The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter by Mary Ellen Dennis Page A

to life, or she could change her destiny with the utterance of a spell, or she could—
    A pistol cracked.
    Elizabeth reined in Rhiannon and looked around. It was impossible to determine direction or distance. She heard a shout, seemingly cut off in mid-cry. Then she heard hoofbeats, cutting across the fields, racing toward her. She saw the swirl of a black cloak, the blur of a dark horse, and she felt the earth shake beneath her as the horse and rider thundered past.
    Could that have been John plying his trade? But he and his partner always worked together.
    â€œJohn!” Elizabeth called.
    Her only answer was silence.

Eight
    Elizabeth awakened from a fitful sleep. The wind rattled her shutters. She rolled over on her side. The shutters rattled again, as if someone shook them. She sat up.
    The night had carried fog, but no wind.
    Crossing to the window, she raised the sash, swung open the shutters, and leaned out. Her long, unbound hair tumbled over the window’s ledge.
    John sat astride his black stallion, bathed by the moonlight. “I thought you’d never awaken,” he said. “I nearly broke my whip beating on your shutters.”
    â€œHow did you know which room was mine?”
    â€œI know everything about you, my bonny Bess.”
    He looked so pleased with himself, she could not help but return his impish grin. “I’ve looked everywhere for you,” she confessed, propping her elbows on the window’s ledge. “Nobody would tell me anything.”
    â€œThat’s why highwaymen always have limited funds. Bribery is expensive.”
    â€œI’ve heard you do more than bribe. I’ve heard you help those in need.”
    â€œâ€™Tis merely a drop in the bucket.” John removed his hat, shook the moisture from its brim, then rested it on his saddle horn. “Despite your low opinion of your justice of the peace, he’s made life difficult for my partner and me, and I have a feeling that things are about to get much worse. ’Tis time we moved along.”
    â€œBut Walter Stafford is a cork-head. He cannot find his snuffbox, let alone a criminal.”
    â€œYou underestimate him, Bess. I think you’re soon going to learn that there is more to Stafford than he generally presents to the world.”
    She felt her skin prickle. “What have you done now? Have you been up to more mischief?”
    Ignoring her questions, he retrieved a coin purse from beneath his cloak, then tossed it to her. “I am honoring my promise, Bess. Since you work so hard for your money, I didn’t think it fair to keep it forever.”
    Elizabeth estimated the purse’s weight. “This is far too heavy for pound notes.”
    John shrugged. “In my business, I have to improvise.”
    She studied him, his dark hair sweeping untidily across his forehead, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Who are you? An ordinary man who’s fallen into lawlessness, an altruistic outlaw, or someone “at war with society”?
    According to chapbooks, highwaymen were brought into the trade because of gambling debts or a disinheritance or some other acceptably genteel reason. Why had John become one?
    â€œDo you think to repay me with your ill-gotten funds, John Randolph? Was it you I heard earlier tonight? Were you out in the fog, waylaying coach passengers?”
    â€œWhat were you doing out in the fog?”
    â€œCelebrating,” she fibbed, even though she had a feeling he might understand her restlessness. “I’ve just finished the last installment of Castles of Doom. ”
    â€œHow does it end?”
    â€œYou must purchase a copy to find out.”
    â€œI’m serious, Bess. How does it end?”
    â€œHappily ever after.”
    â€œRalf Darkstarre… does he die?”
    â€œNo,” she replied uncomfortably, remembering the Alcester Chronicles. She also recalled the curator’s comment about a man who limped. “John,