At the Highwayman's Pleasure(19)

       

Great heavens, he was no Sir Galahad, and she was no gentle damsel in  distress. She was a weapon he needed to use against his enemy. He must  never forget that. Ross picked up a bedroom candle from the hall table  and lit it from the lamp. He would not abandon his plan, but he knew he  would have to work damned hard to keep it on course.

* * *

Charity took her time to remove her pattens, thankful for a few moments  to make sense of all that was happening to her. Ross Durden was a very  dangerous man, not only because he was holding her captive, but because  of the way he made her feel. She had never experienced such a strong  attraction to anyone before. Her body ached for him, all the more so,  she thought, because she had never wanted any man before.

Very much the attraction of a moth for a flame.

Whatever it was, it could be her undoing if she stayed here. She  straightened, casting a surreptitious glance towards her captor. He was  waiting for her at the foot of the stairs, the lit candle in his hand  illuminating his lean face, showing her the dark, brooding eyes, the  hawk-like nose and the grim set of his mouth. She had never seen a more  stern and unyielding countenance, but it did not deter her. Nor did it  lessen her desire one jot. She closed her eyes for a moment as the irony  of the situation struck her, that at seven-and-twenty she should be so  unaccountably attracted to the most unsuitable man she had ever met.

What was she thinking of; what did her attraction matter? She was  already doomed, for she knew his identity. He could never set her free  now. She must stay alert and look for an opportunity to escape.

‘If you are ready, Mrs Weston, I will show you to your room.'

She approached cautiously and maintained as much distance as possible  between them as they made their way up the stairs. He threw open the  door to a small bedroom on the first floor. A full hod of coal rested on  the hearth, but no fire burned there and the room was only marginally  warmer than the carriage.

‘So this is to be my prison.'

‘Hopefully not for very long.' He used his candle to light several more  around the room. ‘I will have Jed come up and light the fire as soon as  he has stabled the horses, and I am sure we can even find a warming pan  for the bed.'

She dropped a mock curtsy.

‘La, I thank you, sir.'

He showed his teeth at that.

‘Just remember, I could have put you in the cellar.'

He went out, locking the door behind him, and she was alone.

* * *

Charity paced the little chamber, keeping her travelling cloak pulled  firmly about her. The room was sparsely furnished with a large chest of  drawers and a small cupboard beside the heavy, old-fashioned bed that  had its full complement of pillows and blankets, but lacked curtains.  There was a carpet on the floor and a washstand in the corner, although  the jug was empty. She went to the door. It was a solid structure fitted  with a heavy lock. She gave the handle a cursory tug, but it did not  budge. She sat on the edge of the bed to consider her situation. It must  be midnight, or even later, but she had left Betty sleeping in her bed  and had told Thomas not to wait up. It was unlikely anyone would miss  her until the morning.

She was surprisingly calm and wondered how this could be. She was  locked in a room, miles from Allingford, the prisoner of a man who  purported to be a gentleman, but whom she knew as a highwayman.

A man who had the power of life or death over her.

She should be shaking with fear, but perhaps, after more than a decade  in the theatre, she was accustomed to crises and drama. Besides, the  memory of those stolen kisses would not go away and she just could not  make herself believe that the man who had delivered them could be all  bad. But it made no sense: reason told her Ross Durden was dangerous and  she should be terrified.

She heard the key grate in the lock and Jed appeared, his arms full of  wood. She jumped off the bed, wondering if she might make a dash for the  stairs, but even as the thought crossed her mind Ross Durden came in  and closed the door behind him.

‘I thought I should come, too, in case you tried to escape while Jed was lighting the fire for you.'

He spoke pleasantly, but his eyes were black and hard as jet. There was  no mistaking the implacable look in them. He was not a man to be  persuaded by tears or tantrums. With a scorching glance Charity hunched  her shoulders and walked across to the window, where she stood staring  out into the night. There was little enough to see save the feathery  flakes that were being blown almost horizontal by the howling wind.

