New Book - Regency
May. 14th, 2008 09:28 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maderrI am happ happy with this one ^____^
Regency contains four stories you guys know - Deceived, Scandalous, From Afar, and Lessons. However, it also contains a brand new novella - The Highwayman. Much love to those who read it for me while I wrote it <3
Part One
Bartholomew handed his horse off to the footman who descended the steps, taking the stairs swiftly and sparing nothing more than a nod to the ever-tolerant family butler, Willow, before heading directly to his father's study.
He knocked briskly, then let himself inside.
Rather than an agitated, restless figured beset by dire troubles for which he'd felt compelled to summon his eldest son straight from his club…he only found his father as he would usually be on most nights. Behind his desk, hidden by mountains of papers and books and other miscellany, the scent of paper and leather mingling with wax and ink and tea.
He was so lost to his latest book, in fact, he did not even look up as Bartholomew strode across the deep green and burgundy rug that dominated most of the floor of his father's study and library.
Bartholomew had a sinking feeling he knew who had actually summoned him, which meant he knew how this interview was about to go…but damned if he could keep himself from trying anyway. He cleared his throat, which finally forced his father to look up, the bushy white eyebrows vanishing into equally bushy white hair. "Father. You sent Phelps to fetch me from my club? A matter of some urgency? "
His father snorted. "Rubbish. I've done no such thing. Who left your mother unsupervised again? I told that confounding woman that I had matters well in hand. "
"Father, whatever it is, you know I am more than happy to help. Why did mother see fit to impersonate you to send for me?" His mother simply could have ordered him herself, instead of ordering the poor footman to lie. Honestly, his family gave him headaches.
"Rubbish," his father repeated firmly, flicking his fingers and then reaching for his tea, bending back over his book. "I have said I will deal with the matter. It's likely only a trifle, your mother should learn to take up needlework or something."
Bartholomew almost smiled. Other couples exchanged endearments and fond looks. His parents traded insults and glares. Still, love was love.
Thinking such idiotic thoughts only worsened his mood. It had been foul to start, but had actually brightened at the thought that his father needed him for something.
Only to find he did not, and his mother was up to her scheming again, only she and the heavens knew why. Really, he should have known better. Stifling a sigh, Bartholomew tried again. "Father, is something wrong with Cris or Lane?" Perhaps Abby, Lane's wife, was struggling with her pregnancy…no, if that were the case, his mother would have pretended to be Lane.
The sour feeling that was always present in his gut suddenly increased, and he fought it down with all he had – or all he had left, anyway.
His father only grunted, and Bartholomew gave up. There was no arguing with his father's dismissals. Choking back bitter, angry words, he made his way back to the main hall. Devil take them all, then.
The sound of laughter brought his head up, and he saw his brother Crispin, and Crispin's lover Jude, descending the grand staircase. He turned away before they felt obligated to speak with him. Crispin and everyone else might declare him overbearing, overprotective, interfering, and just generally aggravating – but he'd gotten Crispin Jude in the end, hadn't he? Only to receive a tongue-lashing for his efforts. Bah.
He was sorely tempted to leave and bugger all of them. His mood had been foul before, but he'd been warm and comfortable and alone. Now he was downright miserable, and wanted only to retreat, but the same damned habits that always got him yelled at and reprimanded compelled yet again to interfere. His mother had summoned him under pretense, which meant that she knew something was up, but not what, and did not think she would figure it out anytime soon.
She was also the only one who understood how he felt, and was probably trying to help in her own interfering way. He wondered if she would ever realize her efforts were in vain. His father did not want help running the estates, even in his advanced age, and his siblings preferred he keep his brutish, boorish habits to himself.
Glowering, he made for the front door – but with his hand on the door, guilt and his ever burning need simply to want to help took control. Instead of retreating, he turned and vanished into the back of the townhouse to track down Willow. He found the old family butler precisely where he was always to be found at this hour, when the house was quiet. At a table in the kitchen, sipping tea and gossiping like fishwives with the cook. "Willow, a moment of your time."
