Riding Roughshod

"Have y’ got far to travel, ma’am?”

Amy looked up from her steak and ale pie with its accompaniment of fresh greens and regarded the innkeeper with cursory interest. He was fair washing his hands with anxiety, or so it seemed, and she wondered what the cause of his worry might be. Surely not the food – which, though simple, was tasty and nourishing. The glass of madeira that had been provided with her meal was a little below par, but then she didn’t expect any better from a coaching-inn.

She set down her knife and fork and dabbed daintily at her lips before she replied. “We should reach York by nightfall.”

The innkeeper looked even more concerned. “It be three of the clock already, ma’am – the light is failing, and this close to the coast and at this time of year, there’s some hellish fog that comes a-rollin’ in. It’s a dangerous road, and what with you being a lady on her own…”

He glanced at the rings on her hands and looked doubtful, probably wondering where her chaperone was; but he was too polite to voice this aloud.

“My coachman is very good. I have no fears for my safety,” she said airily, picking up her cutlery again.

The innkeeper nodded swiftly. “Surely, ma’am… but there’s highwaymen about these parts, and vicious swine they are, too.”

“Highwaymen!” Amy stabbed at the pie. “A despicable breed, truly – but I am not afraid of those scoundrels.”

“I only mention it, ma’am, because – well, if you were wanting to travel in the morning, there is a room here that might suit you,” the innkeeper offered, bowing.

“No, no – we shall press on, regardless of highway brigands. I have business in York this night, and it cannot wait,” she said. “I thank you for your kindness, but I am no milksop to be frightened or overset by the threat of robbery.”

The innkeeper muttered and hurried away to attend to a finely-dressed couple that entered the premises, and Amy was left alone in the parlour to enjoy the rest of her meal. She glanced out of the lead-paned window, noting that the innkeeper had been right – the light was becoming dim as the afternoon faded. Within two hours, dusk would be upon the land. She shivered slightly, more in response to the idea of autumn drawing in so quickly than from any terror of what might lie ahead on the roads.

She stayed for another fifteen minutes more until a servant-girl came by to set and light the fire in the grate. The sound of the tinder catching and the scent of woodsmoke reminded Amy even more sharply of the close of the year, and suddenly she yearned for an end to her journey and the warmth of her home. Quickly, she rose from the table and handed some coins to the servant; then she collected her short velvet jacket and slipped it on, finally picking up her bonnet and settling it in place atop her head, fastening the pale lavender ribbon beneath her chin jauntily.

The innkeeper glanced over at her as she left the parlour, and called out, “If y’ won’t change your mind, ma’am – then, safe journey.”

“Thank you,” she acknowledged, and then she was out of the doors and in the yard, looking around for her coachman.

Ralf was gathered with the rest of the drivers, footmen and grooms around a brazier near the stables of the inn, but he came dutifully enough when she summoned him. He had been in her employ only a twelvemonth, and seemed eager enough to please. He was also skilled in handling the coach-and-four, and got a speed out of them that her previous driver, Hill, had been unable to.

Now, as he opened the door of the coach and pulled down the fold-away steps so she could climb inside, Ralf said, “They say there’s highwaymen on the turnpike.”

Amy rested her hand in his and gathered her skirts high enough that he could just glimpse a flash of ankle above her dainty shoes.

“There’s always highwaymen on the turnpike.”

“Some say that there’s a ghostly one that comes out of the fog on a white horse, then he disappears all of a sudden,” Ralf continued as she stepped inside the coach and rearranged her skirts.

“A white horse? How romantic. But not very practical, for a highwayman. Black horses are so much better for getaways, surely,” she remarked idly, setting her arm upon the open window-ledge when he’d shut the door tightly.

Ralf followed her gaze to the four black horses that stood waiting patiently in the traces, and he smiled up at her. “Yes, m’lady.”

“Let’s be on our way, Ralf. York by nightfall, or I’ll dock your wages.”

He bowed swiftly, then was gone. She heard him swing himself up onto the high seat at the front of the coach, and then there was the crack of the whip and the team set off, clattering across the cobbled yard and away from the safety of the inn.

