The Earl and the Highwayman's Daughter Read online

  The Earl and the Highwayman’s Daughter

  By

  Maggi Andersen

  Copyright

  The Earl and the Highwayman’s Daughter

  Copyright 2016 by Maggi Andersen

  Edited by: Devin Govaere

  Cover Artist: Erin Dameron-Hill

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note:

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead is coincidental and are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the author.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9953658-1-0

  http://www.maggiandersenauthor.com

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  The Earl and the Highwayman’s Daughter

  “I ne’er was struck before that hour

  With love so sudden and so sweet,

  Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower

  And stole my heart away complete.”

  First Love John Clare

  Chapter One

  Olverston Wood, Kent, England 1819

  BRENDAN FANSHAW, 5th Earl of Trentham, shoved a dueling pistol at his groom with a quick sidelong glance. “You’ve had experience with pistols?”

  Neal Pollitt eyed it, his fingers flexing around the walnut grip. “Only hunting rifles, I’m afraid.” He hunkered down beside Brendan. “Not in your league, milord. Never seen nothing like that shot of yours that brought that scoundrel down in full flight.”

  The moonlight painted the grim scene in silver and deep purple shadows and alighted on the body of the dead highwaymen spread-eagled on the ground.

  “Served under Wellington at Waterloo.” Brendan reloaded his pistol, the acrid smell of gunpowder stinging his nostrils. “Never expected to use these, though. A present from my father-in-law. They were intended for a different purpose.”

  After the coachman was shot, the horses bolted and dragged the coach off the road into a ditch. The young lad traveling on the box with him had run for his life and disappeared into the trees.

  There was little sound bar the rustle of the wind through the leaves and the distressed whicker of the two horses. “I’ll get the horses, milord.”

  “Check the coachman too if you can.”

  With Brendan covering him, Neal darted out and unhitched the horses. He led them back to where they hid behind the coach.

  “The coachman’s dead. The horses don’t seem to have suffered any injuries, milord. None that I can see at any rate.”

  The barrage of shots they’d expected never came. Neal grunted, his gaze raking the dense trees of Olverston Wood. “I wonder if the rogues have taken off.”

  “Might be that they don’t want to give away their position. I doubt they’re finished with us,” Brendan said. “Lean pickings to be found here. I carry all my valuables with me. They won’t like that we’ve killed their partner and left them empty-handed.”

  “No, they’re a persistent lot, these scoundrels, milord.”

  “I prefer not to wait for them to either give up or regroup. Let’s get out of here. We’ll have to ride the horses bareback.”

  “Take the bay, milord. It’s more accommodating, having been ridden postilion.”

  Brendan gave a tight smile. “I won’t argue, Neal, not after you won that race on Ajax for me at Newmarket.”

  Spooked and nervous, the horses shied as they prepared to mount them. Brendan patted the bay’s neck and leapt onto its back. Neal fought to steady the roan as it sidled and reared in an attempt to throw him off. Speaking in a soothing tone, he gathered up the long rein and turned the horse’s head.

  Brendan eased his horse into a canter. “We won’t return to Chatterton Hall or Canterbury, although it’s closer. That’s what the highwaymen would expect us to do. We’ll take the road to Maidstone and find a coaching inn where we can get fresh horses.”

  They rode as fast as the poor light allowed. The moon played with them, lighting their way and then plunging it into darkness. Nothing other than the rustle of bushes, the bark of a fox, and the clatter of their mounts’ hooves over the stony ground pierced the quiet.

  Hope of some prize must lurk in the blackguards’ hearts. Were they waiting for an opportune time to attack? Brendan leaned forward and urged the horse to go faster. The sooner they were out of this damned wood, the better.

  The ground thudded. Horses were hard ridden behind them. A warning shiver climbed Brendan’s neck as two shots echoed through the forest. He grunted at the flash of hot pain slicing through his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he tried not to slacken off the pace. After they’d ridden another half a mile or so, the leathers slipped through his fingers as blood seeped down his hand. He’d been confident he’d stay on the horse, but a sudden wave of dizziness hit him. He slumped over the horse’s neck as Neal angled his horse alongside and grabbed the bridle. The reins dropped from his slack fingers.

  “Hang on there, milord. We’re almost to the end of this cursed wood. I doubt they’ll follow us onto open ground. Their kind prefer to attack where they can escape into the trees.”

  Brendan bit down hard, struggling to stay conscious. It took every ounce of his strength to stay upright. The sky lightened to slate as they galloped out of the wood into clear air. On either side of the road, meadows rolled away painted silver under the moon. The hope of escape drove him on. He tried to listen for sounds of movement but could hear only the buzzing in his ears. His vision blurred, and he feared he would faint.

  Neal led his horse around a sharp bend. “Hold on, milord. I see candlelight up ahead at a farmhouse. Someone’s awake.”

  The last of Brendan’s strength ebbed away. He was dimly aware that Neil led the horses through the gate and pulled them up outside a wattle-and-daub, thatched farmhouse.