"Of course, my lord," Willow said, but did not rise. They had long ago moved past such trifling formalities. Willow smiled. "How can I be of service?"
"Did anyone come to visit my father today, Willow? He's being his usual self."
Willow chuckled. "Watkins came rushing in this morning, with an urgent matter for his Lordship. He's not to speak about it to the rest of the household of course."
Bartholomew snorted and took a seat, absently thanking the cook – Gina – for the cup of tea she pushed toward him. "So what did he not tell you, then?"
"Apparently a highwayman has cropped up in the wood just past the Ford Bridge, Lord Bartholomew. The village has been attempting to tend to the matter itself, but apparently someone took serious injury four nights ago and so they feel compelled to inform his Lordship."
A highwayman. People were getting hurt back home and his father did not think he needed to be told?
Did his father have so little faith in him? The tea he'd sipped suddenly tasted stale on his tongue, making the sour feeling in his stomach worse.
He was three and thirty and no matter what he did, how he tried to help…everyone just preferred he go away and stop being a bother. If he could figure out how properly to behave, didn't they think he would do so in a moment?
His family loved him, he never doubted that for a moment. If they didn't love him, they would have left him for dead years.
Unfortunately, he had realized long ago that love and like did not necessarily go hand in hand. His carefully weighed conclusion was that while his family loved him, they did not like him.
Still, he could only try in the only way he knew. He was the heir, the next head of the household. It was his duty to take care of everyone, to see to their health and happiness. Damn it, he could do that – if only his father would finally let him!
Hadn't he made certain that damnable rake did not wrong Crispin? Had he not made Lane spill his wine so he would be forced to talk to the woman who was now his wife? Did he not—
Oh, why could they not have left him alone to get over his sulk in his own way? Now he would be brooding through most of tomorrow.
"Tell me more of this highwayman," he requested, eager to help and to distract himself.
He listened carefully as Willow recounted all he'd learned from Watkins, a servant back at the family seat in the country.
Four weeks, now, the highwayman had been operating. Rarely caused anyone serious harm, but had resulted to violence. Shot someone four days ago, wounding the man's arm – and not just any man, the son of the local Constable.
Bartholomew drummed his fingers on the table as Willow finished speaking. His father, no doubt, had written several sharp letters dictating how the matter was to be handled. Very likely he would concoct some mad scheme to return home if the matter worsened.
There was nothing for it, then. He would have to return home and take care of the highwayman himself. It would keep his idiot father from handling things he should not be handling at his age, and perhaps the damned man would finally see that he could trust more of managing the family to his son.
Thanking Willow and Gina, bidding them a good night, Bartholomew left the kitchen and made his way back to the main hall. He could hear laughter spilling from one of the front parlors, from the sounds of it Jude and Crispin playing a game of cards with his mother.
Tomorrow was Sunday, when the family always gathered for a private meal, to talk and relax and avoid outside concerns. Of late, it had become an exercise in humiliation. Wasn't there some rule that the eldest child should be happy and settled before his younger siblings?
If not, there should be such a rule. He failed to see how it was fair that they both got to look sickeningly in love, his parents still cheerfully bickering away, while he interfered and bellowed so they wouldn't see he was brooding.
Crispin wasn't the only one who'd inherited mama's tendency to hide deeper emotions. He was just the only to inherit that and their father's thickheaded nature.
Well, it didn't matter. This time tomorrow he would be almost halfway to the elegant pile of stones that was the family seat. When he got there, then he'd send a note to his family.
*~*~*
Guilt compelled him to send a missive a day and a half later. He was certain by now they would realize he was not in the city, or not anywhere they could think to look for him anyway – and he squashed the still-moody part of him that suggested they hadn't bother to look at all – but unless Willow put two and two together, likely they didn't know where he was headed.
Still, he wasn't going to wait around long enough for anyone to send someone after him. As if he would meekly go along back to the city when there was a highwayman to be routed. Was he or was he not the next Earl of Greendale?
Thankfully, as he reached his destination, no footman – or worse, an irate brother – appeared to attempt to halt his progress.
