Miss Farrow's Feathers (16 page)

"Exactly."

Hugh shook his head and rolled his eyes, but he had the good sense not to say anything he might end up regretting.

"Fine. Tell me where they went and I'll go take care of things for you."

"I'm going, too."

Now he laughed out loud. "Of course you are. That's the sensible thing to do at this point."

Max tried not to be angry. This was Hugh, after all. He could trust him with his life
—and Miss Farrow's life, too. He'd formulated a plan on his way here, and he knew without doubt Hugh would go along. No matter how foolhardy it was.

"It's the only thing to do at this point
," he said, tossing back the whiskey Hugh handed him and getting to business. "Now where's that bag you carry, with the masks and what not?"

"Masks? It's the middle of the day,
Max. What exactly do you plan to do with those?"

"Highwaymen don't always wait for the dead of night. What better way to distract a criminal than by presenting him with another criminal?"

"I believe you've lost your mind."

"Where's the bag?"

"Under the bed. I'd like to just say, though, that I'm not in favor of whatever you've got planned."

"You don't even know what I've got planned."

"I can guess, and I don't like it."

"Fine. Noted. Now go get the carriage ready. They headed north out of town and there's no telling what Nigel might be about by now."

"Oh, I think you've got a fair idea what he's about."

Max clenched his fists. Yes, by God, he was afraid Hugh was right. He had more than a fair idea what Nigel was about. The same damned thing he himself would have been about if he'd been lucky enough to cart Miss Farrow off for a drive through the quiet, lonely countryside.

"Just see that you hurry, man."

"You are even more lovely now than that day five years ago when we sat here under this tree," the earl of Glenwick said.

"Seven years ago," Meg corrected. "And we never sat under this tree."

The summer breeze rustled through the branches above them, bees bumbled from clover to clover in the quiet meadow around, the nearby stream babbled a delicate cadence, and birds trilled lovingly to their mates. It was the perfect day for a romantic picnic and this gentleman was outdoing himself with flattery and pretty words.
Meg tried not to be sick.

"I remember it like it was yester
day," Nigel cooed with all the warmth and sincerity of a reptile.

"I'm sure your memory is clearer than mine," she said, having given up on
convincing him the truth of what happened. "I had no idea you felt such deep sentiment and emotion, Nigel."

"I have always felt things very deeply for you, Meg. They never
diminished over the years."

"Even when you left to get married?"

He lowered his head and gave a mournful sigh. "Even then, I'm ashamed to admit. I was forced by my station to marry where expected. I only wish things had been different."

"They've worked out well for you now, I suppose
," she couldn't help adding. "You've become earl."

"Yes, though the only joy that it brings me is the knowledge that finally, at long last, I am free to give my heart where it wills."

"Joy that comes at the expense of your poor wife, of course."

"God rest her poor soul. I came to care for her, I assure you, but she was not an easy woman to abide. She had none of the gentle virtue you possess
, Meg. She was cold and unfeeling—I was forever a stranger to her, no matter how I tried. You've no idea how lonely I've been these past years, Meg. Not a day has gone by that I haven't missed everything about you."

"And thought longingly of our picnic, apparently."

"Every day! Please don't think me too forward... but being with you again, here, like this... it's my dearest dream coming true."

"Even when you left to marry someone else you were dreaming of me?"

"Yes, Meg. Please don't think less of me for it. Let your heart speak for my honor and say you understand."

Oh, she understood very well. Far better than he could guess, given the cow's eyes he was making and the hopeful little smirk at the corner of his mouth. He thought she was ready to swoon for him here and now.
Could he be so very stupid? Well, what better time to make this work in her favor?

"
Your heart is so tender!" she said, letting out the sorrowing sigh she was sure he expected. "Oh, you dear man. I had no idea you'd been so lost."

"Yes. Yes, I have been. Lost and lonely for you, Meg. Tender only for you."

"That's sweet. If only your heart could be so tender for poor, poor Bartholomew."

"
Er, what?"

"It's so sad that you feel he must be destroyed."

"But you admitted he's caused chaos in your home, brought scandal onto your father."

"Yes, he has done all that."

"And you've been reduced to hiring a stranger to come live in your home, make free with your generous hospitality, all to no avail. Surely you see that a creature such as that cannot go on. You can't truly feel sorry for the beast?"

"But he was your grandfather's. Have you n
o sentiment toward him for that? The old earl loved him dearly despite all his flaws. He told me time and again that bird was his treasure."

"Yes, yes, but... wait, treasure? What do you know of a treasure?"

"That's how much he loved the silly bird."

"And he used that exact word? The bird was a
treasure
?"

"His treasure, he'd say.
"

"What else would he say? What did he tell you?"

