The Highwayman's Mistress (8 page)

 
“I walked into this house innocent about my
business and I am then accused of attempted robbery, now highway robber and
afforded no right of reply.” Francois bowed to the proud stance of her mother,
threaded a pistol through his belt and opened the door, the other pistol he
kept pointed in the direction of the assembled. ”It is best I take my leave
until such time as sense prevails.”

 
Richard appeared at that moment at the head
of the staircase, and said, “What in the Lord’s name is happening here?”

 
Everyone glanced up, and in that brief
respite Francois disappeared into the night and the door slammed shut.

 
“After him,” squawked Lady Fortnum.

 
Several men rushed forward, and in the
mayhem and onrush of ladies in gowns she watched the door hauled wide. Male
guests rushed outside, and a horse could be heard galloping in to the distance.

 
Her mother strode forward as though everyone
else in the hallway had ceased to exist, her wrath to be expected and hopefully
to be as short-lived as it had been in the past once the heat of the moment was
over and done with. “This admirer, the one whom sent the jewels, it is he, is
it not? Francois de Boviere?”

 
“Yes, and I love him,” her only defence,
which would not pacify her mother, she knew that much. She was in trouble, deep
trouble. “You once loved Francois’ father, and I know what happened, and I can
understand why you were so upset by it all.”

 
“How dare you shame the Whitaker name, you
harlot
?”
Her mother’s words cut deep, but the slap to her face cut deeper. Never before
had her mother laid a hand on her. This was different. Her mother’s expression
alone implied the full force of her rage was yet to surface, her sudden grip on
arm merciless. “Home, we are going home right this minute my girl. And you
shall learn a great deal of humility before you will be allowed to show your
face in polite society again.”

 
She could barely hold back tears, her cheek
stinging as her mother turned to a liveried footman, and said, “Be so good as
to call for my carriage.”

 
What did her mother mean? What dreadful
punishment had she in mind?

 
“
Must
we go?” implored Leohne, mouth
petulant as ever, eyes dancing and as good as gloating at big sister’s shame.

 
 
Richard appeared at her mother’s elbow with Angelica, who’d kept
silent throughout as though as stunned as everyone else that her brother was
now a highwayman for real. Richard, braver than all of them, said, “My dear
lady, why so angry? Is not Diamonta’s affection for Francois a mere passing
fancy?”

 
“Passing fancy or not. He will never have my
daughter’s hand in marriage.”

 
Richard and his foolish games could make
things worse, when it was he who had robbed Lady Fortnum and others within the
county. “It is no fancy.”

 
“I think you misjudge my brother, Mrs.
Whitaker,” said Angelica, adamant in tone
 
“He walked in here tonight after a long ride from London, and could not
have committed all these terrible deeds you’ve all talked of. He’s been there
for days.”

 
“That is what he said,” remarked a man
standing close by, “and you know, I don’t think he’s the highwayman from
hereabouts. I’ve been thinking, the young count is dark of eyes and dark of
hair, and that young varmint who held us up the other day had eyes as blue as
the viscount’s, and I swear as fair, too.”

 
The footman reappeared, and with that her
mother turned to him allowing the man to inform her the carriage at the door.
“Come girls, the evening is at end for us Whitakers.”

Chapter Nine

~

She had not thought her
mother’s wrath would be so cruel, yet here she was hundreds of miles from home
and staying with relations of Lady Fortnum’s, the lady herself as good as her
jailer. The only consolation they were staying at a most elegant house overlooking
the Cleddau Estuary. She’d had no prior notion Wales, in particular
Pembrokeshire was such a beautiful place. In some respects it was much like
home, with pretty villages, country churches and a few grand houses.

 
To be able to walk beside the tidal waterway
every day, weather permitting, had been a whole new experience, too. Although
keeping company with Lady Fortnum proved no great thrill, when Hugh Lewelyn
Griffiths, her nephew, accompanied them he turned the time to local history
lessons and made confinement more palatable.

 
On this day they’d all taken a drive in a
carriage to see a ruined castle, and Hugh had promised it would be a pleasant
surprise. With eyes closed as instructed, she waited in anticipation as the
carriage climbed a hill and then rolled to a standstill.

 
“What can you see?” he enthused, his
chestnut eyes almost laughing, his dark brown hair ruffled by remarkably warm
breeze off the sea.

 
“Oh my goodness. What a beautiful bay, and
stretching as far as the eye can see. The sea is so blue, and the sand pure
gold.”

 
“What else can you see?”

 
She veered inland, and there it was, further
up the valley inlet, sitting on a large outcrop of rock. “A tower, a part
ruined tower. Can we get to it? It looks
so
romantic.”

 
“Of course we can. No one lives there.” He
chuckled, excitement evident. “Would it surprise you if I told you it once
belonged to one of your mother’s ancestors?”

