Midnight Raider Read online

  Elizabeth’s heart was still hammering as Marcus complied with Lowe’s order. He carried her through the underbrush at the mouth of the cave, past the campfire the men had lit, past sacks of supplies and casks of booty, and deposited her in the darkness at the back. She curled up facing the wall, grateful like never before for Marcus’s nimble thinking. His clever plan had worked.

  He took off his coat and covered her with it. “You can rest here, Eli,” he said in a voice loud enough to carry to the men at the entrance. Leaning over her, he tucked the black garment closer about her face.

  In a gesture that none of the others could see, he brushed the backs of his knuckles over her cheek, whispering for her ears only, “And remember what I told you.”

  If a chance to slip away presents itself, take it and don’t look back. She remembered.

  But that didn’t mean she was going to do it.

  Chapter 13

  Concealed in the darkness of the cave, the gang of thieves slept as morning awakened the rest of the countryside. Snores echoed off the walls and ceiling, but Elizabeth, huddled against the wall, didn’t even close her eyes. She kept her back to the men, trying to stay well hidden within Marcus’s coat.

  Every so often she coughed or sneezed or cleared her throat to keep up her guise of illness, but each minute seemed to last an eternity. Finally, exhausted from being on edge for too many hours, she slipped into a fitful doze.

  A rough hand on her shoulder brought her back to awareness.

  “You’re staying here with us, lad.”

  “Mmm?” she mumbled, peering at the man over the collar of the coat.

  “The others are going out.” The man backed away as she stirred. “Lowe says you’re to stay here, as insurance.”

  Looking toward the front of the cave, Elizabeth saw that night had fallen. The men were gathering up their weapons and filing out.

  They were going on a raid—and taking Marcus with them.

  Unarmed, he followed the others into the brush that concealed the entrance. He turned and flashed her a confident smile. “Be a good lad, now, Eli,” he called out. “I’ll be back before long.” His gaze held hers a moment more.

  And then he was gone.

  Elizabeth raised herself on one elbow. “No—”

  “You stay where you are, boy.” The man who had awakened her backed away. “I ain’t going to catch whatever it is you’ve got.”

  He hastily retreated toward the fire at the entrance. He and two other men left behind had arranged their bedrolls around the bonfire, and seemed to be settling in for the night. One took out a deck of cards while another uncorked a bottle of wine.

  In moments, the thieves’ lair was empty but for Elizabeth and her guards.

  The thought of Marcus being out with Lowe’s cutthroats, unarmed, sent a frisson of fear through her. Lying down, she offered a silent prayer for his safety. And tried to think of some way to help him.

  Lowe obviously wasn’t taking any chance of her getting away—not if he thought it necessary to leave three men behind to watch one sickly lad. And they sat between her and the only way out of the cave. How could she possibly slip past them?

  She kept up a steady stream of unpleasant coughs and wheezes and other sickly noises while her mind whirled.

  “Shut up, there, will ye?” one of the men shouted at her.

  “Here,” another growled. “Have a drink and quiet down.”

  Elizabeth heard a bottle rolling across the dirt floor, and a second later it thumped into her back. They obviously didn’t even want to get close enough to hand it to her. Muttering a thank-you, she reached behind her and picked it up, uncorked the bottle and took a sip. It was rum, strong and hot as it seared down her throat. She choked, her eyes watering, and set the bottle aside. She kept her coughing to a minimum, concentrating instead on listening to the men’s conversation.

  “That squire will get a nasty surprise, all right,” one of them was saying with a chuckle.

  “Just as long as I get my full cut,” another grumbled. “This is the second time this month I been left on sentry.”

  “Quit yer yawpin’. You still get a one-tenth share,” the third man pointed out. “And it beats the bloody hell out of getting shot at.”

  “But I don’t get one-tenth of the women. I hear Halford’s got himself a pair of pretty daughters.”

  Elizabeth shivered as she realized what he meant—and who he was talking about. She knew the Halfords. They had occasionally stopped at her family’s inn when they came to town. The two girls were a few years younger than her and her sister Emma. And they had lost their mother at a young age, just like her and Emma.

