A Highwayman Came Riding Read Free

he?” he asked, taking Miguel’s hand gently. Miguel had pulled down his mask. She noticed the grim set of the captain’s jaw as he bent over his henchman, a small, dissipated-looking man with a scar running from the outer corner of his left eye to his jawbone.
    “He’s taken a little wine,” she said.
    Miguel opened his eyes and essayed an impish grin. “Wounded, not conquered,” he said. “ ‘Tis only a scratch on my arm, Cap’n. We’ve survived worse.”
    Marianne saw the blood on his sleeve and realized, though an arm wound was not life threatening, what a perilous business this robbing of travelers was. “How is the duchess?” she asked.
    “Not dead,” the captain replied. “Go to her. Keep her warm, and try to get some of that wine into her. I’ll have a word with your coachman. There’s a place nearby where we can get help.”
    This area was completely unknown to Marianne. She knew they were headed to London via Chertsey, and that is all she knew, for she had never been this far east. There wasn’t a town or inn or even a house in sight. The highwaymen had chosen an isolated stretch of road for their attack. She had no recourse but to put the duchess’s life, and her own, in the hands of this criminal and be grateful he didn’t abandon them. She took the wine bottle and got into the carriage, where she propped the duchess up against a corner of the banquette and sat beside her. She arranged the blankets around her. It proved impossible to get her to drink.
    In a moment, the carriage door opened. The captain and Miguel entered and sat on the banquette across from her. “You’re not coming with us!” she cried. It was half a question, half a command. She hardly knew which of them was more frightening, the big man in the black mask or the little one with that disfiguring scar down his cheek.
    “My friend is unable to ride,” the captain replied. “Be careful how you breathe, Miguel. We would not want to contaminate the ladies,” he said ironically.
    He handed Miguel a pistol—Beeton’s antiquated gun, in fact—murmured a few words in some foreign language, and left. Were they Frenchmen? Her French was not good, but she usually recognized the language. It didn’t sound like French. She had thought they were at least English criminals. English highwaymen had a reputation for their gentlemanly manners, so long as one went along with them. French highwaymen, on the other hand, were notoriously vicious.
    This night, which had been miserable to begin with, became worse with every new development. As if being held up by highwaymen and the duchess being near death were not enough, she now had to share the carriage with this criminal. To add to the horror of it, the carriage soon left the public road, where they might meet someone who could help them, and entered a narrow, dark, rough path. The pallid daylight had vanished, plunging them into total darkness. They were in a tree-lined lane. She could hear the branches brush against the carriage.
    “Where are we going?” she asked in alarm. “This can’t be the road to a hospital.”
    “The captain knows where we’re going,” Miguel replied. “He’s driving.”
    “Where is the coachman?”
    “Him and t’other lad are riding our nags—and they’d best not cripple them. The captain is mighty fond of Juno.”
    She soon came to the conclusion that the captain was driving them to his lair, to conceal that he had killed the duchess, who had not stirred a muscle since her attack. He would not leave Marianne and the servants alive to bear witness. He was going to kill them all. That is why he was taking them down this narrow, twisty lane.
    Why were Beeton and Tom going along with it? But with the duchess and herself as hostages, what choice did they have? The captain had taken their pistols from them. She was trapped for the present. She could not jump out and leave the duchess to these killers, but as soon as they reached their destination, she