 
“It did?”

 
“Indeed it did,” said Lady Fortnum. “Roche
Castle, once owned by the de la Roche’ family.”

 
Hugh chuckled. “And Charles the second’s
mistress, Lucy Walter, lived there when her father owned it, during the time of
the Civil War. Another story in itself.”

 
“My goodness, I have much to learn. After
all, Lucy gave birth to a son, whom Charles, the merry monarch, recognised as
his and duly bestowed title Duke of Monmouth on the little fellow. Such a shame
he lost his head in trying to wrest the throne from James the second. But,
please, do tell me more about the castle.”

 
Hugh ordered the carriage onward and the old
place came to life in her mind as, en route, he retold its de la Roche history.

~~

Thrilled to have received a heartfelt letter of reprieve, from her
mother, nonetheless a little bit of her regretted having to leave Pembrokeshire
so soon. Hers and Hugh’s trips to castles and relics of historical merit,
although sometimes having involved a lot of walking, riding, and carriage
drives and picnic lunches she
had
enjoyed every minute of her time in
his company.

 
Although a tad full of himself in the nicest
possible way, he was completely obsessed with the past and a bit of a romantic
fellow, and always telling her tales of love and romance through history in and
around the county. For a young man he was quite shrewd, too. He had not been
told of her reason for banishment, but had guessed, and she’d spilled her heart
to him. It was as though he had fully understood her pain and loss, and had
then confessed a similar dilemma to that of hers and Francois. Poor Hugh was in
love, but the lady in question unattainable, and the young lady’s parents
adamant he would never be the one for their daughter.

 
How cruel life could be sometimes, for she
now had to return home and there would be no Francois, and not a word from him
or Angelica. Richard had sent one letter to say Francois had moved Angelica
into a house near Gloucester and, that he’d ceased renting the house and land
in Faringdon. He’d further said Angelica feared Francois had returned to
Guernsey with a broken heart, and doubly feared for his life.

 
She pondered her two-month stay in
Pembrokeshire and the date Richard’s letter had arrived, and all in all it was
now three weeks to the day. So much could have happened in that time, and she
had no idea what dreadful news might await her upon her return home.

 
“Are you ready, dear?” enquired Lady
Fortnum, entering the room in the manner of stately galleon at sea and brisk
wind to its stern. “Your luggage is stowed, and it really is time to go, or you
will not make Llandovery before nightfall.”

 
“I am ready, and thank you for being so kind
in allowing me a great deal of freedom these last weeks.”

 
“Piffle. You two young things out-walked me,
wilfully rode off ahead of my carriage, and ventured places I dared not even
consider.” Lady Fortnum smiled, and in a flash hugged her tight tears brimming.
“I shall miss you, Diamonta, miss you very much, and I am most happy you and
Hugh became, well, let’s say good friends.”

 
“I shall miss Pembrokeshire. It’s a truly
beautiful place, and I shall miss Hugh, terribly.”

 
“Be gone with you, you wicked girl,” said
her ladyship, bustling her out of the room, out of the house and past the
servants lined up to see her depart. “Hugh is waiting outside.”

 
True enough, there he was, his father and
mother, and it all felt a little bizarre to be setting out alone after having
been chaperoned for the greater part of her stay. She cast one last glance at
their beautiful house with its turreted frontage and gargoyles here and there
peering down as though permanent watchmen, and then it was good byes all round.

 
Hugh finally caught up her hand and escorted
her to the coach, and the liveried groom opened the coach door. It was a
private coach, yes, but most unusual crest on the door. The door now held wide
she could no longer see the coat-of-arms, and was it her imagination or had she
spied two fleur-de-lis at top left of diagonal sword and one to bottom right?

 
Hugh stole her attention whilst she ascended
to coach and to seat. “Lovely weather for travel, Diamonta, and you should arrive
in Llandovery for early supper.”

 
“I do hope so,” her reply, as the liveried
groom secured the door.

 
“Well, you are setting off a little earlier
than expected,” said Hugh, a broad smile. “Good job that message arrived in
time last night, or you might not have been ready when the coach arrived this
morning.” He stepped back, the livered groom already scrambling aboard the
coach. “Good bye and God bless.”

 
Lady Fortnum said something, her mouth
animated as she waved a kerchief but Diamonta heard not a word as the coach
lurched forward and its wheels scrunched on gravel. Hugh’s words were still
ringing in her ears.
Good job the message arrived in time
last night,
or you might not have been ready this . . .

 
Her heart lurched. The coach had been scheduled
to arrive at eleven o’clock, and it was now about half-past-nine. Was it
madness to think kidnap? Oh, how the mind can play tricks when hope leads one
in desperate pursuit of happiness.