The better part of three days and he'd not tripped over a single family member anxious to take him to task for his various and sundry wrongs. It was a deuced strange, albeit pleasant, feeling.
If a bit lonely, but he was ignoring that part. He knew the estate better than any of them, except possibly his parents, but really that was entirely debatable. Now that he thought about it, he had not been back for some time. Usually at the end of the Season he returned…but the past several years, one thing or another always took him away. People turning to him for help, knocking sense into his thickheaded brothers, escorting his mother to the Waters, the hunting trips…
Four years, he realized. He'd not been at the family estate beyond a day or two for just past four years. He shook his head in wonder at the realization. Had so much time really passed? No wonder some dishonorable wretch had taken it upon himself to rob the good people of Greendale.
Well, he would put a stop to that nonsense with all due haste. No one hurt those under his care.
Although, thinking of highwaymen, he realized belatedly that pushing on to reach the home he had sorely missed was not the brightest of ideas. The sky was clear, stars and moon bright, providing more than enough light by which to travel roads he knew well. It was a pleasantly cool night, and well out of the city the air smelled clean and sharp and green.
He conceded that maybe – just maybe – his family had a point about his occasional, very infrequent, bouts of recklessly dashing about. Good sense dictated he should turn back, return to the inn for the night, and wait until the morning to journey the last few miles to Greendale Estate.
Except the small stretch of woods that marked the official border of his family lands loomed hardly more than a breath away, and just inside the trees was Ford Bridge, put there when his family had taken up the Greendale title. Damn it all, no heartless scoundrel was going to taint his family name and title by skulking about that bridge to cause fear and harm! He would not stand for it, and bugger his father too for thinking he did not deserve to be involved in the matter.
Well, that decided it then. Really, he doubted highwaymen attacked every night. Beyond that, he was a lone traveler on a horse. Hardly a worthy target. There was nothing at all about which he should be worried. Rubbish, that's all it was. Highwaymen would not waste their time on such an unpromising target.
Anyway, if the highwayman was waiting, and did attack him, Bartholomew was an excellent shot and a fair hand with a sword.
Of course, he would be much better with them if he had not forgotten to bring such things along. He suspected that if his mother were here, she would administer a Lecture. His brothers would simply shake their heads at him. Likely father would not notice.
Scowling at himself, realizing his horse had come to a stop, Bartholomew urged his horse forward once more and finally entered the trees. The light was suddenly, abruptly, lacking. Completely alone in the dark, Bartholomew finally admitted aloud that he was a bloody fool. If his brothers had been the idiots about this business, he would have made certain they had three flintlocks and a sword apiece. Why the devil had he not remembered even to bring a dagger?
Pushing on, because damned if he would turn back now, Bartholomew followed the thin threads of moonlight that showed his path, swearing softly whenever the horse faltered, stubbornly refusing to admit he should never have attempted this, fervently hoping there was no wretchedly inconvenient falling log about to—
A shadow appeared just as the woods began to fall away before the bridge. It was wide, long, made of sturdy would had lasted through five generations with nothing but the most minor repairs required.
The shadow raised his arm, displaying that while Bartholomew had been foolish enough to travel without some form of weapon, he had not.
"So you are the highwayman."
For a moment there was only silence, and Bartholomew opened his mouth to speak again when a voice like the finest brandy, rich and warm with a hint of rough burn, finally broke the silence. "Well, well," the highwayman said. "If it's not the Lordling Ford himself."
Bartholomew started. "What?"
"Off the horse, my lord," the highwayman replied, gesturing with his flintlock.
Biting back a protest, more angry with himself than the highwayman, Bartholomew obediently dismounted.
"Your belongings," the highwayman said, motioning again. "All of them, on the ground, toss them to me. He raised his weapon higher when Bartholomew did not move. "If you are come, my lord, then you must realize I have no qualms about shooting. Do as I say."
"Bastard," Bartholomew hissed, but obeyed, tossing over his purse.