Now he was leaning in close to her, his eyes losing the dark languor that had filled them and going bright, piercing the air between them. She instinctively pulled back. He must have noticed her reaction. Immediately his expression softened, his voice went low and his smile returned.

"I had no idea you were so close to my grandfather. Of course you must tell me everything of his last years. I regret I was away, not here at the end."

"He... he missed you, too. He loved you all the way to the end."

He nodded, his expression clouded and unreadable. Was this grief? Or something darker? Why did the skin on her back suddenly tingle and every instinct within her scream out that something was not right, that she s
hould find some excuse to leave now?

But she'd not yet got him to discuss Bartholomew. How could she give up her one chance to convince him, to gain a reprieve for the bird? She'd best steel her reserve and give one more try.

"And he hoped Bartholomew would stay at the parsonage. With my father and me."

His expression grew cold now.

"My grandfather said that? I had no idea there'd been so much discussion on the topic. He wished to bestow his best treasure on the lowly town vicar, did he? How kindhearted of him."

The glint in his eye and the edge to his voice sounded anything but kind
hearted. She pulled back even farther from him, scooting to the very edge of the blanket he'd laid out for their picnic. To her dismay he followed, looming over her as he rose up onto his knees.

"What else did he leave you, Meg? Did he give you the book?"

"Book? He didn't give me a book. Maybe my father... he has a large collection of sermons bound nicely."

"It's not that kind of book. It's not a nice book at all
, Meg. It was a collection of tawdry, vulgar songs and rhymes passed down from my great-grandfather, the pirate."

Good heavens! The
book
! There was no doubt in her mind he was speaking of the book she had found in Mr. Shriley's room. But how could he have it? What on earth was going on here?

"You know the book, don't you?" the earl spat out at her. "I see it in your eyes! Tell me where it is. What have you found in it?"

"I... it's just a book as you said, a collection of very rude poems and rhymes. Song lyrics, perhaps, for the sorts of songs pirates might sing."

Now his arms shot out and he grabbed her
by the shoulders. "Where is it? Where did you put it?"

"I didn't put it anywhere, sir. And please, you're hurting me."

"Tell me where it is. Where did you see it?"

Her mind was a muddle. What should she say? He seemed about ready to shake her and she was quite terrified of him now. It almost appeared he had murder in his eyes. If she gave the wrong answer there was no telling what he might do.

But what was the right answer? What on earth was so special about that horrible book? And what could it mean that Mr. Shirley had shown up at her door with it claiming he'd arrived to help train their parrot? He must be in on some horrible scheme. And... oh good heavens, but she'd let herself kiss the man. And liked it!

Nothing made sense to her and she tried desperately to think straight.

"I... I don't know where it is."

"Where did you see it?"

"I'm not quite certain. Why are you hurting me? Please, let me go, my lord."

"Tell me! Where was the book?"

"I can't recall! I didn't pay attention. I think it was in—"

The crack of a pistol suddenly rang through the air. The flock of sheep grazing nearby scattered, crying out in distress as they ran. Nigel
released Meg, dropping her onto the ground as he spun round to find the source of the noise. She could see past him now and nearly cried out in her own distress.

Two figures approached, appearing from the thicket that grew
alongside the stream. Two men, both clad head to toe in black. They wore masks.

Dear gracious... highwaymen!

These were real, murderous, terrifying highwaymen!
Here, just outside her own little village! She'd never heard of such a thing, not here, and certainly not in broad daylight. They must be bold indeed if they came at them now, brandishing pistols in the bright afternoon, so close to the roadway.

Not that there appeared to be any traffic
there. Unfortunately, she and Nigel had been painfully alone. Now they were painfully
un
alone and at the mercy of these well-armed criminals. She scrambled up to her feet, tripping on her skirts and being completely unassisted by her previously attentive companion.

"What is the meaning of this?" Nigel demanded.

"Stand and deliver!" one of the men said.

"Do you mean to take our lunch?" Nigel asked. "I've nothing else to give you, it's just me and the girl."

Meg frowned at him. That sounded surprisingly as if he were offering her up in his place. Well! She rather hoped the highwaymen would shoot him dead. Except, of course that that was hardly a Christian attitude. Besides, if Nigel were dead she'd be left alone with the ruffians. That would not be her first choice.

Perhaps
, though, if they wounded Nigel they might be distracted to look through his pockets and she could run off and escape...

"We've heard otherwise about you," the man responded, waving two still-loaded weapons. "We hear you've got a treasure."

What? Now
they
were talking of treasure. What on earth was going on? First Nigel perked his ears at that word treasure, now these men. How unfair that she should be dragged into this even as completely ignorant as she was.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Nigel said.