  Squire Halford was an older gentleman with a modest house and a great deal of acreage, the perfect target for Lowe and his crew.

  A hot surge of anger went through Elizabeth. She couldn’t lie here helplessly while a horrific crime was about to be committed against those innocent girls and their gentle father.

  But she was unarmed—one woman against three burly male sentries. How could she even hope to escape from the cave?

  She surveyed the items at her disposal: a bottle of rum and Marcus’s coat.

  And a plan began to form in her mind.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus crouched in the shadows of a modest country home that apparently belonged to some squire by the name of Halford. Two of Lowe’s five men had been keeping a close eye on him since they left the cave, but now their attention was focused on the door of the mansion, where their leader was politely addressing a footman.

  Marcus clenched his jaw, knowing that if he interfered in any way, if he tried to warn the intended victims, he would get a bullet in the head—and Elizabeth’s life would be forfeit.

  “Yes, the hour is late,” Lowe was saying in the perfectly refined tones of a London dandy. “But my employer insisted I deliver this personally.”

  “The squire is taking his port in the library and does not wish to be disturbed,” the servant replied. “If you would come back in the morning—”

  “Very well. But I’m sure you recognize the seal of the House of Commons.” Lowe waved a sealed envelope under the man’s nose. “Since you refuse to admit me, I shall let you explain to your employer why he received it too late.” He turned as if to leave.

  Marcus couldn’t understand why Lowe was going to the trouble of making a quiet entrance. “Why doesn’t he just break in through the windows?”

  The man beside him clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t be impatient, mate,” he whispered. “This is the sport of it. If we make too much noise right at the start, some of the ladies inside might have time t’ get away.”

  Marcus found the man’s logic sickening. He cursed under his breath when the footman called after Lowe.

  “Wait, sir. Perhaps you could give the letter to me.”

  “No,” Lowe replied, turning slowly around. “For a matter of this importance, Squire Halford would wish to meet with me himself. I must deliver it personally.”

  The servant hesitated, then opened the door wide. “Of course.”

  Lowe smiled and gave the signal his men had been waiting for. They raced out of the bushes and toward the entrance like a pack of mongrel dogs. The poor footman never had a chance. One of the gang knocked him senseless and shoved him off the porch.

  Lowe led the charge as they rushed into the hall.

  Marcus followed at the rear of the group. Halford’s house was small by London standards, but it offered a rich prize to Lowe’s knot. They dispersed like a well-trained army regiment, sweeping valuables and trinkets and whatever else they could get their hands on into the sacks they had brought with them. Candlesticks. Mirrors. Silverware. Porcelain figurines. Pewter plates.

  They had been inside only minutes when the first screams reached Marcus’s ears. A shrill cry split the silence of the night, then all pretense at a quiet attack disappeared.

  The thieves swiftly turned the rooms into chaos, whooping and ye
lling, shooting off their pistols. Someone thrust a burlap bag into Marcus’s hands and shouted at him to get to work. He ground out an oath. Intent on finding some way to end this insanity, he moved through the dining room that had already been picked clean.

  In the adjoining parlor, he saw two girls, no more than sixteen—cowering in a corner, clinging to each other, sobbing pitifully as one of Lowe’s men stood over them, brandishing a gun.

  “Say there, Gill,” Marcus called from the door, recognizing the man. “You wouldn’t believe what’s in Halford’s study. They’re saying he’s got himself a safe full of gold.”

  Gill’s head swung around, greed replacing the lust in his eyes. “Anyone opened it yet?”

  “Opened it? They haven’t found it yet. I sure as hellfire couldn’t. But I’ll wager whoever does isn’t going to be splitting it ten ways.” He looked down at the dazed girls and flashed Gill a grin. “I’ll keep the ladies entertained for you, if you want to try your hand at it.”

  Marcus could almost see the man’s pea-sized brain weighing a moment’s sadistic pleasure against pockets full of gold. After only a second, Gill hurried from the room. “I owe you one, Black Jack,” he called over his shoulder.

