Instead of answering her, he responded by saying, “I 'av to go, luv. Say goodbye to me, then.”
She hesitated, not wishing to grant his request. But he had done nothing beyond kissing her—embarrassing enough to be sure, but not treacherous.
“Goodbye.” Her eyes were serious. “Go with God!” She was surprisingly sincere in the wish.
“To do that, you must introduce us,” he quickly responded, and then, pulling her towards him, added, 'I ain't well acquainted with that gallant, though I know you are a devotee. Keep me in your prayers, milaidy.”
To her dismay, he kissed her again, this time going about it with more passion than he had displayed, earlier. She was well taken aback by this change of approach and merely eyed him with a dull surprise, afterwards, which, (since she hadn't attempted to escape him) he took as tacit permission to repeat the action.
But Allisandra remembered herself enough to push away from him, saying, “You tarry too long, and the earl must think the worst of my conduct in allowing it.”
“Then I'll shoot 'im,” he responded.
“No! No. Is that the only means you can devise to solve your problems?”
“Nay; but it's the least troublesome. In addition to which, he is a filthy traitor.”
“Good night, my lord highwayman,” she said, trying to sound firm.
“Good night, my lady,” he returned, with a smile for both of them.
“Who are you?” she asked, hardly above a whisper.
“I am an 'ighwayman, luv.”
“Methinks you are not. You strike me as a courtier, sir. A mysterious courtier.”
“I am an 'ighwayman, tonight.”
“A mystery, more like.”
“An' do ye wish to be my unraveling?” He smiled, then stood and bowed politely, removing his hat in a sweeping gesture.
“Until we meet again, my lady.” He swept out of the coach and into the dark night.
Allisandra wondered if she would be left alone there or what was to happen to her. Just then she heard the sounds of a man climbing onto the driver's perch. The horses had long been stamping their feet and snorting in impatience, but now were finally to be allowed to pull the coach. Then the door opened, and it was him. His hair was still down, and it waved in well-cared for glossy locks about his face, reminding Allisandra strongly of the King's appearance. But then, many men had such hair and in that style, for it was simply the fashion.
“You'll be at Langley shortly.”
“I am obliged,” she responded, much relieved.
“My lady,” with another gallant bow. And he was off.
###
The sound of the footsteps chasing her were getting louder, and Allisandra realized she was not going to make an escape. Her strength was gone, and her limbs were weak—in fact, something was happening to her. She felt sick to her stomach and she couldn't breathe! She stopped running. She had to. She felt as if she might die on the spot.
If only it had been the highwayman again, she might not have been so frightened—and then realized what she had just thought. Wondrous strange, a world in which she could prefer the outlaw to the jaded aristocrat. With a dull ache around her heart she knew it was true, though; she would have delighted to see that man again, as much as she now dreaded being in the power of the other.
Her breath indeed was coming fast—and very ragged. Her eyes filled with fear, and it was a fear that, for the moment, had nothing to do with the man who now caught up with her, stopping his pace in order not to knock into her.
The moon had appeared, and she saw his face as he came and took her right up into his arms. He wore a resolute expression but nothing showing any anger, which was puzzling, but a relief. Her breathing continued ragged, however, and his demeanor swiftly turned to a look of concern. He moved them on hurriedly, though he, too, was winded from the chase.
“You need only to rest, and you shall recover,” he said, in a firm voice. To Allisandra's surprise, the words comforted her. He had a deep, strong voice, which was actually quite nice. She thought she might be dying, however, and gasped, between labored breaths, “I fear not!”
“You shall,” he insisted, in the same low but strong tone. “This is merely the result of hysterics brought on by your untoward exertion, and the cold, and your distress—on my account, no doubt.”
“Hysterics!” She was gasping for air, but had to respond to such an insult. “I do not indulge in them, sir!”
He eyed her sagaciously. “You do, now. Try to calm yourself.”
She discovered that she was indeed stiff with dread and made an attempt to do as he said, allowing her head to fall back against his arm. She was utterly spent from that mad chase. And it was madness. For her to think she could outrun a man in apparently good form. There had been rumours that Dorchester's health was deteriorating as a result of his debauched lifestyle. She now questioned their veracity, seeing as he had chased her down and then scooped her up and was still moving quickly with her in his arms.
When they reached the coach, he took the steps without putting her down. Allisandra was alarmingly breathless, but she had the presence of mind to move off of him when he sat down. In return he took gentle hold of her shoulders and told her to lay down, her head upon him. “You must calm yourself,” he said, encouragingly.
She was so ill that she ignored the impropriety of having her head upon him. She tried to ignore everything that was happening, to imagine it all away. Even if just for a moment, knowing she must focus on regaining her breath. Her strength. Her wits. And slowly, she did. Little by little, her breaths came in more measured intervals, and were deeper.
The lamp had been lit, and she looked curiously at the aristocratic face above her. Oh, yes—it was Dorchester all right. She remembered the smooth skin, dark, long locks, a fine nose and mouth, well-shaven jaw and piercing dark eyes. Dark eyes that met hers. Returning her gaze. Allisandra coloured and sat up. She resumed her place against the cold side of the coach, wrapping her arms around herself, and huddling.
“My lady,” he said, lightly. She stiffened involuntarily but turned her head towards him —just enough to show she had heard, but no more.
He reached into a hidden pocket of his waistcoat. Allisandra's curiosity was piqued, and so she watched. He found the desired item and pulled it forth—a small flask. He undid the cap and passed it immediately in her direction. She was thirsty, but eyed it warily.
