At the mention of the highwayman, Eliza opened her mouth like a hooked fish. She lost her balance, then scrambled up. Pierce tried to follow, but it was a moment before he could climb to his feet. By then she was standing over a man lying on the ground not far from where Pierce had been lying. He recognized the gray coat. He’d seen the man set out from the inn and followed, thinking he would turn out to be simply going home. But when the man had started for the road, Pierce thought he might have his Sheriff of Nottingham—except it couldn’t have been Wilson. He’d been sitting in the public room when Pierce had stepped outside.
“Be careful, miss!” the driver called. He’d stayed with the coach, and all of the passengers were peering out of the windows with trepidation.
“You shot me,” the man groaned. He was doubled over and clutching his leg. Pierce made certain not to look anywhere near the wound. Instead, he focused on the man’s face, what he could see of it. He’d had a view of the criminal’s back all morning but hadn’t caught sight of the face. He didn’t recognize the fellow at all.
“You should be thanking me,” Eliza said, leaning over and confiscating his pistol. “I could have easily shot you through the heart.”
“Why didn’t you? I’m dead anyway.”
“Who are you?” Pierce asked. “I don’t recognize you.”
The man looked up at him, a slight smile creasing his grimace of pain. “It was a good disguise. No one would have ever suspected us.”
Eliza shot Pierce a look, and he nodded. The highwayman had used the pronoun us. Clearly, he was not working alone. But fiend seize it if Pierce knew who he was or who he worked with. What had his disguise been? One of the maids? A groom?
And then the man coughed quietly, and Pierce knew. Eliza spoke first. “It’s Mrs. Penter!”
The highwayman coughed again, and Eliza shook her head. “We never even considered Mrs. Penter. No, wait.” She looked at Pierce, admiration shining in her eyes. “You said you were not willing to clear her name initially. You did suspect her.”
“I didn’t seriously consider her. If Wilson is part of this, the two of them had the perfect game. He could rob some coaches, and she could do others. If suspicion fell on him, he only need be in the presence of witnesses the next time the Sheriff struck. No one would ever suspect her.”
“If Wilson is part of this,” Eliza said, “one of us must return and take him into custody before he flees. You are injured. I’ll go, and you return with Penter—or whatever his name is—and the coach to The Duke’s Arms.”
Before he could even agree, she was away. It took some time to move the man whose name was actually Penter into the coach. Several of the passengers elected to walk back to the inn, rather than ride in the coach with a criminal, but Pierce sat beside him. His shoulder hurt like the very devil, but a quick investigation with his fingers told him the ball had only nicked him. He’d have someone clean and bandage the wound when he returned.
After a brandy or twelve, he’d be fine.
Of course, the afternoon was more complicated. When Pierce returned, Eliza did have Wilson in custody, and everyone from the village seemed to be crowded into the inn to hear the tale and gawk at the highwaymen. The magistrate arrived, and the men spilled their tale. Wilson had needed money, and he’d applied to his uncle in London, Penter, to help him. Penter was a thief from Whitechapel, and he’d come prepared to do what he did best. The two had been successful criminals for several months. A search of Wilson’s home uncovered a room full of valuables the two planned to take to Nottingham to fence.
Eliza and Pierce were commended for capturing the thieves, but instead of accepting the ale and free meal Mr. Wattles tried to give him, Pierce asked to be allowed to lie down. Eliza had been swept away by the crowd, and for once Pierce was content in the stable, where at least it was quiet. Peg cleaned and bandaged his wound, which she called little more than a scratch. Pierce glimpsed the blood, but fainted only once, and then he drank three fingers of brandy and fell asleep.
When he awoke, it was dark outside. He had no idea how long he’d slept or what had transpired since he’d left. Surely Eliza hadn’t needed him. Had she even missed him? Perhaps he’d been somewhat delusional after he’d been shot and only imagined that she’d told him she loved him, that she’d go anywhere with him. What happened now? Should he propose again? He still hadn’t told her he loved her. Perhaps he should rectify that.
“Oh, good,” a voice said from the door of the stall. “You’re awake.”
“Eliza?” He sat, causing the blankets to slide down. His hair felt as though it were stuck to his head in the frightful manner it did every morning.
“You were expecting someone else?” she asked, moving inside. The light of a brazier illuminated her sweet form.
Pierce squinted. “Wattles allowed me a brazier?”
“I promised to keep watch over it.” Her gaze fell to his chest, which was bare, but she was looking at the bandage, which ran over his shoulder and under his arm. “I should have done that. I’m sorry.”
He waved her words away. “Someone had to play hero and receive the accolades. I didn’t have the strength.”
“And how are you feeling now?” she asked, sitting beside him on the cot. The poor thing almost collapsed. “Better?”
“Much.”
“I brought you bread and cheese. Are you well enough to eat?”
Pierce devoured the bread and cheese as Eliza looked on with a small smile. With a full belly, including two mugs of ale, he was feeling much more like himself.
As
