Read Online The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter by Mary Ellen Dennis - Free Book Online Page A

disbelieved. Dorothea, however, had set her sights on Lord Stafford, and Elizabeth’s lack of virginity might be considered an impediment.
    Lord Stafford reminded Elizabeth of her father, except Walter Stafford accrued possessions while Lawrence Wyndham accrued debts. Elizabeth knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that if Walter meant his marriage proposals, and if she accepted, she would be nothing more than a Lord Stafford possession. She also suspected that her frequent refusals merely fueled Walter’s desire to possess her.
    â€œâ€™Tis dreadful dark outside,” Grace said. “Blacker than a night should be. I wish the coachman’d stop and light the lanterns. I hope the fog don’t get worse. I hate fog. I could tell ye tales of men ridin’ out upon the Dales, ne’er to be found again.”
    â€œPlease don’t.” Pressing her shoulders against the coach cushion, Elizabeth attempted a stretch.
    Grace searched inside her traveling bag for yet another handkerchief, knocking over Elizabeth’s parasol in the process. “If a highwayman had a mind to mischief, this would be the night he’d pick. I wish the White Hart was closer. I wish it wasn’t so lonely ’round here.”
    â€œHow many times do I have to tell you? There are no highwaymen, and that’s the end of it.” Hoping to avoid any further complaints, Elizabeth peered through her window again.
    The bobble-wheeled coach had begun the final leg of the route. Large portions of the highway, snaking its way through the increasingly bleak Yorkshire countryside, remained hidden by the restive fog. A quarter moon struggled against a bank of clouds, then vanished, leaving only a feeble glow, like the halo ’round the head of a saint.
    Only we don’t believe in saints anymore, Elizabeth thought, settling back against her seat. At least not the papist kind.
    Ralf Darkstarre and Lady Guinevere would have believed in saints. Simon de Montfort and Ranulf Navarre would have believed in saints.
    Elizabeth shivered. Ranulf the Black. What manner of man had he been? And from where did she know him?
    The coach eased to a stop, and the long stretch of silence soothed her ragged nerves. “The coachman has dismounted from his perch,” she said, pulling back the curtain. “He’s lighting the lamps, helped by the guard. So you can rest assured—”
    â€œThey’re takin’ an unseemly long time. And they’d best not be enjoyin’ a nip along with their business. Drunken drivers are a menace. They’ll be unable to handle the horses, and the beasts’ll be spooked by the weather, run away, and we’ll crash over the side of the hill somewhere, and we’ll all be killed. ’Tis what ye deserve for thinkin’ to travel, Mistress.”
    â€œDo be quiet, Grace.” The voices of the coachman and guard had grown louder, as if they were quarreling. Lowering the window, Elizabeth poked her head out. “What’s going on here?”
    The fog glided in front of the horses like a ghost upon a stairway. The coachman’s and guard’s arms were raised. Elizabeth saw an enormous man on horseback pointing a pistol at them.
    She sank back onto her seat. “Damn it to hell!”
    Grace covered her ears with her hands. “Mistress! Not even a stablehand uses such words.”
    â€œWhat do you expect me to say? We’re being robbed.”
    â€œRobbed? Mercy! I told ye highwaymen might butcher us.”
    â€œHush.” Cautiously, Elizabeth peeked through the window again. As if summoned by Grace’s words, the highwayman approached. He was unusually tall and quite bulky. Obviously, this giant of a brigand had not taken to crime because he was in danger of starving.
    â€œStand and deliver!” he boomed. His voice was distorted, most likely from a pebble in his mouth.
    â€œLord in heaven,” Grace wailed. “What’ll we