  The minute he was gone, Marcus ran toward the girls. They huddled together, screaming, only to fall silent when he ran past them to a window. He pushed it open and gestured impatiently. “Come on. Move!”

  Still in shock, they only blinked at him. Marcus crossed to them in two strides, pulled them to their feet, and pushed them in the direction of the window. “Go on. You’re free. Run!”

  “Y-you’re letting us go?” one gasped.

  “Yes.” He helped her up onto the sill. “Get out of here!”

  The girls finally snapped out of their stupor and scrambled out onto the lawn. One of them turned back toward him. “Thank you,” she said with breathless wonder.

  “Don’t stand there thanking me. Run for your lives!”

  As soon as they followed his order, Marcus turned and stalked from the room, heading for the kitchen. He had to get his hands on a knife, some kind of weapon—anything.

  ~ ~ ~

  Elizabeth knew this was a rash plan. But after thinking it over for several minutes, she couldn’t devise a better one.

  She picked up the bottle of rum. Moaning more piteously than before, she raised herself to her knees, carefully adjusted her collar to hide her face, and staggered to her feet. Half bent over, the bottle held loosely in one hand, she swayed a minute, then shuffled toward the three sentries.

  “Don’t come any closer, boy,” one of them snarled.

  “I’m too… cold,” she mumbled as if delirious with fever, keeping her head bowed as she cautiously stumbled forward.

  “Keep away,” another said, his voice rising.

  She kept going until she felt the heat of the fire. “B-better up here.” She stepped into the circle of light, raising her arms as if to warm her hands, purposely shivering as she did so. Some of the rum sloshed out of the bottle and onto the blankets the men sat on.

  “Watch it there, you!”

  “Hmm?” Elizabeth muttered, turning toward him with a lurching movement that spilled more of the liquor on their belongings. Some of it splashed his breeches and he leaped to his feet.

  “Get back to your place!” He shoved her away.

  Elizabeth stumbled backward, arms flailing, rum dousing everything around her as she lost her balance. She managed to land a hard kick at the fire. Sparks and burning bits of wood showered across the cave floor, igniting every bit of alcohol-soaked fabric they touched.

  The sentry screamed, beating at the flames that sprang to life on his leg. The man beside him grabbed a blanket to help but it was already afire. Sparks cascaded from the burning cloth onto one of their pistols.

  A second later, it exploded with a roar.

  The impact knocked Elizabeth to the ground. Ears ringing, she lay dazed. The fire quickly spread to the sacks and wooden barrels of supplies and booty. The flames drew perilously close before she managed to half roll and half scramble toward the cave opening.

  The bushes that concealed the entrance were already ablaze. Driven away by the heat, all three sentries abandoned their post and ran for safety.

  Elizabeth pushed herself to her feet, coughing on smoke that seared her throat and stung her eyes. She snatched up the closest weapons—a pistol and a flintlock musket—then darted through the blazing underbrush. The branches scraped her skin and tore at her hair and clothes.

  Outside, she saw that the men who had escaped ahead of her were gone, obviously more concerned about saving their skins than their duty to keep her hostage. Elizabeth stumbled back from the cave—only to be knocked to the ground when another explosion rocked the night, like an entire cask of gunpowder exploding.

  Her head spinning, she staggered up and ran toward the forest, heedless of her direction. She darted through thickets and underbrush until she reached the road. There she finally stopped.

  She heard nothing but the heaving rasp of her own breathing. Her guards hadn’t given chase. She was alone.

  Free.

  Glancing down, she realized she was still holding the pistol and musket in her trembling hands. She looked up and studied the deserted road. To the south lay Northampton. To the north, if she remembered correctly, she would find the Halfords’ house.

  If a chance to slip away presents itself, take it and don’t look back.

  She remembered Marcus’s order. She even considered obeying it—for slightly less than one second.

  Shoving the smaller gun into the pocket of the greatcoat she wore, clutching the flintlock in her other hand, she turned north and set off at a run.

