Page 31 of The Highwayman's Bite

For the rest of the ride, Rhys taught her countless new words for various parts of human anatomy, making her blush deepen with each one.

By the time they returned to the cliffside and tied up the horses, Vivian realized she’d been too engaged in the lessons to take note of her surroundings. Perhaps that was his intent all along.

Yet Rhys didn’t possess the smug look of a man who’d outwitted a helpless woman. Instead, his eyes glittered with boyish humor. “Go on, say it.”

Vivian was overcome with helpless giggles. “I can’t.”

“Of course, you can. Imagine you’re saying it to one of those stuff-shirt nobs who seem to think the world should lick their boots.” Rhys dismounted from his horse and tied it to the tree before helping Vivian down.

Vivian remembered Lord Summerly’s lecherous stare and the feel of his fat fingers pinching her bodice. Because she’d dared to challenge him and defend her honor, she was ruined, while he was free to corner other innocent young women and compromise them. That old fury boiled in her heart as she snarled, “Go fuck yourself in the arse with your own pizzle.”

“Very good.” Rhys beamed at her with pride. “We’ll make a sailor out of you yet.”

When they returned to the cave, Madame Renarde cast Vivian an anxious look that was easily read. Did Rhys try to force himself on her? Vivian answered with a minute shake of her head and raised her arms slightly to demonstrate that she was still in one piece.

Rhys addressed Madame Renarde. “Would you care to ride for a spell?”

The companion nodded primly and turned to Vivian. “I found a shelf of books and magazines and newspapers over in that part of the cave.” She pointed.

Vivian’s heart lifted. Until now she hadn’t realized how much she’d dreaded being cooped up in the cave with nothing to do. Reading a good story would transport her from the prison. Then she grasped the significance of something Madame Renarde had said. Newspapers. That meant that she may be able to discern where they were.

The scheme quickly came to nothing, as she realized that the papers were from various places that were too far from each other to indicate a locale, along with others she’d never heard of. Where in heaven’s name was Much Hoole?

Reading through the paper didn’t give any clues, aside from the fact that Much Hoole was a small village and likely isolated from any large towns. Most of the news consisted of dull topics such as the weather and state of local farmers’ crops, but she found a serial story that was quite eccentric and entertaining.

The main character was a chipper constable trying to solve a murder in a secluded village called “Two Hills.” Constable Cooper Daleson took his tea “black as a smugglers moon” and stopped into Norman’s Inn for a cherry tart every morning. The denizens of the Two Hills were equally queer. An old woman who carried a tree limb everywhere and claimed it spoke to her, and another woman who constantly disguised herself and made mischief quickly became Vivian’s favorites.

By the time Rhys and Madame Renarde returned, she’d found every issue of the Much-Hoole papers and sorted them in order so she could read the story from the beginning.

“Ah,” Rhys said. “You’ve found the ‘Two Hills’ serial. I am still flummoxed as to where the tale is going, but I cannot stop reading it.”

Vivian nodded. “It’s utterly bizarre, yet completely fascinating.”

Madame Renarde covered a cough with her handkerchief. “Although I am intrigued, perhaps we should have something to eat.”

Rhys obliged them with cheese bread and fruit. “I have some errands to complete. I apologize, but I must leave you locked inside.” He took the envelope containing the lock of Vivian’s hair and his reply to her uncle and left the cave.

The moment he departed, Madame Renarde blew her nose and fixed Vivian with a probing stare. “He didn’t do anything inappropriate while you were alone with him, did he?”

Vivian shook her head. “The only time he touched me was to help me on and off the horse.”

“He helped me as well,” Madame Renarde said. “Very gentlemanly of him. Also, he’s incredibly strong. I am not a slender woman, yet he didn’t even strain.”

At first Vivian was only surprised that Rhys had assisted Madame Renarde. At both her father’s townhouse and her uncle’s estate, the footmen usually hesitated to offer her assistance in mounting a horse or even a hand to a carriage, and Madame Renarde simply ignored their reluctance and went without. Such was common for ladies’ maids and companions who were on the stout side, and Madame Renarde had the double inconvenience of being...different. Though her secret remained intact, Vivian wondered if they could sense that Madame Renarde was not an average woman. For Rhys to know and be so gallant was unbearably touching.

Then Vivian’s musing ceased as she thought of another implication within her companion’s statement. “He is indeed strong. Did you see that he doesn’t have his own horse?”

Madame Renarde nodded. “I’d wondered how he was able to rob carriages and get away without one. And how he took those trunks.” She muttered something in French too low for Vivian to hear and then suppressed another cough with her handkerchief. “Perhaps he steals the horses from all of the people he robs and just releases them when they’ve served their purpose.”

“That must be the explanation,” Vivian said, and rose from her cot to fill the tea kettle with one of the jugs of water Rhys kept. Nothing else would make any sense. Yes, she did picture the highwayman running with heavy trunks on his shoulders as easily as if they were loaves of bread, but that had to be because she was going mad from being imprisoned by an outlaw. A handsome, charming outlaw, but a criminal all the same. Just because they were his prisoners and under his control did not mean she needed to give him more power in her imagination. “Do you suppose we should look for a way to escape while he is gone?”

Madame Renarde shook her head. “I’ve already looked. The cave has no other exit and the door is impenetrable. He has this cave sealed better than some prisons I’ve seen.”

At any other time, Vivian would have asked her to elaborate on said prisons, but current circumstances captivated her attention. She set the kettle on the grate above the fire. “Then where does that occasional breeze come from?”

“I’ll show you.” Madame Renarde took one of the lanterns and led her to the back of the cave. She then turned a corner into a space Vivian hadn’t noticed when she’d been in this section looking at newspapers.

“My goodness,” Vivian breathed as they walked into a narrow shaft. Unlike the slate gray rock of what she’d been referring to as the “living area,” this part of the cave was infused with veins of quartz and some other glittering crystal. Long pointed columns of rock hung from the ceiling like deadly icicles. Despite the danger, the sight was beautiful.

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