The highwayman laughed, and it was a deeper, richer sound than even his sharply spoken words. Despite himself, Bartholomew shivered. The man might be the lowest sort of rogue, but his voice was a thing of beauty. "Is that all you carry, my lord?"
Bartholomew did not deign to answer.
Chuckling, the highwayman dismounted smoothly, kneeling and swiftly scooping up the coin purse, stowing it somewhere on his own person. In the moonlight that was again clear and bright, now he was just free of the forest, Bartholomew had an impression of dark hair, falling just shy of the bastard's shoulders. A mask covered most of his face, part of the fabric which went over his head and knotted at the back.
"Have you come to put me in my place, my lord?" the highwayman asked. "I must confess, for all your size…you do not inspire much fear."
Bartholomew flushed, hating himself for it. Damn it. Must he be a miserable failure at everything? Could he not do even this one simple thing right? "Mayhap I am ill prepared tonight, highwayman, but you may depend that upon our next meeting I will have repaired that error."
The highwayman chuckled again, and Bartholomew sorely wished the man had a grating, pain-inducing voice like that bothersome Miss Merrick. It was entirely unfair, even in a world plagued by unfairness, that his voice under any other circumstance would have had him hard in a moment. "Well, that hardly encourages me to permit there be a next time, hmm? I am astonished you came alone, my lord, and so ill-prepared. Did they neglect to tell you I was armed?"
"No," Bartholomew snapped. "You harmed an innocent person, and for that I will see you hanged!"
"If you survive this night," the highwayman replied, brandy voice turning cool. "I shot an innocent? No innocent has traipsed across my bridge. If I shot him, well, perhaps that will teach him not to cross me. But he was no innocent."
Bartholomew vibrated with anger. "No one deserves to be shot! A fine one you are to look down upon the lack of innocence in a man when you are the one stalking the helpless and taking from them that which they earned."
"Indeed, my lord," the highwayman replied. "That which they earned. Hmm. Is this not earning my own wages?"
"Stealing is not earning," Bartholomew said scathingly, wanting more than his next a breath a chance in which he might knock the bastard right off his feet. However, as the highwayman had said – for all his size, and he had never been small, he was no match for a flintlock.
He tensed as the highwayman suddenly drew closer, the weapon still raised, but close enough he could pick out details in his appearance – the dark gleam of buttons, the way the clothes fit well, rather than poorly, that they were nearly matched in height.
That he smelled oddly – that he smelled at all, Bartholomew realized. Highwaymen did not wear cologne, or he rather it seemed to him that such men would not trouble themselves with such a ridiculous trifle. Yet he did. The scents fought him for a moment, but Bartholomew at last caught them up. Night blooming jasmine and cinnamon, a hint of red rose.
At any other moment, it would have amused him vastly to realize the things that stuck with him over the years. His old friend would laugh to know his obsession with perfumes and colognes had remained with Bartholomew all these years.
Still, identifying the exotic – rather pleasing – blend did not explain why the highwayman wore it.
Hardly relevant at the moment, he supposed, given there was a pistol all but shoved in his face.
"I have nothing further to give you," Bartholomew said stiff. "Aside from a sound beating, but I do not think you will accept that."
The highwayman laughed. "No, I have no use for beatings. Walk across the bridge, my lord."
"What?"
"Tsk, tsk, no questions I prefer it when handsome men do as I tell them, my lord. You are too pretty to be so disobedient."
Bartholomew flushed hot, suddenly grateful for the dark. The temerity!
Then again, if he were the one holding the pistol, mayhap he would be that bold. One never knew.
"Across the bridge, my lord," the highwayman repeated. "I would not want you to be stuck out here all night. Home you go, to your safe bed. Across the bridge, and do not look back or you'll encounter only unpleasantness."
"Bastard," Bartholomew hissed, but obediently headed toward the bridge, crossing it slowly as he reached it, boots echoing on the wood as he walked, the sound startlingly loud in the silence of the night.
When he reached the other side, he finally gave in to temptation and to hells with the risk—
The highwayman was gone.
Cursing softly, Bartholomew went back across the bridge to fetch his horse.