At first, the afternoon was pleasant: the weather held for another hour more, and they made good time along the main road. At length, though, Ralf shouted that there appeared to be a diversion from the turnpike and that he would have to take one of the narrower local roads. This proved to be little more than a dirt track, its potholes filled with loose chippings at first, but increasingly without any attempt at all at repair. The coach jolted along, the springs rattling and the wheels groaning every time one caught a rut. Amy shifted from one corner of the coach to the other, trying to get comfortable. The square jewel-case that she’d hidden beneath the seats slid free, the clasp jumping open to spill the necklaces and rings and other jewellery across the floor.

She cursed and tried to kneel down, smoothing her skirts out of the way as she attempted to collect up the jewellery. As she piled the items back into the box, Amy found herself deciding which pieces she would keep and which would go elsewhere. Just as she shut the clasp again and shoved the box beneath the seat, the coach rolled to a halt.

Amy scrambled back into a sitting position and looked out of the window. “Ralf, what’s wrong?”

“There’s someone on the road ahead of us, ma’am,” he replied evenly.

The track was barely wide enough for the coach, so she wondered how they would be able to let the approaching horsemen come by. She leaned out a little further, narrowing her eyes against the glare of the setting sun.

“Can they pass us?” she asked.

Ralf coughed. “I don’t think they want to, ma’am. I think they’re highwaymen.”

The sound of a bullet whining past confirmed his guess. Amy ducked back inside the coach, her heart racing, and she used her foot to push the jewellery-box even further beneath the seat. It was the first place a thief would look, but in order to do so, he’d have to take his eyes off her – and she would be ready for him.

Satisfied that the box couldn’t be seen from above, she sat back on the opposite seat and waited. She heard hoofbeats and then a challenge from the road. Ralf responded readily enough, calling abuse at the ruffians who dared to waylay them. Amy edged towards the window again and peeked out. One of the blackguards had a chestnut mount, a nervous filly that whickered at the four black stallions that drew her coach. The rider of the filly held a blunderbuss pointed at Ralf while the other highwayman cantered nearer on a pure white gelding.

Amy stared in disbelief, recalling her earlier words at the inn. Romantic, she’d said it was, to ride a white horse – but the reality was somewhat different. Only a man supremely certain of himself could hope to evade detection on a white horse.

Or maybe he chose his mount because it provided such a dramatic foil to his clothes. Like his colleague, he wore a long black cape that swirled as he slid from the saddle, and then he flung it back over his shoulders to reveal the rest of his attire – all as black as his cloak.

She looked at him with interest. Long leather boots shone softly in the muted light beneath tight breeches, over which he wore a plain dark cotton shirt that laced across his broad chest. She could just about make out the slight roughening of hair where the laces crossed, and so jerked her gaze upwards to continue her perusal. He wore a velvet redingote with silver frogging, and she couldn’t help but notice too that the coat was a little strained across his shoulders. The lower part of his face was covered with a black neckerchief, but his eyes were very blue, bright with mischief as he faced her. His hair was dark, short and rumpled beneath the tricorn hat he swept off his head when he saw her at the coach window.

“Your servant, ma’am,” he said respectfully, bowing from the waist.

“I didn’t think highwaymen were anybody’s servants,” Amy retorted.

“Highwaymen? But that’s such a common term.” He sounded offended, straightening himself up and drawing closer. “I prefer to think of myself as… a pirate of the turnpikes.”

“That sounds slightly more impressive,” she agreed as seriously as she could.

His eyes twinkled as if he found her amusing, then he lifted his gloved hands and drew a flintlock from his belt, levelling it at her with a flourish. “And we all know that pirates – and highwaymen – like booty… so hand it over, ma’am.”

Amy affected surprise. “I can assure you that I have nothing of value with me.”

His eyebrows tilted. “Oh? What about your rings? They’d fetch a pretty penny.”

She clutched her fingers tight together and gave him a furious look. “You’ll have to cut my hands off first!”

The highwayman came closer, until the distance between the mouth of the pistol and her face was mere inches. “Don’t think I won’t do it, if that’s what it takes.”

Amy swallowed nervously. “You wouldn’t. Highwaymen are rogues, but none have ever laid hands upon a woman in violence.”

He looked thoughtful. “There’s always a first time.”

