Chapter 15

“Um,” said the highwayman.

Rufus leaned forward before Belle did anything rash. From the way his hand trembled upon his weapon, this did not seem a particularly competent highwayman, which was all the more reason to be cautious. Guns were, to Rufus’s mind, even more dangerous when in the possession of idiots.

“I’m sure we’d love to oblige you.” He sounded composed at least. More composed than he felt, which took him slightly aback, as he was used to his composure in potentially deadly situations not being counterfeit. But then he was also used to not being in a potentially deadly situation with a reactive Tarleton. “The problem is, we are not over-endowed with valuables at present.”

The pistol wobbled. “Um,” said the highwayman. “I was not—that is ... there are two of you?”

“As you see. We will not, however, do anything silly, will we, Belle?”

“Are you new?” Belle asked the highwayman.

He bristled. “ No. I am a dangerous criminal.”

“Of course you are,” said Rufus hastily.

“There are ballads and broadsheets about me,” insisted the highwayman. “About how dashing and daring I am.”

Rufus nodded. “That’s as may be. But the fact remains that we have travelled in haste and packed lightly to the point of non-existently. You may have noticed that I do not even possess a coat.”

“And your companion?”

Belle gave an indignant squeak. “I have my pelisse. But if you think I will allow a footpad to remove my garments—”

“No no”—the highwayman seemed as concerned by this possibility as Belle—“I insist that you keep your clothes absolutely on. I more meant ...” He glanced again at Rufus, an incomprehensible question in his eyes. “I did not expect—she would be here.”

This was the strangest highwayman Rufus had ever encountered, although, admittedly, he was working from a sample size of zero. “That need not interfere with”—he made what he hoped was a conciliatory open-handed gesture, rather than a startling “Time to shoot me” gesture—“our business?”

“Well, if you’re certain.” The highwayman was worrying his lip, clearly in a state of some anxiety. “I suppose I can see why you might find it comforting in a way. To have a woman present. It might make things feel less ... you know.”

Rufus did not know. “I think I find my ease equally when travelling with men or women or those who are both or neither.”

“How fortunate for you,” returned the highwayman, a little waspishly.

“Look”—only the necessity of controlling the situation as best he could was preventing Rufus from rubbing his brow—“I’m not sure what’s happening anymore. We don’t have any valuables, so you can’t rob us. And it would be a terrible idea to shoot us, so I strongly discourage you from doing that.”

This return to business seemed to galvanise the highwayman. He leered into the carriage. “I wouldn’t say you don’t have any valuables.”

“Absolutely not,” said Belle and Rufus at the same time.

The leer lingered awkwardly on the highwayman’s face, as though he had committed to it and now had no idea what to do with it. “A dastardly rogue I may be, but your lips are jewels fair enough for me.”

“Are you intentionally speaking in verse?” asked Belle.

“What, no? I’m just ... speaking. Can you stop interrupting? You’re ruining the mood.”

She blinked. “There’s a mood? You’re doing crime.”

“To allow such a prize to slip between my fingers is the true crime here,” declared the highwayman, with more determination than conviction. “A night in my arms and you may go, that is, both of you, can go free. Though there will no freedom sweeter than the passion I teach you when you give your lovely untouched body to me.”

“Perhaps,” began Rufus, hoping to defuse the situation before—

“Ew,” cried Belle. “No.”

Rufus flinched. “Belle, he’s got a gun. Let’s ... ah ... discuss this calmly, shall we? My good man”—he turned to the stranger—“it’s not really appropriate for you to go around coercing women to sleep with you, no matter how dashing you believe yourself to be or how convinced you are that they’ll like it if they try it.”

The highwayman was staring at him.

“Consent,” explained Rufus, “is a vital part of—”

An intemperate gesture came perilously close to discharging the gun. “For God’s sake, stop playing games with me. Not her. You.”

“Oh.” Rufus shrugged. “That’s fine, then. You can do whatever you like with my lovely untouched body. How long do you need? Twenty minutes?”

“Um,” said the highwayman.

“Ten?” suggested Rufus.

At which point Belle slammed her fist against the carriage seat—a gesture hindered by the padding, so it was mostly a soft flump . “No. This is not going to happen.”