Regency can be found here. <3
Regency contains four stories you guys know - Deceived, Scandalous, From Afar, and Lessons. However, it also contains a brand new novella - The Highwayman. Much love to those who read it for me while I wrote it <3
The Highwayman
Part One
Bartholomew handed his horse off to the footman who descended the steps, taking the stairs swiftly and sparing nothing more than a nod to the ever-tolerant family butler, Willow, before heading directly to his father's study.
He knocked briskly, then let himself inside.
Rather than an agitated, restless figured beset by dire troubles for which he'd felt compelled to summon his eldest son straight from his club…he only found his father as he would usually be on most nights. Behind his desk, hidden by mountains of papers and books and other miscellany, the scent of paper and leather mingling with wax and ink and tea.
He was so lost to his latest book, in fact, he did not even look up as Bartholomew strode across the deep green and burgundy rug that dominated most of the floor of his father's study and library.
Bartholomew had a sinking feeling he knew who had actually summoned him, which meant he knew how this interview was about to go…but damned if he could keep himself from trying anyway. He cleared his throat, which finally forced his father to look up, the bushy white eyebrows vanishing into equally bushy white hair. "Father. You sent Phelps to fetch me from my club? A matter of some urgency? "
His father snorted. "Rubbish. I've done no such thing. Who left your mother unsupervised again? I told that confounding woman that I had matters well in hand. "
"Father, whatever it is, you know I am more than happy to help. Why did mother see fit to impersonate you to send for me?" His mother simply could have ordered him herself, instead of ordering the poor footman to lie. Honestly, his family gave him headaches.
"Rubbish," his father repeated firmly, flicking his fingers and then reaching for his tea, bending back over his book. "I have said I will deal with the matter. It's likely only a trifle, your mother should learn to take up needlework or something."
Bartholomew almost smiled. Other couples exchanged endearments and fond looks. His parents traded insults and glares. Still, love was love.
Thinking such idiotic thoughts only worsened his mood. It had been foul to start, but had actually brightened at the thought that his father needed him for something.
Only to find he did not, and his mother was up to her scheming again, only she and the heavens knew why. Really, he should have known better. Stifling a sigh, Bartholomew tried again. "Father, is something wrong with Cris or Lane?" Perhaps Abby, Lane's wife, was struggling with her pregnancy…no, if that were the case, his mother would have pretended to be Lane.
The sour feeling that was always present in his gut suddenly increased, and he fought it down with all he had – or all he had left, anyway.
His father only grunted, and Bartholomew gave up. There was no arguing with his father's dismissals. Choking back bitter, angry words, he made his way back to the main hall. Devil take them all, then.
The sound of laughter brought his head up, and he saw his brother Crispin, and Crispin's lover Jude, descending the grand staircase. He turned away before they felt obligated to speak with him. Crispin and everyone else might declare him overbearing, overprotective, interfering, and just generally aggravating – but he'd gotten Crispin Jude in the end, hadn't he? Only to receive a tongue-lashing for his efforts. Bah.
He was sorely tempted to leave and bugger all of them. His mood had been foul before, but he'd been warm and comfortable and alone. Now he was downright miserable, and wanted only to retreat, but the same damned habits that always got him yelled at and reprimanded compelled yet again to interfere. His mother had summoned him under pretense, which meant that she knew something was up, but not what, and did not think she would figure it out anytime soon.
She was also the only one who understood how he felt, and was probably trying to help in her own interfering way. He wondered if she would ever realize her efforts were in vain. His father did not want help running the estates, even in his advanced age, and his siblings preferred he keep his brutish, boorish habits to himself.
Glowering, he made for the front door – but with his hand on the door, guilt and his ever burning need simply to want to help took control. Instead of retreating, he turned and vanished into the back of the townhouse to track down Willow. He found the old family butler precisely where he was always to be found at this hour, when the house was quiet. At a table in the kitchen, sipping tea and gossiping like fishwives with the cook. "Willow, a moment of your time."