  He was falling. After a pair of strong arms caught him, he knew no more.

  ***

  At the banging on the door, Eugenia jumped up from the table where she’d been sewing by the light of a candle. She seldom felt vulnerable here alone at night, aware that her father’s reputation would protect her. Still, the feel of the heavy pistol in her hands made her braver. She unbolted the door a crack and poked the pistol through it. “Who’s there?”

  “Don’t shoot, miss. We’re in need of help. My master’s been shot.”

  A wiry-haired man stood on the step, struggling to hold up a much bigger man, who sagged in his arms. Blood dripped down from his hand onto the step.

  Eugenia opened the door wide. “Bring him inside.” He hefted the man into th
e room. “Lay him on the settle by the fire.”

  She lit the lantern and went outside to check the road. There was no sound of approaching riders and nothing moved in the shadows beyond the arc of light. She shut the door and eased the bolt across.

  “We were set upon by highwaymen in the forest,” he explained while laying the man down on the wooden seat. “Milord’s been shot. I suppose it’s too much to hope there’s a surgeon in the village?”

  “Just an apothecary. I know more than he does. I’ll tend to him. Help me get his coat off.”

  Moving him gently, they peeled off the man’s greatcoat and dark blue tailcoat, exposing his waistcoat and fine linen shirt beneath, soaked with blood. “His lordship, did you say?”

  “Earl of Trentham.”

  She took her scissors from her sewing box. “How long ago was he shot?”

  “Not long ago and not far from here. If you can manage without me, I’ll put the horses in the barn. They’re a signpost to our whereabouts for anyone that’s looking.”

  She nodded and cut the shirt away from the wound exposing his lordship’s well-muscled chest. He was a healthy specimen. That might stand him in good stead. The ball had passed through the soft flesh high on his shoulder and bled freely.

  “At least we don’t have to dig for the ball.” Eugenia poured water from the kettle on the hob into a bowl. She added cold water from a jug, soaped her hands, then dried them thoroughly. What evil was afoot this night? She feared for her father. The man came inside and shut the door behind him. “What is your name, sir?”

  “Neal Pollitt, miss. I’m his lordship’s groom.”

  “Mr. Pollitt, take this cloth and press it against the wound. I’m going to pick some herbs.”

  She knew every inch of her garden even in the dark and located what she sought with little trouble. Her arms full of yarrow, Lady’s mantle, lavender and garlic, she returned to the house.

  Pollitt stood by his master’s side. “We should cauterize the wound.”

  “Yes. I’ll do it if you hold him down.”

  Pollitt nodded at her, admiration in his gaze.

  Eugenia fetched gunpowder and tapped a little into the wound. She held up the taper. “Ready?”

  The groom took a firm hold of his lordship’s arms. “Do it.”

  Eugenia lit the taper from the fire and touched it to the gunpowder. As it ignited and flared, the injured man groaned deeply and struggled against Pollitt’s firm hold. The acrid smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

  Eugenia winced. “Poor devil. Soothing herbs will aid him.”

  She poured hot water into a bowl and added lavender. Taking a cloth, she dipped it in the bowl and wrung it out then wiped the worst of the blood and gunpowder away. She continued until the wound was clean. It now bled a good deal less.

  “You are close to the forest here, Miss…”

  “Hawthorne.”

  “Might be that the robbers will return, Miss Hawthorne. I should stay and keep guard.”

  They wouldn’t come to her father’s house. “My father swears blind he saw a specter there. That wood is said to be haunted. A highwayman was strung up there, many years ago.”

  “Ghosts don’t shoot people, do they? Anyway, his lordship shot one.”

  She swung around and studied his face. “Was he killed?”

  “Yes. Stone dead.”

  She frowned. “What did he look like, this highwayman?”

  “I didn’t stop to see. He wore a kerchief over his face. Red hair and he was young. Might you know him?”

  “No,” she said with relief. “Where does his lordship hail from?”

  “His country seat, Lilac Park, some miles from here. Over in Surrey.”

  She nodded as she worked. “I’ve heard some mention of it. The place sounds pretty. Is it?”

  “Indeed it is.” He examined his master with a worried frown. “Be all right, will he?

  “Too soon to tell. Why are you traveling in these parts?”

  “We were on our way home from a visit to Chatterton Hall.”

  “I know of that manor house. It’s very grand.”

  “’Tis the home of his lordship’s father-in-law.”

  She gazed at the big man crumpled on her settle. “His lordship’s married then?”

  Pollitt shook his head. “A widower, these two years past.”

  “Sad to see his children orphaned.”

  “He doesn’t have children.” He stepped closer to peer at his master. “He breathes well. You don’t think he’ll die, do you?”

  She held his lordship’s sturdy wrist in her hand. “Gunshots are tricky, but his pulse is strong. He has a good chance I’d say.”

  “You must have heard of Lord Trentham? He married Lord Chatterton’s daughter, Lady Anne.”

