘Oh, you’ll find no servants there, Mrs Weston. We must fend for ourselves. And you must dress yourself, too.’ He picked up her stays and dangled them from one finger. ‘Unless you would like me to help you....’

  Colour flooded over her neck and face, not just from embarrassment but she was also aware of a delicious curl of desire winding through her at the thought of his doing just that.

  ‘I shall manage perfectly well, thank you.’

  ‘Good. Then I shall wait for you downstairs. When you reach the hall you will see the kitchen door behind the stairs.’

  ‘What, you trust me not to run away?’

  He was at the door, but her words made him stop.

  ‘If you are not there in twenty minutes, I shall come in search of you. You would be very unwise to try running off. Your tracks would soon give you away. But I don’t think you will put me to the trouble of coming after you again.’

  He said no more, but the stern look in his eyes promised terrible retribution if she disobeyed him.

  It took most of the allotted twenty minutes for Charity to make herself presentable. Her petticoats had dried overnight, although her gown was sadly watermarked, as were the satin dancing slippers. However, they were all she had to wear, so she wasted no time in regretting what could not be changed. She opened the bedroom door, but quickly retreated and only came out again once she had folded a blanket into a shawl to protect her against the icy air of the passage.

  She was relieved to find the kitchen comfortably warm, and as she entered Samson came over to give her a friendly snif
f, his black tail waving slowly. Absently she put a hand on his head before making her way towards the range, drawn by the cheerful glow of the coals.

  * * *

  Ross was filling the coffee pot from the kettle, but he looked round when Charity Weston entered the room. She had one of the blankets from the bed wrapped about her shoulders, the dull brown wool only enhancing the lustre of the golden curls that cascaded from a simple topknot. Her beauty was quite startling and his eyes were drawn to her lips. They were full and red, as if she had been nervously biting them. His heart lurched and he wished he was welcoming her here as his guest rather than his prisoner.

  Pull yourself together, man!

  Sternly quelling the urge to apologise, he greeted her cheerfully.

  ‘So there you are. I’m afraid there is no bread as you might know it, for Mrs Cummings has not been here to make it. However, there are these.’ He gestured towards the ceiling and a rack, which had a number of large, very thin oatcakes thrown over it. ‘They are very fresh and still soft, which is the way I like them best. But even when they are crisp they are quite palatable, you know, spread with butter and jam.’

  ‘I am not so high and mighty that I do not know that,’ she replied warily. ‘My mother used to make them. I suppose your servant prepared these.’

  He held out a chair for her.

  ‘No, madam, I did. I used to help Cook make them in this very kitchen when I was very young, and when I went to sea I took her recipe with me. It proved extremely popular to men accustomed to ship’s biscuit.’ He reached up and pulled down one of the oatcakes and put it on a plate before her. ‘Here, try it and I will pour you some coffee.’

  He pulled another oatcake off the rack for himself and sat down.

  She said, as if making light conversation, ‘There is no doubt that I will have been missed by now. I should like to let my friends know I am safe.’

  ‘Impossible. You seem to have forgotten, Mrs Weston, that I have kidnapped you.’

  ‘If you are truly a villain, why did you take such care of me last night?’

  He tried not to think of the shock of finding her gone, the fear that had consumed him at the idea of her perishing in the snow. He had been horrified when she’d told him she had run away because she was afraid for her life. He was a villain, indeed, to put her through this. A villain with a conscience, but he could hardly tell her that.