With his free hand, he unlatched the coach door and pulled it open so he could see her better. Amy remained where she was as he gave her a long, leisurely stare from top to toe. Her scrabbling about on the floor in pursuit of the jewellery had disordered her skirts a little, and so he eyed her violet silk-covered shoes with interest before he slid his gaze to her ankles, clad in white silken stockings.

She fought the desire to tug at her skirts, glad that he could see no more of her legs beyond her calves, which were covered by the frilled and ruched underskirt that puffed out her dress. The garment itself, the same shade of violet silk as her shoes, was creased and dusty from the floor, but still revealed itself to be the height of the mode. Its ruffles and swags were the very latest thing from Paris, as was the shockingly low-cut, lace-trimmed bodice. Her modiste had assured her that very few women could wear such a gown with style, but that her figure showed such a frock to its best advantage. Amy had reflected at the time that it was a pleasant change for couturiers to design gowns for women with breasts rather than concave chests, but now, under the penetrating gaze of the highwayman, she wished she’d worn something plainer.

Just as she was thanking Providence for giving her the foresight to wear her jacket, the highwayman’s gaze came to rest on the curve of her breasts beneath the velvet.

“Unbutton it,” he ordered softly.

“What?” she asked, wondering if she’d misheard.

He gestured with the gun. “I said, unbutton it.”

Swiftly she raised her hands to the collar of the jacket, her fingers trembling slightly as she worked the buttons free. She could feel his gaze upon her as surely as a touch as the jacket opened, revealing the daring bodice of her dress. Her breathing quickened at the thought of his hungry eyes staring at her flesh. Even though it was all the rage in London, she doubted that the provinces had seen a gown like this before.

She took a quick glance at his face. He was staring indeed, quite openly and lasciviously.

“Take the jacket off,” he said huskily.

Amy did as he told her, a frisson of wicked excitement building deep in her belly. She liked the way he was admiring her. It gave her a feeling of power to see the way he tilted his head to stare lustfully at her; the way he caught his breath in a hiss as she shrugged out of the jacket so that her breasts jiggled enticingly in their lace-trimmed confines.

The jacket was discarded onto the seat behind her, and she sat with her shoulders back, her breasts thrust out, awaiting his next order. She was aware of the chill air of dusk whispering over her naked skin, and her nipples tightened in response, pushing at the fabric of the gown. She was sure he could see the hardening nubs peaking through the bodice, the violet silk embossing them as if to draw his attention.

The highwayman moved the pistol again, this time gesturing towards her bonnet. “Take off your hat.”

Calmly, Amy lifted a hand and tugged at the ribbon. It slid apart smoothly, tickling the underside of her chin, and then the ends fell loose to dangle over the swell of her breasts. He watched the ribbons dance for a moment against her skin, then lifted his gaze back to her face as she took off the bonnet and tossed it to the floor of the carriage.

“Now take down your hair,” he breathed, his eyes gleaming with desire.

She raised both hands above her head to undo the complicated pinning and tucking of her hair into the coronet style, realising a second too late that the movement pulled her breasts higher. Her nipples brushed the seam on the lower part of the bodice and she took a quick gasp of breath that shuddered out of her when the sensitive flesh chafed at the lace trimming.

The highwayman gave an appreciative groan, his gaze fastened to her exposed nipples as they tightened further beneath the kiss of the cold air and the frustrating rub of the scratchy lace. He pushed the gun nearer, tracing the mouth of the barrel down around the curve of one breast to push the bodice lower until he’d freed both nipples fully to his view. He stroked the blackened metal gently across the swollen nubs, watching her shiver in reaction; then he lifted the pistol away and allowed her to let down her hair.

It tumbled over her shoulders, curling in the slightly damp air of the evening and screening her naked breasts. She could see him trying to hide his disappointment, but then he put out a gloved hand and brushed her hair aside.

“You said there was nothing of value in the coach. You lied,” he said hoarsely.

Amy gave a little cry as, suddenly, he hauled himself into the carriage and stood over her. She shrank away on the seat, her own gaze fixed irresistibly on the bulge that strained his breeches. Heady excitement rioted through her at the thought that he would take her right there and then, and she inched further back along the padded bench to give him space.

“Take your neckerchief off,” she begged breathlessly.

His eyes narrowed above the black satin. “Then you’ll know who I am.”

“Would that concern you so greatly? I know of no other highwayman that rides a white horse.”