"Of course, my lord," Willow said, but did not rise. They had long ago moved past such trifling formalities. Willow smiled. "How can I be of service?"
"Did anyone come to visit my father today, Willow? He's being his usual self."
Willow chuckled. "Watkins came rushing in this morning, with an urgent matter for his Lordship. He's not to speak about it to the rest of the household of course."
Bartholomew snorted and took a seat, absently thanking the cook – Gina – for the cup of tea she pushed toward him. "So what did he not tell you, then?"
"Apparently a highwayman has cropped up in the wood just past the Ford Bridge, Lord Bartholomew. The village has been attempting to tend to the matter itself, but apparently someone took serious injury four nights ago and so they feel compelled to inform his Lordship."
A highwayman. People were getting hurt back home and his father did not think he needed to be told?
Did his father have so little faith in him? The tea he'd sipped suddenly tasted stale on his tongue, making the sour feeling in his stomach worse.
He was three and thirty and no matter what he did, how he tried to help…everyone just preferred he go away and stop being a bother. If he could figure out how properly to behave, didn't they think he would do so in a moment?
His family loved him, he never doubted that for a moment. If they didn't love him, they would have left him for dead years.
Unfortunately, he had realized long ago that love and like did not necessarily go hand in hand. His carefully weighed conclusion was that while his family loved him, they did not like him.
Still, he could only try in the only way he knew. He was the heir, the next head of the household. It was his duty to take care of everyone, to see to their health and happiness. Damn it, he could do that – if only his father would finally let him!
Hadn't he made certain that damnable rake did not wrong Crispin? Had he not made Lane spill his wine so he would be forced to talk to the woman who was now his wife? Did he not—
Oh, why could they not have left him alone to get over his sulk in his own way? Now he would be brooding through most of tomorrow.
"Tell me more of this highwayman," he requested, eager to help and to distract himself.
He listened carefully as Willow recounted all he'd learned from Watkins, a servant back at the family seat in the country.
Four weeks, now, the highwayman had been operating. Rarely caused anyone serious harm, but had resulted to violence. Shot someone four days ago, wounding the man's arm – and not just any man, the son of the local Constable.
Bartholomew drummed his fingers on the table as Willow finished speaking. His father, no doubt, had written several sharp letters dictating how the matter was to be handled. Very likely he would concoct some mad scheme to return home if the matter worsened.
There was nothing for it, then. He would have to return home and take care of the highwayman himself. It would keep his idiot father from handling things he should not be handling at his age, and perhaps the damned man would finally see that he could trust more of managing the family to his son.
Thanking Willow and Gina, bidding them a good night, Bartholomew left the kitchen and made his way back to the main hall. He could hear laughter spilling from one of the front parlors, from the sounds of it Jude and Crispin playing a game of cards with his mother.
Tomorrow was Sunday, when the family always gathered for a private meal, to talk and relax and avoid outside concerns. Of late, it had become an exercise in humiliation. Wasn't there some rule that the eldest child should be happy and settled before his younger siblings?
If not, there should be such a rule. He failed to see how it was fair that they both got to look sickeningly in love, his parents still cheerfully bickering away, while he interfered and bellowed so they wouldn't see he was brooding.
Crispin wasn't the only one who'd inherited mama's tendency to hide deeper emotions. He was just the only to inherit that and their father's thickheaded nature.
Well, it didn't matter. This time tomorrow he would be almost halfway to the elegant pile of stones that was the family seat. When he got there, then he'd send a note to his family.
Guilt compelled him to send a missive a day and a half later. He was certain by now they would realize he was not in the city, or not anywhere they could think to look for him anyway – and he squashed the still-moody part of him that suggested they hadn't bother to look at all – but unless Willow put two and two together, likely they didn't know where he was headed.
Still, he wasn't going to wait around long enough for anyone to send someone after him. As if he would meekly go along back to the city when there was a highwayman to be routed. Was he or was he not the next Earl of Greendale?
Thankfully, as he reached his destination, no footman – or worse, an irate brother – appeared to attempt to halt his progress.