She wished he'd be a little less antagonistic toward them. The first highwayman was a giant, the very epitome of one accustomed to violent behavior. His accent was strange, American perhaps. He held his guns steady, both pointed securely toward Nigel. The second highwayman was less burly and more elegant. He only maintained one unspent pistol, but he looked every bit as menacing as his partner. Between the two of them, Meg's plan of escape was feeling less and less hopeful. That second highwayman, in particular, had his eyes pinned directly on her.

Good heavens, was her face going hot at his stare? Indeed she must be desperate for male attention. Once she got out of this mess, she'd best go directly home and lock herself away in her room, safe from Nigel and parrot trainers and even highwaymen, apparently.

"You know what we're talking about," the burly man said, snarling at Nigel. "Now where is it?"

Nigel's eyes darted back and forth. Meg could see him trying to formulate a plan. He was standing next to her, the blanket and all their picnic supplies crumpled under their feet. The highwaymen were coming nearer and instinct drove her to step closer to Nigel.
For all the good that would do. If one of these horrid men happened to shoot a pistol again, Nigel would likely dive behind her for protection.

"Give us the treasure and we might let you live, Webberly," the brute insisted when Nigel made no reply to him.

"I am the Earl of Glenwick!" Nigel corrected, a matter Meg felt seemed rather petty just now.

"Not if you're dead, you're not."

Nigel seemed to consider that. In a flash of sudden movement, he grabbed Meg by the shoulders and nearly tossed her directly at the highwaymen. She was caught so off guard that she tumbled to the ground, crashing into the legs of the larger highwayman and crumbling into a heap at his feet. He staggered and her ears nearly shattered at the sound of more pistol fire. She buried her head under her arms, praying some miracle might happen and she might get out of this.

There was shouting and rustling around her. When she dared peep out, Nigel was running away, back toward his Phaeton. Both highwaymen still hovered over her, but the elegant one muttered something to the other and she felt his boot shift beside her.

"I'll get him, sir," the larger one said, stepping over Meg as she cowered again.

"Don't ki
ll him," his partner replied in flawless gentleman's English. "In fact, let him think he's escaped. Just give chase for effect."

The burly one grumbled at that, but Meg heard his heavy boot
steps racing away. This left her alone and at the mercy of the other one. She trembled as he crouched beside her, touching her. His hand gently pressed at her cheek as he pushed her disheveled hair aside to, apparently, view his trophy.

She would not give him the satisfaction of seeing her cowardice. Plucking up a backbone that was otherwise numb from fear she pushed up onto her elbow to glare
daggers at him. His blue, blue eyes glared back through two holes in his mask. Aside from the fact that he was very likely about to put a bullet in her head, the man appeared completely dashing.

"I will not give in
to you, sir," she said as boldly as she could. "If you want compliance, you might as well kill me now."

Instead of insult or violence, he beamed a broad smile at her. "Never, Miss Farrow. Not in a million years."

He knew her name! But how could he... wait, she knew that voice... those eyes... Good gracious, this wild, pillaging highwayman was none other than her mild-mannered parrot trainer!

"Mr. Shirley!"

He pulled off his mask to reveal that face, that masterful jaw line, that unruly dark hair... oh, but she was happy to see him. Considering she expected to be faced with a monster he was truly the most beautiful sight she could ever imagine. Even had she not expected a monster, he was quite a beautiful sight.

"Are you well? Did he harm you?" he asked, glancing over her. "You haven't been shot, have you?"

"No, I'm quite fine, as far as I can tell."

"Thank heavens," he said. "When I saw him leering over you that way, I feared I had come too late. Forgive me."

"Forgive you? I thought I was about to be murdered. I'm overjoyed to see you!"

She wasn't sure if he pulled her into his arms, or if she literally launched herself at him, but in the end it did not matter. She was pulled up tightly against him and it was the most wondrous place to be. Despite his dark clothing, the pistol he'd been brandishing just a moment ago, and the fact that she had no idea what was really going on, she was quite convinced she could spend the rest of her life quite content here in Mr. Shirley's arms.

If Shirley was really his name. A modicum of good sense came back to her and she reminded herself she knew nothing at all about this man. Well, other than that he made her knees weak and her heart beat an unseemly rhythm. Those, of course, were not necessarily traits to well recommend a man. Or a lady, for that matter.

She pushed herself away
.

"But wait... I don't even know who you are."

"You do know me, Meg," he replied. "I'm this man, the man who would do anything to keep you safe."

"You're a highwayman?"

"Er, no."

"Thank heavens for that, but... I have a strong suspicion you aren't a parrot trainer either, are you?"

"No, I'm not really that, I'm afraid."

"And your name isn't Shirley, I daresay."

"No. It isn't."

"Then what is your name?"

He sighed, shifting from his position on one knee to sit beside her on the blanket. This pistol dangled harmlessly from his hand.

"I can't tell you that just now. I'm sorry."