“My dear, don’t give it a moment’s thought.”

“Of course I’m going to give it a moment’s thought. I’m going to give it many moments’ thought. If it is not acceptable for ladies to be coerced into sexual encounters, then it should not be acceptable for gentlemen either.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Don’t overwhelm me with your ardour or anything,” muttered the highwayman.

Rufus glanced at him. “I’m sorry. Take me now, you scurrilous devil. Is that better?”

“A bit. But could you put a little more feeling into it?”

“Stop negotiating,” yelled Belle. “You don’t get to sleep with either of us.”

The highwayman gave another ill-advised flounder with the gun. “He’s consented.”

“I have consented,” agreed Rufus.

“I know.” The look Belle cast his way was full of understanding. “And I do not mean to impede your decision-making, but I’m afraid you might have agreed out of apathy, and a lack of self-consideration, rather than genuine desire.”

“He’s just playing hard to get,” put in the highwayman. “He’d better be playing hard to get, because this is already more bloody trouble than he’s worth. Lord in heaven.”

“Please let’s not,” began Rufus, reaching out a restraining hand.

But it was too late. Belle had already erupted.

“How dare you. How dare you speak of anyone like that, least of all him. Dashing rogue, my left arse cheek. You’re ... you’re disgusting .”

“What’s happening?” asked the highwayman, visibly alarmed.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” Belle concluded.

And before Rufus could prevent her, she had thrust open the carriage door with sufficient force that the highwayman was sent reeling backwards, having taken a severe buffet to the face. It was an effective move and had, essentially, solved their problem. But, in typical Tarleton fashion, she had to take it too far, flinging herself bodily out of the carriage after him.

“Belle,” Rufus tried again.

Momentum and sheer angry rabbit energy bowled her into the already disorientated highwayman. They fell to the ground in a tangle of flailing limbs, light slapping, and hair pulling.

“You ... you ...” Belle seemed to be trying to bite his nose. “You scoundrel. You reptile. You vile creepy-crawly. You belong under a log.”

“Help,” wailed the highwayman. “Please. She’s murdering me. I’m being murdered.”

Rufus regarded the wriggling pair, wondering whether he ought to climb down from the carriage and physically separate them. “Don’t murder the highwayman, Belle. It will make life complicated for everyone.”

“Aiieeee,” added the highwayman, still apparently in the midst of being murdered.

“Besides”—Rufus kept his tone light—“the punishment for highway robbery is hanging.”

The highwayman had managed to get a hand protectively over his face. “But I’m not robbing you.”

“You tried.”

“What? No, I—”

There was another flurry of movement as he attempted to cast Belle away, but she was clinging like an exceptionally furious limpet. And it was at that moment the gun, which Rufus had not realised was trapped between their bodies, discharged with a muffled bang.

Time seemed to slow and stop altogether, hanging over them like a moon.

And then Belle slumped forward.

“By God”—Rufus sprang from the carriage—“if you’ve hurt her, I will see you hanged.”

“I didn’t,” protested the highwayman. “I mean, I didn’t ... I wasn’t ... it was an accident. God, is that blood. Is it mine? Am I dying? I feel faint.”

“You are the worst highwayman in the history of larceny.”

The highwayman made a sound of pure exasperation. “Well, obviously. I’m not a fucking highwayman, am I?”

“Then what on earth would possess you to start holding up travellers? Actually, never mind. You are the least of my concerns right now.” As carefully as he could, Rufus drew Belle into his arms and turned her onto her back. Her face was very pale, her eyes closed. The words “Oh, please no” burst out of him involuntarily as he bent to check her breathing. Just when he was close enough for it to be as uncomfortable as possible were she not to be dead, her eyes popped open again.

“I think I’ve been shot,” she said. “How exciting.”

He let out a long, shaky breath. “Don’t trifle with me, Bellflower. You could have been killed.”

“I haven’t, though, have I?”

Her gaze, he realised, was a little unfocused. And the sleeve of her pelisse was dark with blood. It was not the time to be scaring her or scolding her. “Not even a little bit. But I had better take a look at the wound regardless.”

“I say.” The highwayman was still dithering nearby. “I’m terribly sorry. I’ve never shot anyone before.”

