Chapter 2 and Title Reveal of my New Book

Happy October, everyone!

I’m back with Chapter 2 of my new book, as well as a title reveal. Are you ready for it? I think it’s pretty fitting for this time of year.

YES!!! It’s a new twist on the classic Highwayman legend, and I absolutely cannot wait to bring it to you in its full glory! I’ll be announcing more news as it happens, so stay tuned to the blog, and follow my newsletter (You can sign up at www.nicoleclarkston.com) for more updates, sneak previews, and early copies when all that becomes available. For now, let’s get to know our heroine, right?

Oh, and if she reminds you a teensy bit of someone else we all know and love… that’s probably a coincidence.

You can go back and read Chapter 1 Here.

Bess and the Highwayman

Chapter 2

Bittern Hollow Inn
Seven Miles from Buckland

“Another ale for the table in the back!”

Bess Reynolds balanced the tray she had been filling with glasses and set it up on her shoulder. “I’m a-coming, Papa,” she called. The man who had hired the private parlor had been a rather well-paying customer this evening, and she had discovered quickly enough to just keep her tray full.

And to stay out of reach.

He was the typical London sort; a merchant from the queues with more money than class, either on holiday in the rural districts or on his way to Brighton. A carefree, heavy-spending sort of man, the type who preferred a wench on each knee and another to fill his hands. But for now, his hands were probably still smarting from the last time he had tried to grab her.

She set down the pint and tried to whirl away before the sweating, red-faced man had even registered her presence. She was not fast enough. A tug at the knot of her apron dragged her backward until she was nearly sitting on the table.

“‘Ere’s a fine thing,” he slurred. “I pays well for me drinks and a bit o’ company. ‘Ow’s it I still ‘ave a cold place on me lap?”

Bess shot a caustic glance at the place he indicated, between the other girls. “It’s probably cold because it’s rotting away, you derelict.”

Mr. London, whatever his name was, roared with laughter. “I likes a lass wi’ a sharp tongue! Bring another round for me and me girls ‘ere!”

He released her without a struggle, but Bess did not return immediately. He was already well into his cups, and soon he would either start to sing to the whole room or fall into a drooling stupor on the table.

It was not as if she needed to invent other things to do, for the tavern was busier than usual. A group of travelers had struck up a card game, calling for plenty of spirits, and several men sat in a row at the bar, each alone with his thoughts and his drink. Some of them were regulars and would take their cares home with them in an hour or so, but others would be staying on until morning or the next mail coach. None of them were remarkable for anything other than the coins they slid to her.

“Ale!” called one of them. Bess dropped it promptly and pocketed his coin. He turned in sharp interest as she moved away. “You must be the one they talk about.” His eyes raked shamelessly over her, and he puckered his lips in a low whistle. Slowly, his hand reached into his purse and withdrew a five-pound note. He held it up with a suggestive grin as old as the world.

Bess arched her brows and smiled sweetly. “Oh, and aren’t you the generous fellow!”

“I would say I’m more discerning than generous,” he remarked. “A fellow can’t have a duchess for a pittance, can he?”

She set a hand on her hip and pretended to consider. “But what good is it to take the title of a duchess, who is paid only once for her favors?” She leaned low and whispered, “Mine come somewhat more dearly.”

His grin widened to a positive leer and he somehow found a second fiver to join the first. “How dearly?”

She slid a hand over his shoulder. “Ten pounds… a minute,” she whispered.

The man bellowed in laughter. “Ten pounds a minute, indeed!”

She nodded. “And your minute is up.” She plucked the notes from his hand and tucked them suggestively into her bodice as he stared gap-mouthed at her. “You are most kind, sir,” she said, backing away and blowing him a kiss.

“Here, now!” he began to protest. With convenient timing, another customer pushed between them, shoving the first man’s shoulder and squeezing himself in at the bench. Solemn gray eyes locked on Bess’s, and he held up a single finger.

She gave him the last ale on her tray, and he immediately bent over it, never looking up at her again. That suited her well enough because the other man was still sputtering helplessly about as if seeking remedy against her. It was time to disappear in the back.

For a moment, she paused to stretch her shoulders, roll her neck, and check her reflection in the darkened window. For pity’s sake, she looked all a-beazled! Stray bits of black hair clung to her brow, her cheeks were splotched and red, and her eyes were puffy from bending over the kettle. One would have thought it would keep the likes of Mr. London’s eyes and hands off her, but it never seemed to. If anything, the more harried she felt she looked, the more offers she received.