  ~ ~ ~

  Marcus stalked toward the sounds coming from the library, a large knife concealed beneath his coat, a smaller one in his boot. He had discovered the family cook and a serving maid cowering in the larder, and sent them running out a side door in the same direction the two girls had fled.

  But as he entered the library, he realized he couldn’t save everyone. To the left, a pair of French doors were wide open. Outside on the moonlit grass lay the body of a footman who had obviously tried and failed to escape. In the center of the room, a balding gentleman, his few strands of gray hair pasted to his forehead with sweat, knelt on the floor—a pair of pistols in front of him.

  Lowe and the hulking cove by the name of Sikes loomed over him, looking down at the guns.

  “Choose,” Lowe demanded silkily.

  Trembling, the balding man looked up as Marcus entered, his expression one of terror. “I… I…”

  “Shut up and choose,” Sikes insisted. “One’s loaded and one’s empty, squire. Pick the right one and we’ll let you go.”

  “Bloody bastards.” Marcus stepped forward, sickened that they could torture a man and treat it as a game.

  Lowe’s saber swept up to block his way. The dandy’s icy blue eyes were alight with sadistic pleasure.

  “Choose!” Sikes shouted.

  Suddenly Halford snapped. He closed his eyes, grabbed one of the pistols.

  And put it to his head.

  “Christ, no!” Marcus lunged to stop him.

  The sound of his voice hung in the air for a horrifying second before it was drowned out by the roar of the gun.

  Marcus recoiled, still reaching out, distantly aware of the sound of laughter over the ringing in his ears.

  “Sorry, Halford, wrong one.” Sikes chuckled.

  Marcus stared at the body sprawled at his feet, the blood on the floorboards, on his clothes… on his hands.

  “Come on.” Lowe sheathed his saber. “There must still be some women hiding here somewhere. They can’t all have escaped.”

  Sikes retrieved the pistols, wrenching the one from Halford’s lifeless fingers. Marcus remained frozen, staring at the blood on his hands as the others headed toward the hall.

  “Let’s go, Black Jack,” Lowe ordered, his voice edged wit
h derision. “What? Have you no stomach for it?”

  Marcus turned, slowly, his vision clouded with hate, his blood simmering with a rage that was as pure as it had been in another room, in another house, ten years before.

  He didn’t give a single word of warning. Drawing the knife from beneath his coat, he launched himself at Lowe.

  He slammed into him and they fell to the floor. Lowe grabbed Marcus’s wrist in a frenzied attempt to break his grip on the blade.

  “Get him off me!” he screamed at Sikes. “Shoot him. Shoot him!”

  ~ ~ ~

  When Elizabeth came within sight of the Halfords’ estate, she skirted the house and crept around to the back, the musket still gripped in her hand. Stealing across the perfectly manicured lawn in the darkness, she could hear the thieves already at work—sounding for all the world like a band of Christmas revelers but for the occasional pistol shot that rent the air.

  How could she help the people inside? And where was Marcus?

  A panicked scream came from an open pair of French doors a few yards away. Gripping the flintlock, Elizabeth hurried toward the sound, keeping to the shadows.

  At the edge of the light, she darted a glance inside—and felt a jolt of shock and sorrow at the sight of Squire Halford’s lifeless body in the middle of the room.

  And then she saw Marcus.

  A knife in his hands, he was grappling with Lowe. The outlaw leader shouted at his henchman—who raised a pistol to shoot Marcus in the back.

  “No!” Elizabeth screamed.

  Sikes spun toward her. “Blimey! It’s his nephew! But that’s no lad’s voice!”

  Elizabeth remembered her musket an instant too late. The huge man was already on her, knocking it from her hands. He grabbed her roughly, fastening one arm around her throat as he turned, raising his pistol to kill Marcus.

  But just as Sikes pulled the trigger, Marcus rolled onto his back, using Lowe as a shield. The gun went off—the sound so close and so loud that Elizabeth thought for a moment she had gone deaf.