~~

He glanced at his fob
watch, which declared ten-minutes past ten of morning. His horse was restless
from standing for nigh on near to the hour, and champed on the bit while its
left shoe gouged the ground in frustrated rage of tight rein preventing forward
movement.

 
Slipping his watch to waistcoat pocket, he
said, “Steady boy, not long now,” and applied a reassuring pat to his mount’s
neck. “You hear them, and they too, sense your presence.”

 
Horses could be heard whickering on ascent
up the hill to the rise, and as soon as the heads of the first two appeared his
mount whickered loudly in return, its muscled frame shuddering beneath him. In
all but a second or two the coach came into view, the coachman and groom
looking out for him, the groom’s hand held high in recognition.

 
So far everything had passed according to
plan, and no one outside a very small circle of friends knew of the daring feat
the two men sat atop the drag had set off to carry out today. For they had
indeed succeeded in wresting Diamonta from under the nose of her temporary
guardian, the groom’s raised hand proof of their success. The coachman, loyal
to the de Boviere family, and brought back with him from Guernsey and now once
again in his service, had earned himself a well-deserved bonus alongside a
borrowed stable lad from Viscount Somerton’s staff.

 
It would have been brazen madness to hold up
the coach Diamonta’s mother had ordered to fetch her back from Wales for it was
known the men would be armed, and to steal her away on horseback would have
been equally dangerous. No. This way she travelled in comfort, her belongings
with her, and all in all they had a good head start before the alarm would be
raised.

 
The coach slowed and he rode forward ready
to draw level with the door, but Diamonta must have guessed or hoped it was him
for the door flew open. “Francois,” she exclaimed, delight etched on her face.
“I half hoped and half dreamed this coach might be yours.”

 
His heart soared, for her eyes filled with
tears as he drew level and dismounted. The groom leaped down from the drag, and
took his horse’ reins, and led it to the rear where it was to be tethered for
the next mile or so. He climbed aboard, closed the door, and hardly before
seated Diamonta fell upon him, and he drew her onto his lap arms swift about
her.

 
Her kisses reigned supreme, his breath
knocked out of him. “I fear you’ve missed me,” he said, a big grin.

 
“You have no idea how much I’ve missed you,
nor how this moment for me is so perfect.”

 
“Romantic, too, I trust,” he proffered as
the drag once again set off, whilst he hurriedly removing his riding gauntlets.

 
“That, too,” she said, arms about his neck,
“and I have such wonderful stories to tell. Hugh took me here, there, and every
where. He’s such fun . . .”

 
“Hugh? Who is Hugh?”

 
“Oh, Lady Fortnum’s nephew, and he’s such a
romantic fellow.”

 
Another man was a shock and most disturbing
news. “You seem somewhat enamoured by this fellow,” he said, casting his
gauntlets aside.

 
She was studying his face, her scrutiny
quite disarming, her tone teasing. “Oh he’s sweet, I grant you that, but
nothing like the man I adore.”

 
“This man you adore. Are you willing to run
away with him?”

 
“Am I not doing exactly that, now?” She
laughed, kissed his nose. “Or am I to be made love to and then abandoned to my
fate on the highway?”

 
“Teasing wench, I’ll have you now, and have
you forever.” He threw her backwards to seat, her skirts swift about her
thighs, and he to his knees within the bucking, rolling drag. “Mine, all mine.”

 
“You’re wicked, Francois,” she said,
attempting to lower her skirts. “We cannot, cannot do this here.”

 
Starved of her company, starved of her body,
this was his moment, to taste her, to taste the nectar he’d longed for and to
revel in the joy of reunion. He ignored her pleas to cease, and dived beneath
her petticoats, and there savoured the moment of his tongue drifting along her
thigh. She trembled beneath onslaught of his tongue teasing her senses, her
tender flesh his to command and to conquer.

 
Her moment of bliss came amidst sweet
rapturous murmurs and soft sighs. His own excitement burgeoned and throbbed,
bursting for release from breeches let alone desire to fulfil its purpose and
extend her pleasure. Knees aching from contact with hard floor, what the hell,
he had to have her, and have her would. He hauled her upright, and seated
before him legs spread, he released his hardened muscle, and without preamble
went into her in one mighty thrust.

 
God, what bliss, what heaven to have her
legs about his waist, her arms about his neck, her lips sweet and pliant and
his to plunder. She was his, and no one would take her from him. He had to
ensure against her mother snatching her back, leave nothing to chance, and to
that aim he thrust ever mightier, ever deeper, kissing her very core.

 
The moment he sensed her lost in her
ecstasy, he knew his course of action. There would be no withdrawal this time
to save her honour. Driven to lustful madness he gave sway to the physical
pleasure of planting his seed within her, for his love for her was in no doubt.
The deed done, her mother could send a damnable army after him. The Devil’s
spawn dared, and Diamonta would give birth to a de Boviere heir no matter what.