“Lastly, would you do anything for her? Would you give up your life for hers?”
Pierce wasn’t certain of the answer to that one.
“I remember when Mrs. Wattles was delivering Peg. Poor woman had so much trouble with that birth.”
Pierce reached for his ale and drank the last three drops. If he had to hear a tale involving childbirth, he needed a drink.
“She screamed and screamed, and the midwife thought the baby would never come. We thought they’d both die. I tell you what, my boy, I went down on my knees in this very room and begged God to spare her. I pleaded with the Almighty to take me and not her. And I meant it too. I would have done anything, even traded my life, so she could live. But all’s well that ends well, as the poet says. My Peg was born, and Mrs. Wattles recovered, though she was abed for a good long time. I supposed it was all the blood she lost. I never seen so much blood—”
The room spun, and Pierce held up a hand. “No talk of b-blood, sir, I beg you.”
Wattles squinted at him. “Are you ill, sir? You look a bit peaked.”
“Thank you for your insights,” Pierce answered. “I’ll give it some thought.” He rose. His legs were a bit wobbly, because he still had the image of blood in his mind, but he thought the cold air might revive him. He started for the door, but Wattles called out.
“Don’t think, Mr. Moneypence. That’s your problem. You love the girl. That’s as plain as day. Tell her and be done with it.”
Pierce stepped into the wind and the snow. Later, when he lay on his cot shivering, the sound of the horses and the wind whistling through the stable’s cracks keeping him awake, he thought of what Wattles had said. He wanted to love Eliza, but he wasn’t certain he did.
Eliza sipped her morning tea in the common, her gaze on Freeland and Wilson over the rim. For a change, Goodman was also seated in the room. He had his paper open and did not look receptive to conversation, but after the long, cold night, even he wanted to stretch his limbs a bit.
For three days the Sheriff had not struck, and she had high hopes for today. The first coach would arrive in less than an hour, and the weather was perfect for an attack. The sun shone on the new-fallen snow. That new snow would slow the coach and the horses who had to tromp through it. That slowing might work to the highwayman’s advantage.
Eliza decided to ride with the next coach, hoping the highwayman attacked when she was a passenger. She had the money to pay for passage to the next village, if it came to that. But if the coach was attacked, and she managed to capture the highwayman, she would be a hero and have completed the mission successfully.
She wasn’t certain where Pierce was. She’d seen him this morning, and they’d exchanged curt but polite greetings. That was unfortunate. She wished they might have parted on amicable terms. She wished they hadn’t had to part at all. The last two nights she’d lain awake for hours, wishing he’d come to her room, though if he had, she would have sent him away. Contrary woman! So frustrating to want him and to know he didn’t want her in the same way.
He obviously cared for her. He was willing to make an effort to seduce her, but how long would that last once he won her? Not long. She had made a promise to herself not to compromise. She would marry a man who loved her or not marry at all.
Eliza heard the clatter of the coach arriving and checked her reticule for the small pistol she always carried. Although designing weapons was her profession, there was nothing special about this pistol, except she’d modified it to ensure it shot straight and true. That was all a situation like this required.
She set down her tea cup, glancing at the table where Mr. Wilson sat alone. Mrs. Penter had come down earlier and then retired again, saying she felt a little tired. Since Wilson was sipping his tea and studying the paper, it did not look as though he planned to depart any time soon. Eliza almost decided against soliciting passage on the coach. But she approached the driver anyway. If nothing else, the journey would be beneficial because she could study the road. Perhaps she might see a clue about the Sheriff.
As she climbed aboard the coach, she did wonder for a fleeting instant how she would return to The Duke’s Arms, but she decided to follow her instincts. Agent Saint was always going on about listening to instincts. Maybe there was something to that approach. If not, Eliza would certainly give Saint a piece of her mind when she finally made it back to London.
Eliza seated herself next to another woman, pleased she was beside a window and could peer out. After the passengers exchanged pleasantries, an uneasy silence descended. This was the stretch of the journey where so many other coaches had been waylaid. The woman who shared Eliza’s seat clutched her valise tighter, and Eliza held her own reticule close. She wasn’t concerned about losing her valuables—she didn’t carry any—she wanted easy access to her pistol.
The snow-covered landscape tumbled by as the coach moved forward at a brisk pace. Several points along the snow-covered landscape would make good ambush spots. The foliage was thick and provided good cover. She wished it had not snowed so recently. Then she might have been able to study the tracks the highwayman had left during previous attacks. As it was, everything was covered with an obscuring blanket. That worked in the Sheriff’s