“This will do much to improve your constitution,” he said encouragingly, holding it out for her to take. Reluctantly she did so, and sniffed at its open mouth cautiously. She quickly thrust back the flask, crying, “Spirits! No, I thank you!”
He shifted in his seat but would not take it back. “You are not well, my lady. What's more, you are cold, and possibly hungry, and tired—a few sips of this, and you will feel greatly restored, I give you my word.”
“
Your word!
” she shot out, not to his surprise, only.
In a somber tone, he repeated, “I give you—my—word.”
“You evidently know little of me,” Allisandra began. She was going to inform him of her scruples against spirits, but he shot back, “I know all about you! I am not proposing that you take up brandy as a past-time; I am suggesting that a small, harmless amount of the stuff will do you some good, and, what's more, you need it. Do not think I am unaware of the degree of your discomfort. Unfortunately, it could not be avoided, for I had precious little time to rescue you.”
“Rescue me! Rescue
me
?” Allisandra was speechless for a moment. “What can you mean, sir?” He had her full attention.
But he merely looked meaningfully at the flask. “Take a drink, and we'll talk later.”
Allisandra, who had drunk nothing but the weakest wine all her life (requiring special permission of the King, in fact, for everyone else at his table drank whatever he offered them) looked doubtfully at the container, wrinkled her nose at the smell, and forced down a swallow. She immediately coughed, looking accusingly at her companion, and hurriedly handed back the vile libation.
He murmured, “Very good,” and then took a deep gulp, letting the fluid run smoothly down his throat, as one accustomed to it. But he stopped at that, re-capped the flask, and put it into the pocket of his frock-coat.
For a few seconds Allisandra heartily regretted her sip, when suddenly she felt a strange but nice sort of sensation. It was warmth that was spreading throughout her limbs, seeming to come from her stomach or throat area. To her astonishment, his lordship had been right—she could feel the effect of this drink, and it was not a disagreeable thing. She felt warmer and more relaxed. The feeling spread to her face, which was now rosy. She stretched her neck and shifted a bit on her seat, relaxing into the upholstery. Dorchester noticed and suddenly the flask was there, in front of her again, and he said, “Go on, once more. You'll feel better, yet,” in his low but hearty tone.
She hesitated, but decided that just one more small sip could not do her harm; did not even the king's physician prescribe brandy now and then as a medicinal recourse? So she accepted the drink, and thanked him quietly. He, too, repeated the action and then put the flask away into his pocket.
Allisandra leaned her head back. Though there was nothing comfortable about the seventeenth-century coach, not even a duchess's, for all the velvet in the world could not disguise a rough road or the effects of travelling upon it. But she must have been tired, for she felt suddenly comfortable enough to sleep/. Sleep?/ What was she thinking? For here she was, being abducted! By the rake-hell John Wilton! The king would know of this, she would see to that! Yet, the man was keeping his distance....and she felt so very sleepy....And that was the last thing she remembered.....
M'lord, 'at was 'is Majesty's coach just run by us!”
The carriage had stopped, and Allisandra came awake with a jolt. Her head was resting against Lord Dorchester's shoulder, and he had one arm wrapped around her to support her. As soon as she grew aware of it, she removed the offending arm from about her, and moved herself over on the cushion with haste.
Dorchester was frowning at the liveried servant speaking to him from the open door. He had heard the other coach pass, guessing whose it might be. Now he knew for sure. He knew, too, where the king was going, marveled that they had not met sooner, and would feel better when more distance was between them. There would be others in the king's retinue with whom they had yet to meet, but they should not prove to be problematic.
He gave orders not to stop again unless he directed them to, and the coach resumed its barreling pace forward. They would have to make haste.
Allisandra's brain was fully awake, now. Could it really have been the King passing? Perhaps she might have hope of a rescue. Lord Dorchester had spoken of rescuing her, but that was absurd. She needed rescuing
from
him. As the King's ward, she was entitled to royal protection. There had to be a way she could make her presence known when the royal entourage passed by following His Majesty. She sat, trying to think what to do.
Dorchester was sitting back in thought as well.
“The King's coach 's stopped, melord!” The shout came from one of the postilions on the back of the carriage, and Dorchester frowned. His pulse quickened a little in excitement, though, as the thought of a possible encounter almost appealed to him. It was only on Allisandra's account that he wished to go unnoticed.
Allisandra’s pulse also had quickened—with hope. “Hadn't you ought to speak to the king?” she asked.
He didn't look at her. And made no answer.
“They have seen us; He'll know you are ignoring him!”
At this he turned to say, “It is the duchess who appears to be ignoring him, as this is her equipage.” She had forgotten that, and her heart sank.
They both heard the sound of more vehicles approaching—the king's retinue! Dorchester quickly put out the lamp, and listened... When the noise grew sufficiently loud to be almost upon them, Allisandra, in a flash of inspiration, pulled off an expensive shoe from one foot and thrust it forcefully against the opposite wall of the coach. To her great satisfaction, the vehicle began slowing down. She stole a glance at the earl who gave her a mild look of reproach, but then he pounded thrice against the same wall, very deliberately, for he had his own coachman who knew his code, and they picked up speed once more.
There would be no stopping; there was no way to let anyone know she was there.
The road grew silent after the three coaches carrying courtiers and ministers and servants passed by and they were alone again. Allisandra's attempt to solicit help had failed, and she settled against the wall, away from the earl, with a heavy heart.