The better part of three days and he'd not tripped over a single family member anxious to take him to task for his various and sundry wrongs. It was a deuced strange, albeit pleasant, feeling.
If a bit lonely, but he was ignoring that part. He knew the estate better than any of them, except possibly his parents, but really that was entirely debatable. Now that he thought about it, he had not been back for some time. Usually at the end of the Season he returned…but the past several years, one thing or another always took him away. People turning to him for help, knocking sense into his thickheaded brothers, escorting his mother to the Waters, the hunting trips…
Four years, he realized. He'd not been at the family estate beyond a day or two for just past four years. He shook his head in wonder at the realization. Had so much time really passed? No wonder some dishonorable wretch had taken it upon himself to rob the good people of Greendale.
Well, he would put a stop to that nonsense with all due haste. No one hurt those under his care.
Although, thinking of highwaymen, he realized belatedly that pushing on to reach the home he had sorely missed was not the brightest of ideas. The sky was clear, stars and moon bright, providing more than enough light by which to travel roads he knew well. It was a pleasantly cool night, and well out of the city the air smelled clean and sharp and green.
He conceded that maybe – just maybe – his family had a point about his occasional, very infrequent, bouts of recklessly dashing about. Good sense dictated he should turn back, return to the inn for the night, and wait until the morning to journey the last few miles to Greendale Estate.
Except the small stretch of woods that marked the official border of his family lands loomed hardly more than a breath away, and just inside the trees was Ford Bridge, put there when his family had taken up the Greendale title. Damn it all, no heartless scoundrel was going to taint his family name and title by skulking about that bridge to cause fear and harm! He would not stand for it, and bugger his father too for thinking he did not deserve to be involved in the matter.
Well, that decided it then. Really, he doubted highwaymen attacked every night. Beyond that, he was a lone traveler on a horse. Hardly a worthy target. There was nothing at all about which he should be worried. Rubbish, that's all it was. Highwaymen would not waste their time on such an unpromising target.
Anyway, if the highwayman was waiting, and did attack him, Bartholomew was an excellent shot and a fair hand with a sword.
Of course, he would be much better with them if he had not forgotten to bring such things along. He suspected that if his mother were here, she would administer a Lecture. His brothers would simply shake their heads at him. Likely father would not notice.
Scowling at himself, realizing his horse had come to a stop, Bartholomew urged his horse forward once more and finally entered the trees. The light was suddenly, abruptly, lacking. Completely alone in the dark, Bartholomew finally admitted aloud that he was a bloody fool. If his brothers had been the idiots about this business, he would have made certain they had three flintlocks and a sword apiece. Why the devil had he not remembered even to bring a dagger?
Pushing on, because damned if he would turn back now, Bartholomew followed the thin threads of moonlight that showed his path, swearing softly whenever the horse faltered, stubbornly refusing to admit he should never have attempted this, fervently hoping there was no wretchedly inconvenient falling log about to—
A shadow appeared just as the woods began to fall away before the bridge. It was wide, long, made of sturdy would had lasted through five generations with nothing but the most minor repairs required.
The shadow raised his arm, displaying that while Bartholomew had been foolish enough to travel without some form of weapon, he had not.
"So you are the highwayman."
For a moment there was only silence, and Bartholomew opened his mouth to speak again when a voice like the finest brandy, rich and warm with a hint of rough burn, finally broke the silence. "Well, well," the highwayman said. "If it's not the Lordling Ford himself."
Bartholomew started. "What?"
"Off the horse, my lord," the highwayman replied, gesturing with his flintlock.
Biting back a protest, more angry with himself than the highwayman, Bartholomew obediently dismounted.
"Your belongings," the highwayman said, motioning again. "All of them, on the ground, toss them to me. He raised his weapon higher when Bartholomew did not move. "If you are come, my lord, then you must realize I have no qualms about shooting. Do as I say."
"Bastard," Bartholomew hissed, but obeyed, tossing over his purse.
The highwayman laughed, and it was a deeper, richer sound than even his sharply spoken words. Despite himself, Bartholomew shivered. The man might be the lowest sort of rogue, but his voice was a thing of beauty. "Is that all you carry, my lord?"