‘Would you like some supper?'

She wanted to swear at him and tell him she would have none of his  food, but that would be foolish. She must not anger him unduly. He  continued.                       
       
           



       

‘There is ham, or a game pie, or you may have a hot meal, although that will take a little longer, possibly up to an hour.'

She took a final look out of the window before turning to face him.

‘I can wait. It is such a cold night-I would like something hot.'

‘Very well.' He glanced at Jed, who was dusting his hands off as he  watched the flames lick around the kindling and small logs he had piled  into the hearth. ‘Put a little coal on top of that, Jed, and you can  come back later to build it up.'

‘There is no need,' Charity said quickly. ‘I am perfectly capable of looking after a fire.'

He met her defiant look with one of mild amusement.

‘I am sure you are, Mrs Weston. Very well, Jed, come along. We shall leave the lady to her own devices for a while.'

‘Supper will be an hour, you said?' She shrugged when her question  caused him to stop and turn at the door. ‘I only ask so that I know how  long I must amuse myself.'

Oh, good heavens, why had she said that? She had left herself open for  him to make the most audacious reply. As an actress she was used to it  and could turn aside impudent comments with a smile and a light word.  But that was in the theatre. Here she was a prisoner and at the mercy of  her captor. But who was the real Ross Durden, the wicked highwayman or  the sober gentleman farmer? She waited uneasily for his reply.

* * *

Ross gazed at the woman across the room. Her head was up and she was  giving him back look for look. She had courage, he had to admit that,  but he saw the wariness behind her bold stare. She must be frightened,  to be alone and helpless. Again he had to stifle the urge to comfort  her.

‘An hour,' he affirmed. ‘The fire in the kitchen has only just been  rekindled. It will take some time to prepare a meal for you, but I will  do my best to make it sooner.'

‘I would prefer you to make sure it is properly cooked!'

‘P'raps the leddy 'ud like some ale while she's waiting,' suggested Jed from the doorway.

‘I want nothing but my food,' she snapped with an imperious toss of her head. ‘In an hour.'

With a shrug Ross went out and locked the door. He found himself  smiling as he went back to the kitchen. He had expected questions, tears  and even hysterics. He had been prepared to spend some time explaining  that he merely needed to keep her here for a while. But his guest showed  no sign of wanting his reassurance. Perhaps it was no bad thing that  she had discovered his identity. She would know he meant her no harm. He  shrugged off his coat and hung it up on one of the hooks by the kitchen  door. Time for explanations later. First he must prepare a meal, and  one that would satisfy the lady.

* * *

It was just under an hour later when Ross carried a heavy tray up the  stairs. It was laden with hot dishes, and Jed was following with a  similar tray bearing a glass of wine and a selection of sweetmeats from  Mrs Cummings's jealously guarded store cupboard. When he reached the  locked room, Ross put the tray down upon a side table and drew the key  from his pocket. Before he opened the door he knocked softly.

There was no reply, but that did not surprise him. The lady was most  likely still in high dudgeon. He turned the handle, but the door opened  no more than an inch before stopping. Ross cast a quizzical, laughing  glance back at Jed.

‘Damn, she's set up a barricade.'

He put his shoulder to the door and pushed, hard. Whatever she had put  against the door was heavy and protested with a low rumble like thunder  as it was forced back across the floorboards. As soon as the opening was  wide enough Ross slipped through, tensed and ready to fend off any  attack.

None came. The chest of drawers had been pushed against the door and  the room was empty and cold-the small hod of coal still stood beside the  hearth, Jed's fire had burnt itself out and the window was wide-open.

* * *

The drifts in the fields were deeper than Charity had anticipated and  progress was slow. The snow had stopped and the sky was clearing. If she  had known that would happen she would have waited to run away until  later, when her captor and his servant were asleep, but her only thought  had been to get away and quickly, before the snow became so thick that  she would not be able to walk through it.