Page 37 of The Highwayman's Bite

“I don’t know.” Vivian set her bowl aside. “But I would like to find out.”

Madame Renarde followed her to the oak door sealing the tunnel. To their amazement, Rhys had forgotten to lock the door behind him. Just as Vivian was about to open it, they froze as they heard voices. Vivian crouched and pressed her ear to the door and Madame Renarde followed suit above her.

“What do you mean, we cannot take shelter here for the day?” an unfamiliar male voice said, sounding peeved. “You’ve always welcomed us before.”

“I’m sorry.” Rhys sounded sincere. “But I’m currently involved in an extremely dangerous situation. If I let you inside, you could be at risk.”

Another voice spoke, this one female. “We’ve been running from Warrington’s people all night and we’re exhausted. We’ll be discreet about whatever new trouble you’ve gotten yourself wrapped up in. We always are.”

“I know that, Lucy.” Envy roiled in Vivian’s belly at Rhys’s affectionate tone. “But trust me when I say that my latest venture puts all my past escapades in the shade.”

The other man spoke up. “I think he’s right, Lucy. Can you smell that chowder? And other things? It seems he already has company. The kind we do not involve ourselves with.”

Vivian glanced up at Madame Renarde and whispered, “Should we open the door and call for help?”

“Non.” Madame Renarde shook her head. “These sound like outlaws just like him. There’s no telling what they’d do to us.”

She was likely right. Especially with the nature of the conversation and the fact that these people had taken shelter with Rhys before. Who were they running from in Warrington. Were they highwaymen too? Was there perhaps some sort of highwayman’s guild? Vivian had heard of flash houses in London where pick-pockets formed such an alliance, but she’d always thought that highwaymen acted alone.

With a sigh, she pressed her ear back to the door. She missed Lucy’s response to her companion’s statement that they should move on, but she must have acquiesced, for Rhys was now offering suggestions.

“You’ve already overcome your biggest danger. Warrington is a long way from here and his people don’t stray far from their bounds. There’s another cave about five miles north of here, but you’ll have to go in deep to avoid the tide. And there’s sustenance to be had at a monastery, twelve miles east of there. If you hurry, you can catch the monks when they rise for Matins.”

“Catholics!” the male echoed. “I didn’t know any of them were around here these days.”

“Oh, Andrew,” Lucy said, “Are you afraid we’ll catch their heresy? We’re not good Anglicans anymore. Besides, those papists seem to be as fond of blood as we are.”

Vivian gasped. Fond of blood? No, she most definitely did not want to open this door and meet these people. Just because she liked fencing did not mean she approved of violence.

Rhys chuckled at the macabre remark. “They were too poor for old Henry to bother with when he dissolved most of the other monasteries. And their isolation has kept them safe for centuries.”

“Thank you for the direction,” Andrew said. “North it is. Perhaps our paths will cross again, if you survive this latest escapade.”

Their voices faded and Vivian and Madame Renarde moved back to the fire and returned their attention to their stew. By silent agreement, they pretended to have heard nothing when Rhys returned.

Still, he gave them a knowing look, but didn’t say anything.

After they finished their late supper, Rhys took a cauldron and fetched water for Vivian’s bath. His stew was barely touched. As she frowned at the strangeness of his mouse-like appetite, she also marveled at the ease in which he was able to carry the heavy vessel of water. His wound didn’t appear to plague him at all.

He went back outside as she bathed, and when he returned, his hair was plastered to his head with water and the air vent in the cave howled like a banshee.

“The storm has come,” he said just as thunder rumbled like a dragon’s roar. “It’s quite a fearsome squall, but we should be safe and snug in here.

They listened to the storm rage while Madame Renarde brushed Vivian’s hair and Rhys smoked the remaining clams and cockles they’d gathered. Then, to Vivian’s disbelief, he went back out in the storm.

Vivian wanted to wait up for him, but Madame Renarde declared that they should go to bed. She reluctantly complied and only because her companion looked haggard and exhausted. Vivian worried that Madame Renarde was falling ill, with all the coughing and sneezing she’d been doing for the past few nights. Tonight seemed worse. Hopefully some rest would have her well again.

As Vivian lay in her bunk, trying to sleep, she pondered the mystery that was Rhys. What sorts of outlaws called him friend? How had he been aware of their approach so soon? He’d seemed to smell them, but surely he wouldn’t be able to do such a thing. His friends mentioned smelling the chowder as well. Vivian hadn’t thought the stew was so pungent.

And then there was his small appetite. How could a man remain so strong while eating so little? And was his wound plaguing him at all? She hadn’t seen him so much as flinch since the night he’d dug out the bullet.

When Rhys returned, she had her answer. She watched his silhouette move past the privacy screen and to the bathing tub she’d used earlier. She could see the tub if she craned her neck toward the head of her bunk.

At first, she thought Rhys was simply taking the tub out to dump the water, but to her astonishment, he began to undress. He pried off his boots, then shrugged out of his sodden coat. Her lips parted as he peeled off his sodden shirt. The muscles in his back seemed to ripple in the firelight. Heat flared in her face as his trousers came off next, revealing a backside that looked carved from marble.

Her admiration at his stunning physique halted as he turned just enough so she could see his muscular forearm. She gasped. His wound was gone. There wasn’t even a scar, just smooth male skin.

Rhys turned his head at her gasp and raised a brow in rebuke for her watching him. Her face flamed as she ducked down in her bunk and pulled the covers over her head.

Yet sleep didn’t come for hours. Not with the sound of water splashing as he bathed, naked less than three yards away from her. And not with what she’d seen of his body, and his arm.

How could he be healed? That should be impossible!

Vivian’s lips curved in a rueful smile. How many times had a similar thought crossed her mind? Rhys and the impossible seemed to be old chums.

---