Hauntings
And Other Tales of Danger, Love, and Sometimes Loss

Chapter One

Tryst

To bind her breasts she needed no candlelight but deftly, in the dark, wound strips of torn sheet tight against the rounds of flesh. Her shirt lay flat then, and the jacket after it. She tightened a leather belt to keep the breeches from slipping down her hips and last tucked a pistol into the belt, a knife down the side of her boot, and her long black braid under a three-cornered hat. She crept down the back stairs, unlocked the door, and saddled the mare while her master and mistress snored in tandem. The hour was late.

The hour was late. He and his old horse were tired, but coveting the ale and oats of home, they hurried on. He had been well warned not to ride overnight, but a young man thought nothing of danger. He had, after all, been alive his whole life and couldn't imagine the world otherwise. If he was aware of anything besides hunger and wind in his face, it was the desperate need for a kiss.

A kiss could be the culprit of his delay. She imagined him now in the city taverns, night after night, week after week, month after month, staying for kisses from one or another of the loose (or, worse, not loose) women on the lookout for a young man of his bearing. Although he had pledged his love and she had given him a gold ring to seal it, who knew what a ring meant these days? She'd stolen the ring on her first raid (and told him it was her mother's), but its value was certain. She was good at getting gold.

Getting gold was growing on his mind. What could he offer her? He was poor, but his search for work had failed. He seemed to have talent for nothing, and certainly no schooling. His slim build boded well for love but ill for heavy labor.

Heavy labor was not to her liking. She shunned the servant jobs in the manor. To hell with their highborn ways. Still, a lass must eat—and satisfy herself in other things—so this job suited her well. May her dead parents forgive her and her foster folk never guess the truth.

The truth shook him like a terrier with a rat.

She would hate him for his defeat. Even as he hurtled toward her, he could hear the scorn in her voice. He could hear something else as well, the sound of other hoofbeats.

The sound of other hoofbeats brought her to a halt. So soon a victim comes? She wheeled her horse behind some trees that shaded the plain by day and shadowed it by night. Yes, someone was coming. May he be rich and easily disarmed. She pulled a black mask over her black eyes, waiting.

Waiting was out of the question. He had promised her marriage and freedom from orphaned bondage. But how can a poor young man support a wife, especially one with expensive tastes like hers? Ah, but the taste of her. He must somehow stand and deliver.

Stand and deliver, she shouted in the deep voice she had practiced so often and well. Her horse blocked his own, which whinnied and turned aside, its flanks steaming. Only then did she know him, but never paused. She held the pistol steady toward his heart and called, Your money or your life.

Your money or your life, indeed, he laughed. I can offer you neither, for money have I none and my life is worth nothing without it.

Without it you shall be, she declared, unless you hand over the gold I see glinting on your finger. Her own black-gloved hand absorbed the moonlight. Only the pistol gleamed. Yet he seemed fearless and even fairer than she remembered. Anger over his long absence drove her. Coldly she demanded again, The ring.

The ring, he answered, is not mine to give. It is a gift of trust from someone dear. Kill me if you will, but when you take this ring from my dead hand, my ghost will hunt you down. So take it at your peril.

Peril is of little concern to me, sir, but your words reveal a loyal heart. Perhaps your life is worth something after all. What can you offer in lieu of the ring? She waved the pistol once more and saw him reach for the pocket watch.

The pocket watch fit smooth in his hand. He'd been tempted to pawn it but never succumbed. Now he threw it and could not help but marvel at the thief's neat catch of it midair.

Midair she dropped the reins and snatched the watch in its fall. Both hands were full, one with a weapon and the other with her haul. She held to the horse with tightened knees and turned it with a nudge of spur. Beware of following me, she growled, and dropped the watch in her greatcoat pocket. You're lucky your nag is too slow to steal. Then she disappeared into the dark. She must head away and double back to sneak her own horse into the barn and herself into bed. The foster folks' farm was lonely, and no one would see her from the village.

The village was quiet when finally he made his way there. At the innkeeper's stable he tended the horse and lay down in the stall beside it. A tavern boy he had been and a tavern boy he'd always be. As surely as the sun rose now and every day, the innkeeper would enslave him for the loan he could not repay. And his father's watch gone, now, to a highwayman. So much for venturing forth.

Venturing forth to rob made her late to rise, but the children soon pummeled her awake. Lazy creature, they screamed, our mother needs you, get up, get up. Like lice they squirmed over her. It would be evening before she could leave again, this time forever. She had only been waiting his return.

Hauntings
And Other Tales of Danger, Love, and Sometimes Loss. Copyright © by Betsy Hearne. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold.

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Excerpted from Hauntings: And Other Tales of Danger, Love, and Sometimes Loss by Betsy Hearne
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