Papa never said a word, either about her appearance or the men she had to constantly rebuff. Mama would have chided her, though. “You won’t make tips if you don’t show the gents a bit of cheer, Bessie,” she would have said. But that was not true, was it? The ten pounds were a glorious boon, but they would join the pint of coins she was keeping under her bed, all of which had come from men who wanted more than ale from her.

No, she had no trouble making tips.

And Bess was weary of showing cheer. She was sick of having her rear slapped by jolly travelers, and disgusted by the leering stares that she was supposed to reward with a smile. But, what was she to do? She was the landlord’s daughter—a tavern wench, who lived by her wits and her looks. And the good Lord had blessed her with an ample quantity of both.

She brushed impatiently at her hair but decided she was happier in looking a little rumpled, and began to fill more glasses. Papa would be calling for them any moment.

***

“By gaw. Fleeced by the Duchess of Surrey.” The man beside Nick at the bar nursed his drink as though he might never have another one. His eyes never left the raven-haired barmaid as she sashayed away from them and out of sight.

“What, her?” Nick wrinkled his brow in confusion. “I think you have had one too many, my friend.”

The man chuckled and dragged again from his ale. “No, that’s her right name, leastwise that’s how the rumors all have it.”

Nick grunted and shook his head.

The other put his hand out in a friendly greeting. “Name’s Ostin. George Ostin. On my way to Brighton, like everyone else.”

Nick took his hand. “Robert Cumberland.”

“Pleased to know you.” Ostin chucked a thumb over his shoulder. “Friend of mine, Milson, was this way a month back. Said he’d seen an angel at this hell-hole. Fairest creature north of the Nile, he said, and twice as venomous.”

“The girl? She looks amiable enough,” Nick disagreed. “No doubt there are a score of fellows who could testify to her charms.”

Ostin shook his head. “Not that one. She’s a siren with a viper’s tongue behind those pretty red lips. Everyone says so. Must have a decent right hook, too. Had Milson eating out of her hand, poor devil, until he tried to take her back to his room. Next thing he knew, he was flat on the floor with a bleeding lip and five pounds poorer.”

Nick rolled his eyes and returned to his drink. He had bigger things on his mind than a coaching inn strumpet.

“Sounds like he didn’t offer enough,” he huffed dismissively.

“No, by gaw, he said a few lads helped him up, slapped him on the back, and bought him a drink. Turns out they’d been placing wagers on how much he’d lose before she put him down. They say none has tamed her yet.”

“And you thought with your ten pounds, you’d be the one to break her in,” Nick snorted. “Maid or no, she seems to have a tidy business on her hands.”

“Aye, word is she makes twice what the friendlier wenches do, just because she’s become something of a sight for the tourists. Everyone has to try his hand, they say. I suppose I should be put out over the ten pounds, but it was worth it. Upon my soul, she’s a rare one! Have you ever seen eyes like that? I wonder that she doesn’t take to Covent Garden.”

Nick bobbed his head idly, staring with unseeing eyes at the wall opposite them. “If you are in no hurry to reach Brighton, perhaps you might try again.”

“I’m out.” Ostin crossed his arms with a laugh. “The duchess claims another swain.”

“Duchess,” Nick scoffed into his mug. “A tavern wench. You’ve a fanciful turn of mind, my friend.”

Ostin grinned. “Perhaps not. They say she’s the natural daughter of a ‘somebody,’ and not the old landlord. You know how that goes.”

“I do.” Nick finished his drink and stood abruptly. “If you will excuse me, please.”

Ostin lifted a hand in bewildered farewell, then went back to staring at the door of the kitchens, waiting for his duchess to emerge again. Nick could not help a curl of his lip at the goose-brained fool. He’d get nothing useful out of this bloke. Best to step back to his room for a few minutes, then come back and try for a seat beside someone else. And hopefully, they would have more to talk about than the tavern wench’s extraordinary beauty.

***

“Bessie!” Papa pushed through the swinging door behind her. “We’ve another traveler to put up. Hattie’s gone off lud knows where, and you be the only lass what’s free. Go make up the lower room, for there be nowhere else to put him. And be quick about it! He’s a cantankerous sort.”

