"I'm sure that's a vision that appeals to you," she said.
He laughed, and they descended the steps of the carriage. He gripped his cane tightly and maneuvered to the cobblestones below.
The Scarlet Demon offered him her hand. He smiled; he would almost miss her.
He forced his gaze away from her, toward the sky. "It's going to snow."
"Nonsense. The stars are out."
"I've spent enough nights looking at the sky. Sleeping outside becomes more appealing when you're in a tent full of snorers."
"How very-individualistic of you."
He nodded, though he didn't mention that it wasn't just snoring he'd longed to escape. The men shouted in their sleep, reliving battle experiences every time they shut their eyes. Perhaps their minds were trying to extract some meaning from their experiences, but it was impossible; there was none.
He pushed open the door to the tavern, the red-headed woman at his side. Her eyes widened as they entered. Groups of men clustered at wooden tables. A few chess boards were scattered around, and in one corner men played darts. Some men were eating. Tankards adorned the tables, brimming with delightful liquids that ranged from gold to amber in color.
He headed to the counter. He would eat, drink, and then flee. The scent of mince pies filled the tavern, and Percival groaned.
"Are you quite alright?" The scarlet-haired woman directed her gaze at him, and he suppressed a laugh.
"I'd feel better if I weren't captured."
Her smile wobbled. "Later."
Yes, later was definitely not anything he wanted happening anytime soon. The floor creaked underneath his steps, and he ducked to avoid the wooden beams. "Some of the patrons look like they've been here for centuries, gossiping about Anne Boleyn."
An elderly man cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes slowly as if the action drew all his exertion. His gaze dropped to Percival's wooden stump. "You look a mite ragged yourself."
"At least I was once handsome." Percival ignored the stern gaze the man fixed on him. He hated when people drew attention to his leg. He put his hand on the small of the woman's waist and raised his voice. "These people lack all sense."
Greenery dangled from the ceiling, and the scent of mulled wine mingled with the ale dispersed about the pub. He tried to relax, but the group of men scowling at him unsettled him.
The Scarlet Demon eyed a group of flamboyantly dressed woman. "Such strange clothes."
"I take it I shouldn't add experience with whoring to your list of crimes."
Her eyes widened, and he grinned. In the light her emerald shards really shone. So much life in them. He could almost forget she'd taken him to this God-forsaken place. Nobody to help him here, that was certain.
A barmaid marched to them. "Ale?"
"And meat," Percival said.
"For me too," the Scarlet Demon said. "And um-potatoes and broccoli."
"I knew you were hungry," Percival said.
"You're paying."
"I wondered when you were going to start robbing me."
She chuckled, and Percival almost laughed with her. He tapped his fingers against the table and considered informing these people he'd been captured. That hadn't worked before, and the thought of the magistrate locking her up somewhere didn't fill him with the pleasure it should have. No, far better to slip out quietly. He wouldn't have a scandal, and she wouldn't be harmed.
She sat across from him, and it felt far too intimate. He'd never eaten with any of his mistresses, and though he'd been placed next to women at London parties and expected to converse with them, he'd always had the advantage of having other people beside him.
The barmaid set towering tankards of ale down, and foam sloshed on the wooden table. He grinned when she put the food down. Definitely no need to leave yet.
He eyed his companion. "So what is it like being a highwaywoman?"
She leaned toward him, and her voice lowered to an almost seductive tone. "Wild."
He shivered and then took a long slurp of the ale. "And how did you get into that career?"
Her red lips extended upward. "Complete chance."
"Oh."
"It could happen to you." The woman tossed her hair, and scarlet curls resettled into a new, alluring pattern. The strands were bright sparks of color in the grim tavern, and Percival forced his gaze away.
No way would he let her see him eyeing them. Any curiosity might be taken for admiration, and he did not admire highwaywomen. His Majesty's Army would not condone it, even if there might be some merit in the curve of her cheeks.
He'd been too long without a woman. War would do that to a man, at least one who'd had no desire to fulfill his urges at a brothel, and who was under strict instructions from the dowager to rectify his rakish reputation before he got betrothed.
Perhaps he was using the dowager as an excuse to avoid making a love-match. Perhaps he was worried his injury would hamper any attempts to find true affection anyway. He shook his head. "Tell me about yourself."
"Me?" The Scarlet Demon's gaze flickered to his torso, and she tucked a lock of auburn hair behind her ear. Her voice seemed more high-pitched than it had before, a breathless tone, no less appealing, that made him scrutinize her.
A pink tint spread over her cheeks, and she dipped her head down. The gesture only made more of her mane of hair topple forward, and for a strange moment Percival pondered what it would feel like to move his fingers through her thick curls.
He'd traveled through France, Spain, Russia, and the Hapsburg Empire, but by Zeus, he'd never met any woman like her.
The Scarlet Demon inhaled, and though that dreadful cloak covered her completely, he would be lying if he said he hadn't noticed the way her chest moved, and considered whether underneath all the wool there was a bosom he could grasp. The woman was rounder than he was used to. The chit had apple cheeks he wanted to stroke, and full lips that the warm tavern must have turned red, because they were the most enticing color.
He tightened his fists together. Clearly he'd simply gone far too long without a woman. That was it. Naturally. He concentrated on cutting his food and savoring the rich meat taste.
"What is this?" She poked the thick tan crust, and dark liquid oozed from it.
"Steak and ale pie." He tilted his head. "How have you managed to avoid eating those? The only people I know who haven't eaten them are members of the ton."
She shrugged. "We highwaywomen are frightfully refined."
"Clearly." He concentrated on his food. Much less confusing than continuing to make conversation with his captor.
Before long he stumbled to his feet. A few of the men glanced at his wooden leg, and he stiffened. He'd been accustomed to drawing people's glances because of his Carmichael features; now it was his tendency to totter and sway that attracted attention. "I'll pay."
She lurched up, and her chair scraped against the wooden floor. "I'll come with you."
Percival nodded; he'd anticipated her action.
They strode toward the counter, though Percival's steps were rather less elegant than the highwaywoman's. Her gaze swept over the room, and she appeared fascinated by the space and the long bar with the many men sipping ale. He almost wanted to laugh.
He grabbed hold of his purse and dipped out some of his gold coins. He handed her his still heavy bag. "This is yours."
"I-"
In the next moment he knocked two tankards from the table. Then he was off, dragging his bad leg behind him, and gripping his cane as if everything depended on it, as murmurs broke out.
There was no way she was going to start flinging her knife at him now.
He increased his speed, grateful for the clusters of men. She'd have trouble coming after him.
He smiled. He wouldn't need to worry about her anymore. The highwaywoman was in the past. He'd even left her some coins. To distract her. Not because he was worried what would happen to her, now that she was stuck in a strange place by herself.
Not at all.
He rubbed his hand through his hair and pressed the door to the outside. Cold wind slammed against him. The snow that he'd predicted had started to fall. He swore. Why on earth did he have to be so bloody right about everything?
He stepped over the icy cobblestones. Snow clung to his clothes, and the ground grew ever whiter. The groom helped him onto the mail coach, changed with fresh horses, and Percival took the reins quickly before the man might ask him any questions about why he was not wearing a uniform.
He pressed the horses forward, leaving the light of the tavern as he sauntered into the darkness toward freedom. And Lady Cordelia. He sighed, trying to summon thoughts of his future bride.