“You astound me,” said Rufus.

The combination of the fight and the gun going off had startled the horses. Having settled them, the coachman passed the reins to the under-coachman and jumped down. “Is everything all right?”

“I’ve been shot,” Belle said. “Isn’t it exciting?”

The coachman did not look as though he found this exciting.

“What were you thinking”—Rufus glared up at him—“stopping the coach for this Bedlamite?”

“He said he was your friend. That you were expecting him.”

“Why would we be expecting a highwayman?”

“I mean,” said the coachman, “he’s clearly not a highwayman, is he? Haven’t seen a highwayman for some twenty years. And you do have some peculiar friends.”

Through a mixture of tearing, peeling, and applying his teeth as carefully as he could, Rufus had managed to coax Belle’s pelisse away from her arm. The sleeve of her dress was already soaked through, the blood vividly red in the fading light.

“I’m going to be naked by the time we reach Gretna Green,” he muttered, dragging his shirt over his head and using several layers of folded fabric to try and stanch the wound.

The highwayman made a sound.

“I think”—Rufus glanced up again—“we’d better get her to the inn as quickly as possible.”

“She’s present,” Belle insisted, although somewhat less forcefully than usual. “I’m not Valentine. I don’t go around fainting just because I’ve been shot.”

“Yes, yes. You’re extremely mighty.”

“Probably with some assistance, I’ll even be able to make it to the carriage.”

True to form, she was attempting to sit upright before anyone could stop her. Though, perhaps, both of them might have preferred if someone had, for she turned an even ghastlier shade of white and fell back against him.

“I’ll carry you,” he told her. “But you won’t thank me for it.”

“Everyone doubts my capacity for civility—oh, you bastard.”

“I’m sorry.”

He’d lifted her as gently as he could, but he must have jarred her arm regardless—and without direct pressure, the blood had begun to flow again, almost as quickly as before, splashing his wrist and speckling the road like an extremely ominous April shower. To his surprise, the highwayman darted forward, gathered up Rufus’s shirt, and put his own hand over the wound. Even with the help of the highwayman and the coachman, it was a clumsy, uncomfortable shuffle to get Belle into the carriage, one she bore with stubborn equanimity. That was the thing about Tarletons: stubbing a toe was the end of the world, but when they were truly hurt, they got small and quiet, and that was worrying.

Eventually Belle was settled, her head in Rufus’s lap, her colour still far from good, and the highwayman was peering into the carriage with a pleading look on his face.

“Um,” he said.

“For fuck’s sake”—Rufus was so far beyond the end of his tether that he wasn’t sure the tether would ever be retrievable—“stop saying um .”

“Um,” said the highwayman. “I mean. Um. I truly didn’t mean to shoot your friend.”

“That doesn’t make me any happier that you did.”

“I know, but ... but. I can help? It will be easier to tend her between the two of us.”

Rufus gave him an incredulous look. “Are you asking for a ride?”

“A little bit,” admitted the highwayman. “I had a horse. A black horse, actually. Very ... impressive and in keeping.”

“And the stylishness of the horse is relevant because?”

“Because I just—it doesn’t matter. In any case, it took fright when ... the whole ‘shooting your friend’ thing happened. So I find myself slightly on the stranded side? And I don’t know this part of the country very well.”

“Why were you holding people up in it then?” asked Belle, the words little more than a whisper.

“I wasn’t. It’s ... it’s ...” The highwayman heaved a forlorn sigh. “It’s a long story.”

“I don’t care if it’s a Homeric epic,” snapped Rufus. “Fuck off.”

The highwayman hung his head sadly.

Belle stirred very slightly. “Oh, let him come.”

“He shot you.”

“Not—not on purpose. Besides, hearing a long story will p-pass the time nicely, won’t it? Since”—her voice was growing weaker—“I fear I might not be the best company j-just at present.”

“I care about you being well, not your being entertaining.”

“Also,” added the highwayman hastily, “it’s not a good story. It’s entirely foolish and best not spoken of. You don’t want to hear it. Forget I brought it up.”

Belle shook her head, or rather tried to shake her head, but quickly seemed to discover it was a bad idea. “On the contrary, those are the sort of stories I like to hear best.”