She sighed, and without a word, obeyed. A cantankerous sort, indeed. The newcomer was obvious enough, standing in the middle of the coffee room and looking as if he expected someone to come shake out his cape for him. He glanced over Bess once, as if she were of no account, then apparently changed his mind.

“Are you the housemaid? I’ll have an ale and a tray in my room, and be quick about it, gel. I’ve had a long ride with a drunken coachman.”

Bess applied a thin smile. “Won’t be a moment, sir.”

“A hot plate!” the man added as she hurried away. “None of this cold bilge you call stew. And do not skimp on the blankets! I expect that foul room is damp and drafty by night.”

Bess was nearly to the hall, but she spun back just long enough to grimace a proper, “Yes, sir.” Her feet had never stopped, however, and as she turned away, she slammed into a man just coming down the stairs. She fairly bounced off his chest, but he put his hands out at once to right her.

“Begging your pardon, sir!”

Those same cold gray eyes from the bar looked down at her from a height of over six feet. He was a striking fellow, but not in a conventional way. Bess had seen enough dandies to know at a glance that this man was not one of those, but he did not resemble a tradesman, either. Almost a gentleman… but not quite. His features were even and firm, the sort of face men never looked at twice, but women would never forget.

His hands dropped smartly off her shoulders and he nodded, one eye narrowing faintly. “Think nothing of it, miss.” He stepped away, never looking back at her, and went back to the bar.

Bess gazed after him for a moment, then shook herself and hurried to prepare the room. When she came back down, the impatient traveler was still standing stupidly about, fists on his hips. He threw one of them up when he saw her as if she had kept him waiting.

She refused to let him rile her. Offensive as he was, she had seen worse. “If you please, sir, I will show you back.” She took the lantern from the hook and held it for the gentleman. The Bittern Hollow was a smallish affair, compared to some of the better-established coaching inns on the busy London highways. Or, so she was told by the travelers. Daily, it seemed.

It was built in the usual style with a courtyard and archways, a public house and a stable yard, but the westerly side of the inn proper had been built into a slope. The main floor rooms at this end were the least popular because of their short ceilings and small windows. Too high for the servants and yet too low for the Quality, they were frequently empty.

At the end of the hall, she gestured to the door that would take him to his quarters for the night. With a look of distaste, he took the lantern from her and went his way, and Bess sighed in relief to be rid of him. “Don’t forget that plate,” were his final words.

As if she would forget. The surest way to avoid him was to keep him supplied with food and spirits in his room for the rest of the night. She was just starting toward the stairs again with his tray when he came back down and blocked her path.

“A fine thing, this!” he bellowed. “One old blanket and the sheets are damp. And I declare the window shutters are rusted shut.”

She flared up at once. “That blanket is warm enough unless a body is already half dead with old age, and I warrant the sheets are fresher than you have at whatever rubbish heap you call home.”

“Now, look here, you strumpet! I paid good coin for my room, and what do I get? A servant’s chamber and a mouthy housemaid! I’ll teach you your place, you—”

“Over-stuffed, pompous, oaf!” Bess stuck a finger toward his chest and prepared to give as good as she got. The dishes wobbled precariously on her tray as she advanced on him. “Foul room, indeed. I’ll have you know it was scrubbed top to bottom just last week. As for the shutter, I closed it myself only this morning after a good airing!”

The man’s face purpled. “Airing! Who needs to air it? I can feel the wind through the gap at the sash!”

Bess’s mouth opened for a retort, but her father shouldered his way into the conversation. “What seems to be the trouble, sir?”

“It ‘seems’ that this stupid wench has put me a ‘room’ not even fit for a rat to curl up in,” the traveler spat. “I’ll just take my custom elsewhere, I will, and you can bet I won’t be back to this hovel.”

“Now, sir, I am sure there has been a misunderstanding,” her father reasoned. “I will see to it—”

“Nay, I’ll have nothing more to do with this foul den,” the man said with a sniff. He raised his chin and cast an imperious gaze about, just as if he were waiting for his valet to attend him. Where he thought he would go this time of night, Bess could not say, and it looked as if he himself was not altogether certain. But, he did turn to go and drew up short when a man approached him from the bar.

It was that same man again, moving with a cat-like dignity. Bess’s eyes traveled slowly up from an unusually broad chest to the neatly queued dark hair and a two-day bristle shading his jaw. He favored her and her father with a slight inclination of his head then addressed the other.