  Eugenia shook her head. She didn’t listen to village gossip; it was often untruthful. She’d seen Chatterton’s daughter ride past once on a handsome grey, with two well-dressed men and another woman. They’d stopped at the village inn for luncheon. Lady Anne’s hair was dark beneath her hat, and she’d worn an exquisite habit of emerald green velvet. Eugenia had suffered a bout of envy. Not for those people and their privileged lives exactly, but just for that green velvet. The color would suit her. One day she would have a gown like that.

  She ground herbs in a bowl with a mortar and pestle. When would her father see fit to return? A chill of unease snaked up her spine. She made a poultice and placed it against the man’s wound then bound it with cloth. “There’s boysenberry wine in that jug on the shelf. Help yourself before you brave the cold.”

  “Don’t mind if I do. I’ll ride to Lilac Court and return with a carriage to take his lordship home. He’ll do better there with the family doctor.”

  “Maybe he will. Although doctors…” She shrugged. “They’re as likely to kill you as not.”

  Eugenia frowned. She was anxious to get rid of his lordship and the sooner, the better, but he did look poorly. “He should not be moved tonight,” she said with some reluctance. What would her father say when he came home and found him here? She didn’t trust her father an inch.

  The groom put down the tankard. “’Tis a good drop, miss. Anything more I can do before I go?”

  “You can lift his lordship onto my father’s bed. He’s too tall for the settle.”

  “Right you are.”

  Pollitt was stronger than he looked. He heaved the unconscious man up and laid him on the bed. Lord Trentham groaned but didn’t wake. “I’ll pull off his boots, shall I?”

  She nodded, caught by the earl’s handsome face. Dark lashes feathered his cheeks, his thick dark brown hair disheveled. Long powerful legs stretched over the cot. A fine figure of a man.

  Pollitt pulled off a boot. “I hope he’ll be safe here if I leave. Looks like the highwaymen have given up.”

  “He will be,” Eugenia said firmly, determined to make it so.

  When the other gleaming Hessian boot dropped to the floor, Pollitt headed for the door. “I’ll be off then.”

  “The longer he has to rest before you move him, the better.”

  Pollitt nodded with one last glance at his master. “I’ll return as soon as I can. And thank ’e, Miss Hawthorne. His lordship will be most grateful.”

  When the door closed behind him, Eugenia returned to her patient. She sprinkled lavender over the pillow and covered him with a blanket. He was deeply asleep. She wondered what color his eyes were. Her fingers itched to trace his brow, his fine straight nose and well-formed lips. But he was so far above her the one thing he might want from her she’d never be prepared to give. She rose quickly and fetched her mending to keep herself busy. She would not sleep; she would listen to his breathing. He must live. Despite the differences in their station, their futures were linked in some way. She felt it in her bones. Her mother had pronounced Eugenia to be far-sighted. She leaned over and smoothed back his dark waves, like silk beneath her fingers. She hoped it was true.

 
Chapter Two

  BRENDAN COULD SMELL lavender. Had he been left in a garden? He opened his eyes and gazed around. Through the small window above him, the soft slate-blue sky was tinged with the rosy pink of early dawn. He closed his eyes for a few minutes and listened to the birds begin to wake. Then, concerned about his lethargy, he raised his head. “Where the devil am I?” The room spun. A pain racked through his shoulder so fierce that it brought an oath to his lips. With a groan, he lowered his head to the pillow. He lay in a strange bed in a room he’d never seen before. Was he in one of his tenant’s houses? He had no recollection of how he’d got here.

  “There’s no need for foul language,” a pleasant voice said behind him.

  He eased onto his good side. A young woman sat on a settle beside the fire. He admired the graceful movements of her slim fingers as she darned a stocking. “I beg your pardon, Miss…?”

  “Hawthorne. I forgive you in the circumstances.” She put down her sewing and crossed the floor to sit on a stool at his side. “I must check your wound.”

  Unequal to questioning her further, he lay still as she unwound the bandage that bound his shoulder with deft fingers.

  “Good, it’s stopped bleeding.”

  His gaze took in his bloodied coat, shirt, and ruined neck cloth on a chair. “I seem to remember being shot. Highwaymen attacked us in the woods.” He ran a hand over his bare chest and gazed up into her startlingly green eyes. “I must thank you for your kindness. But where am I?”

  When he tried, painfully, to raise himself, she placed a hand on his good shoulder and pushed him gently down. “Lie still.”

  She seemed unconcerned about touching his bare skin. Had Neil left him with a whore? He dismissed the idea for she looked far too innocent and fresh faced to be one.

  “You’re at Woodland Farm. It’s my father’s farm. Your groom brought you here.”

  He tensed his jaw. “My coachman was killed. I’m not sure about his nephew. He’s just a young lad.” He tried to galvanize himself to think clearly. “I must make arrangements to have the coach mended and take my coachman’s body home.” He tried to conjure up a smile. “I believe you’ve saved my life, Miss Hawthorne. I’m most grateful.”