‘They’ve gone on to the fair at Stow on the Wold,’ Deb lied glibly. ‘A little muddying of their trail might be a good thing, all in all.’ Mr Beaumaris. Palfreyman. Oh, heavens.
Still the woman hadn’t finished, but came closer, her eyes gleaming with malicious curiosity. ‘It must be a strange life,’ she said, ‘for a young woman, traipsing around with a bunch of travelling players. And I heard tell that you’re all in trouble with the local magistrates—’
‘You must excuse me,’ Deb broke in, ‘I really wanted to eat this delicious stew while it’s hot—’
‘In trouble with the local magistrates,’ repeated the woman with emphasis, ‘for putting on a play on a Sunday. They say the lot of you have been threatened with prison. There, now. What do you say to that?’
‘It was all a mistake. And I assure you that the matter will very soon be sorted.’ Deb gave the woman a dazzling smile, then marched out towards the stables. Once inside she kicked the door shut with her foot, sat on a hay bale and put her plate down.
She wasn’t hungry any more.
Did everyone in the whole of Oxford know the predicament that they were in? Damn Palfreyman! She would come through this. They would all come through this. But now there was an added complication—their prisoner.
She had a feeling that Mr Beaumaris wasn’t a man to either forgive or forget. But he’s no idea who I am, she told herself. He has no idea of my connection with the Players or with Palfreyman. He thinks my friends are highway robbers, and that I’m a whore. Hardly surprising, since he’d found those books on her...
Oh, to blazes with Mr Beaumaris, Deb thought irritably. It was his fault that he was in such a pickle. But with both him and Palfreyman as enemies now, the sooner she, Francis and Luke were on their way to Gloucester to join the others, the better. And then she could push today’s rather alarming events from her mind.
But she wouldn’t be able to forget Mr Beaumaris’s kiss quite so quickly. Or his wicked blue eyes and devilish good looks. She thought that she would quite possibly never forget the way her heart had jolted and almost stopped as his lips crushed hers and his hands had drawn her closer...
Enough. Enough. She picked up her plate and tried to convince herself that the greasy mess looked appetising. She hoped that Mr Beaumaris was vastly cold and miserable in the charcoal-burner’s hut, and that Luke and Francis were making his captivity as uncomfortable as possible.
She forced herself to eat the stew, aware that she really needed to keep her strength up—because just at the moment, it rather looked as if her company would be lucky to survive the next few days without the lot of them being hurled straight into Oxford County Gaol, by either Hugh Palfreyman, or the even more formidable Mr Beaumaris.
* * *
As the sun began to sink in a haze of mist over the Ashendale Forest, Beau turned restlessly in his bonds and decided that he could not remember having been more furious in all his life.
Oh, he’d been angry before now. But there had always been something he could do—some counter-attack he could plan, some legal strategy he could devise. He’d been known in the past to use his fists if the circumstances were appropriate.
But now his impotence made him wild. He’d heard the girl riding off on her pony, leaving her two companions to guard him—and there hadn’t been a thing Beau could do, since he was once more roped up and blindfolded.
His hearing, though, was acute, and shortly afterwards he realised that the younger fellow was riding off also. But Beau heard him return within half an hour, and then they both came over to offer him some food that the lad must have purchased. After some muttering between themselves, they removed his gag, so he was able to point out, in no uncertain terms, that they’d have to untie his hands as well if he was to eat.
They muttered to each other again, then unfastened the cord round his wrists to allow him to feed himself with the bread and cheese they offered. But when he reached for his blindfold the older one tutted and said, ‘I hope you’re not going to try and get your blindfold off, are you, Mr Beaumaris? That wouldn’t be a good idea at all. It really wouldn’t.’ And—though Beau doubted if the fellow could use it—he heard the ominous click of his own pistol and decided it was, for the moment, more prudent to obey.
Of course, they didn’t want him to see their rascally faces—but he guessed they were watching him all the time as he ate. Then they tied his hands again but loosened the rope at his ankles and led him about a hundred yards or so to what he guessed was some kind of rough shelter. And that was where, he gathered, they expected him to spend the whole of the long, miserable night.
It was apparent that their leader—Miss Deb, or Deborah—had had no intention of returning that evening, quite possibly because she had her own trade to ply in the streets of Oxford. And that troubled Beau.
She was a slut and a highway robber, by her own admission. But most dangerously of all, she was attractive in the kind of way that he just could not erase from his mind. Yes, she was a little on the skinny side, to be sure—but he’d quickly forgotten that when he’d held her close and realised that some very feminine curves were hidden by her boy’s attire. Yes, she was scruffy, and her long hair could have done with a good brush, but what did that matter, when she possessed such ravishing chestnut curls and such enchanting, dark-lashed golden eyes?
And as for the kiss... Beau shifted uncomfortably on the beaten-earth floor of the charcoal-burner’s hut, remembering her against his will.
He might be blindfolded again, but her image was etched on his memory. He couldn’t help but remember how she’d let out a little gasp of surprise as he kissed her, how she’d clasped her hands tightly around his waist as if to steady herself.
He couldn’t forget the feel of her pert and slender figure pressed so close to his, or the scent of her skin; nor could he fail to remember how her hair was a tumbled cloud of radiant hues that perfectly framed her flushed face. She’d looked exquisite—and innocent.
But it was all a sham. She’d deliberately pretended to be stunned by his caresses while secretly enabling her two henchmen to spring their trap.
He gritted his teeth as he remembered how she’d earlier flicked through the quite scandalous illustrations in those little books of hers and told him sweetly, Of course, I always endeavour to match my clients’ inclinations rather than my own.
She was so like Paulette—who never dressed in anything other than silks and satins, but even so the similarity between the two of them had hit him like a body-blow. When darkness fell he lay there thinking, Who is she? And when he slept at last, he dreamed of her.
He dreamed that he had her in his arms, and her smile was enticing as he bent his head to kiss her. Then she squirmed with wanton relish in his arms, and fluttered her lashes with the skill of a practised coquette, breathing, ‘Well, Damian Beaumaris. It seems that I have you at last.’
* * *
Beau woke at dawn to a chorus of birdsong, and found that his muscles were cramped and stiff. The younger of his guards came to check that his blindfold and bonds were still in place. There was no sign of any imminent improvement in his situation.
He dozed again briefly, but woke to hear his two guards having