“I suppose I could blindfold you…” he said musingly.

Amy felt a spear of lust go through her at the idea, but she gasped out, “No! I want to see you – see what you do to me -”

Again, his eyebrows raised. “You want to watch me ravishing you? You won’t close your eyes and think of England when I defile you?”

His words were exciting, the tone in which he said them as caressing-warm as firelight. She moaned in response, gazing up at him eagerly; her breasts rising and falling rapidly as she panted for breath.

He lifted his free hand and dragged down the neckerchief, revealing his face every bit as flushed and aroused as hers. His lips were slicked by his tongue as he stared greedily at her breasts; and then it seemed as if looking was no longer enough for him.

He crouched down and knelt beside the seat where she lay, transferring the gun from his right to his left hand so he could grasp her around the waist, holding her in place. Amy could still feel the gun against her side, but then she forgot everything when he bent his head and took a nipple in his mouth.

She cried out in pleasure as he suckled at her, his hand sliding up her waist to circle and pinch at her other nipple until he trailed kisses across her cleavage to lick and suck at her again. His fingers were encased in black leather, the feel of it alien and yet powerfully arousing against her breast, and she moaned at the sensation of the warmth of the leather pulling at her nipple as he worked at it, rolling and distending it so he could soothe it with his mouth. The air was chill against her wet skin and she instinctively pushed closer to him, cradling his head to her breast. Her fingers tangled in his hair, raising the scent of autumn and sea-mists and gunpowder; then she pulled him higher until their mouths met, demanding, consuming, in a kiss.

He pressed against her skirts, and she could feel how hard he was. Her hips danced, rocking back and forth as she waited for his weight upon her, for his cock to penetrate her; but suddenly he pulled away, sitting back on the floor and pointing the gun at her again. Amy began to sit up, but he made a swift gesture and she stopped.

“Take off your knickers,” he ordered, his chest heaving as he watched her wriggle and squirm on the seat to do as he’d bid. She managed to sit up as she eased the silken camiknickers from beneath her skirts, and then she gasped as he seized the scrap of fabric and held them to his lips for a moment.

“You’re wet for me,” he growled, rubbing his fingers over the knickers caressingly before he let them drop to the floor. “I want to see you. Lift your skirts – slowly…”

Amy leaned forwards, her breath catching as her breasts swung and rubbed at the lace again. She bit her lip as she began to raise the violet silk and the layers of net up over her legs, revealing her ankles and then her calves.

He watched entranced, unbuttoning his breeches with his free hand and releasing his cock until it sprang hard and ready against his belly. He began to stroke himself slowly, gripping his shaft in his black-gloved fist while he watched her lift her skirts higher. Up around her knees now; and he leaned forwards, eyes narrowed in concentration as the hem trailed up and over the white silk stockings. He gasped when the skirts lifted above her stocking-tops, presenting him with the sight of her bare thighs above the silken material; and he knelt avidly as she bunched the skirts around her waist.

“Open your legs,” he breathed, setting aside the gun and reaching for her knees, ready to force them apart if she wasn’t quick enough to do as he ordered.

She lay there before him, completely exposed. His gaze was riveted between her thighs, where the tender flesh shone wet and ready for him, framed so prettily by the pure white of the stocking-tops and the dark curls above her sex. He groaned, unable to help himself, and so folded himself between her legs to feast upon her.

Amy writhed beneath the lash of his tongue, thrusting her hips up to grind against his face even as he put pressure of her thighs and held her down. She wailed with frustration as he dipped lower to dart his tongue inside her, tasting her juices and moaning his delight. She tried to tug at his hair to guide him back where she wanted him, but he ignored her, exploring her sex with his lips and tongue, mouthing at her flesh until she was shaking with need.

She twisted beneath him, dimly remembering that before all this happened, she’d had a plan – and so she lifted an arm and, by arching her back and forcing herself closer to him, she managed to snag the pistol she kept hidden beneath the padding of the seat. Amy didn’t want to stop him, but it was necessary. She grasped at the gun, turning it in her hand and hearing the click as the safety flicked off.

He heard it, too. For a moment he froze; then he moved, trying to grab for his flintlock. She anticipated him, trapping his body between her thighs and pulling herself up to shove her gun hard beneath his jaw.