“I could not help overhearing your trouble, sir. I’ve a comfortable room on the first floor with a four-poster bed and fine carpet. I would happily exchange with you.”

The dissatisfied gentleman looked immediately suspicious. “Eh? Why’s that?”

“I do not sleep,” the man answered simply. “Matters little to me if there is a draft or a poor bed. You may as well have your rest, and let this good innkeeper provide you the best of his hospitality.”

The newcomer pretended to consider, then after a moment conceded. “I suppose I might do worse than to stop here if you are willing. The roads are very wet tonight.”

“Indeed,” agreed the dark one, with a faint hint of mockery in his tone. “If you will grant me a moment, sir, I will remove my things.”

Bess heard it all in awe. Never, in all her memory, had one traveler offered to exchange rooms with another merely to appease the second person’s arrogance. And no one ever took the lower room by choice.

He dipped his head once more to her father, but Bess he scarcely acknowledged. She watched him go, and felt, to her dismay, that her hands were trembling. For the first time all night, there was a man whose attention she wouldn’t mind having, and he wouldn’t even look at her.

***

Ostin had been right about one thing, drunk as he was. The barmaid was one of the most exquisite creatures Nick had ever set eyes on.

He stayed at the tap for the rest of the evening, hoping to catch idle bits of tittle-tattle from the other travelers. The only thing he caught was glances at Ostin’s “Duchess of Surrey.” He doubted the real bearer of that title could have compared. Hair black as ebony, skin as fine as his mother’s porcelain, and the kind of eyes that inspired poets.

As if that were not enough to fix her in every admirer’s imagination, her lips were not the only part of her physique that could be described as “full.” Grecian her figure was not, and a man would have to be dead not to appreciate… all of it. Nick had to avert his eyes whenever she came near, just to keep from staring. The last thing he needed was to be accounted another victim of the “duchess.”

Eventually, he decided to remove himself entirely. The common room was quieting down for the evening, and it was becoming too difficult to sit near enough anyone to hear their words without drawing attention to himself. The fewer people who could remark on his face and voice, the better. He had made himself notable enough with that presumptuous offer to exchange rooms with the chump from London, but he had a sound reason for it.

He inspected his new quarters and arranged his few belongings with care. His shaving tackle laid neatly in its case beside his tooth powder and pomade on the washstand; his haversack standing proudly against the latter; his cloak and hat draped on a hook. The bed was low and hard, but serviceable if he had meant to spend any time in it. However, he would pass the greater part of the night in the upright chair. When he was in the room.

He had to duck his head through the door, and the room possessed the musty aroma of a chamber too little inhabited. It was easy to understand why the other traveler might have objected to this humble offering.

But the window made up for every other inconvenience.

He went to the casement and inspected the latch. Not rusted, as the other man had claimed, but stiff. With some trouble, he worked it open and found that it would be just possible for him to pass through it to the ground above. What luck! A ground-level window, with its exit on the side opposite the courtyard. Few seemed to use the hall but the innkeeper himself, and that would be seldom, so his presence could be overlooked more often than not. And if he could obtain a bit of oil, he could address the noise made by the hinge, and his comings and goings could be absolutely secret.

Lieutenant North would be in position by now. Nick pulled out his pocket watch and nodded as if he could verify the encampment with his own eyes. They would have chosen a dark bit of wood bordering the heath, banked their cooking fire, and settled quietly for the night with their horses staked nearby. Among them would be that black beast of Cumberland’s, enjoying a bait in her nosebag.

Odd, all these months, they had simply assumed the Scarlet Bandit had a stallion for his fleet-footed accomplice—a crafty, hard-bitten monster of an animal that, according to local lore, could vanish in a fog and reappear in a mist. Some accounts had it that the brute would emit an eerie whistle to terrorize coach horses and freeze them in their traces, while others claimed that the creature was the ghost of Dick Turpin in equine flesh.

Not that Nick had given any credence to the tales, but when, upon receiving his orders to take up the mantle of the highwayman himself, he tried to become friendly with the animal, she had shown him her heels in a decidedly mare-ish fashion. And it had gone downhill from there. Hopefully, he would be able to win her over before he had to trust her with his life.

Tomorrow evening, he would slip out and get word to his men. For now, however, there was nothing to do but to appear the unremarkable traveler.

And try to avoid that lass with the bright, curious eyes.

I hope that chapter was exciting for you! Hang on, because the story’s about to pick up steam. Ta for now!

Nicole