"And all this business about treasure?" she asked. "Can you tell me about that?"

"No
. I wish that I could."

"How you knew of Papa's advertisement for a trainer?"

"A lucky coincidence."

"And what of that book? Nigel
—the earl—is looking for it. How did you come by it?"

"I'm sorry, Meg, but I simply can't tell you these things."

"What
can
you tell me, then?"

"Very little, I'm afraid. It's for your own good."

"Well, please don't tell me you have a wife and children waiting for you somewhere!"

"No, that I can tell you. I am entirely a bachelor, at this point.
Beyond that, I'm afraid you'll just have to trust me."

"
You've been living in my home under false pretenses, you go around dressed as a robber, and you shoot pistols at noblemen. Why on earth would I not trust you?"

"Why indeed?" he said,
grinning as if they shared some private joke together.

Perhaps they did. They way he looked at her made her face go hot again. The full rest of her, too. She lowered her eyes and hoped he would not realize what a little ninny she was, feeling this way over him for no good reason whatsoever. Of course she would trust him. Apparently she was helpless not to.

He stood, reaching a hand down to assist her.

"Here, let me get you home. There's no telling what panic will ensue if Nigel goes to your father and informs him you've been abducted by highwaymen. I would hate to allow your father to feel that sort of worry."

"Yes, poor Papa! He'd be very concerned."

She let Mr. Shirley
—or whoever he was—help her to her feet. She let him brush imaginary dust off her, too. She was rather disappointed that was all he required her to let him do, as a matter of fact.

"I promise, as soon as it is safe I will answer all of your questions," he said when she made the mistake of meeting his gaze.

The tenderness and sincerity in his voice would not allow her to doubt him. Not that she was trying very hard. She wanted more than anything to believe what he said, to trust that there was noble purpose to all his deception and lies.

Especially the bit about him not having any wife or children tucked away somewhere.

It took everything Max had not to sweep her into his arms and kiss her right there. After all, they were alone, her voice was still breathy from the nerves of her recent scare, and the blush that crept over her cheeks whenever she looked at him made him think maybe she would not rebuff his attentions.

Could it be she might care for him? He had no reason to expect it of her, of course. He'd be quite a cad, indeed, if he pressed for her affections now, when she knew him only as a liar and possible
criminal. Still, when she look at him... he thought perhaps he could hope.

Hell. He would do more than hope.

He ignored his good sense and he pulled her into an embrace. A good, solid embrace that let her know he meant business. She didn't scream or push away, so he went right on ahead and he kissed her.

Her lips were tender and soft, then greedy and hungry. She kissed him back, just the way he hoped she would.
She tasted as warm as the sunshine and as sweet as the clover scenting the air. All his good intentions faded away as the only thing he could think of was making a full meal out of clover and sunshine, and making Meg Farrow his once and for all.

"Ahem."

It was Hugh announcing his return. By God, the man's timing was dreadful. Or perfect, Max supposed, considering he'd been about to forget he was a gentleman. Miss Farrow was spared. She stepped away quickly, righting her clothes and keeping her eyes fixed on the ground.

Hugh had brought up their carriage. They'd left it out of sight just around t
he far bend, behind a thicket. Fortunately things had worked out as planned and Nigel hadn't spotted it to be able to connect them to the inn, where they had hired the carriage. So far there was still hope Max's plan might work out.

"I suppose
we should get the young lady home safely?" Hugh asked.

"Yes. But I'm afraid our time is running out. Nigel knows we are after him so he'd bound to take action."

"But you said the book holds the key. If he doesn't have that..."

"He might still figure it out if he gets his hands on Bartholomew."

Miss Farrow was listening eagerly and he realized that, despite how much he hoped to keep her out of all this, their only hope of success at this point required her assistance. Would she do it? Would she help him even though he'd been unable to give her any reason to trust?

"Because Bartholomew recites certain lines from that book," she said, proving she was every bit as clever as she looked. "Those are all clues to a treasure, aren't they?"

"I wish that I could tell you, but—"

"I know, I know. It's for my own good. Very well, don't tell me about it. Just tell me what I can do to help."

"I can't ask you to help me," he said, though of course he hoped she would insist.

"Then don't ask me to help you. Tell me how I can help Bartholomew. If Nigel takes him, we all know what will happen."

"No doubt he's on his way there right now," Max said. "So, here is what we must do. I hate to involve you, Miss Farrow, but—"

"I'm already involved."

"So you are."

He knew what had to be done. He'd make it as safe for her as possible, but there was no way to know what extremes Nigel would go to. When pushed into a corner, they could all expect him to react badly. Max could only hope Miss Farrow was safely out of the picture before it got to that point. They just needed one more thing, one last bit of proof that could put Nigel out of commission forever.