Bartholomew did not deign to answer.
Chuckling, the highwayman dismounted smoothly, kneeling and swiftly scooping up the coin purse, stowing it somewhere on his own person. In the moonlight that was again clear and bright, now he was just free of the forest, Bartholomew had an impression of dark hair, falling just shy of the bastard's shoulders. A mask covered most of his face, part of the fabric which went over his head and knotted at the back.
"Have you come to put me in my place, my lord?" the highwayman asked. "I must confess, for all your size…you do not inspire much fear."
Bartholomew flushed, hating himself for it. Damn it. Must he be a miserable failure at everything? Could he not do even this one simple thing right? "Mayhap I am ill prepared tonight, highwayman, but you may depend that upon our next meeting I will have repaired that error."
The highwayman chuckled again, and Bartholomew sorely wished the man had a grating, pain-inducing voice like that bothersome Miss Merrick. It was entirely unfair, even in a world plagued by unfairness, that his voice under any other circumstance would have had him hard in a moment. "Well, that hardly encourages me to permit there be a next time, hmm? I am astonished you came alone, my lord, and so ill-prepared. Did they neglect to tell you I was armed?"
"No," Bartholomew snapped. "You harmed an innocent person, and for that I will see you hanged!"
"If you survive this night," the highwayman replied, brandy voice turning cool. "I shot an innocent? No innocent has traipsed across my bridge. If I shot him, well, perhaps that will teach him not to cross me. But he was no innocent."
Bartholomew vibrated with anger. "No one deserves to be shot! A fine one you are to look down upon the lack of innocence in a man when you are the one stalking the helpless and taking from them that which they earned."
"Indeed, my lord," the highwayman replied. "That which they earned. Hmm. Is this not earning my own wages?"
"Stealing is not earning," Bartholomew said scathingly, wanting more than his next a breath a chance in which he might knock the bastard right off his feet. However, as the highwayman had said – for all his size, and he had never been small, he was no match for a flintlock.
He tensed as the highwayman suddenly drew closer, the weapon still raised, but close enough he could pick out details in his appearance – the dark gleam of buttons, the way the clothes fit well, rather than poorly, that they were nearly matched in height.
That he smelled oddly – that he smelled at all, Bartholomew realized. Highwaymen did not wear cologne, or he rather it seemed to him that such men would not trouble themselves with such a ridiculous trifle. Yet he did. The scents fought him for a moment, but Bartholomew at last caught them up. Night blooming jasmine and cinnamon, a hint of red rose.
At any other moment, it would have amused him vastly to realize the things that stuck with him over the years. His old friend would laugh to know his obsession with perfumes and colognes had remained with Bartholomew all these years.
Still, identifying the exotic – rather pleasing – blend did not explain why the highwayman wore it.
Hardly relevant at the moment, he supposed, given there was a pistol all but shoved in his face.
"I have nothing further to give you," Bartholomew said stiff. "Aside from a sound beating, but I do not think you will accept that."
The highwayman laughed. "No, I have no use for beatings. Walk across the bridge, my lord."
"What?"
"Tsk, tsk, no questions I prefer it when handsome men do as I tell them, my lord. You are too pretty to be so disobedient."
Bartholomew flushed hot, suddenly grateful for the dark. The temerity!
Then again, if he were the one holding the pistol, mayhap he would be that bold. One never knew.
"Across the bridge, my lord," the highwayman repeated. "I would not want you to be stuck out here all night. Home you go, to your safe bed. Across the bridge, and do not look back or you'll encounter only unpleasantness."
"Bastard," Bartholomew hissed, but obediently headed toward the bridge, crossing it slowly as he reached it, boots echoing on the wood as he walked, the sound startlingly loud in the silence of the night.
When he reached the other side, he finally gave in to temptation and to hells with the risk—
The highwayman was gone.
Cursing softly, Bartholomew went back across the bridge to fetch his horse.
Regency can be found here. <3
