Chapter 1 - The Tale of the Handkiss Highwayman
As she watched her brother George snooze, Merrybelle Hales wished she had a grease pencil. His featured needed adjusting. What would he need? Heavy eyebrows, a curly mustache, maybe even cat whiskers. Yes. Perhaps then would George be able to attract the attention of a worthy young lady. Ink would be better--more permanent, but might spill.
The movement of the swaying carriage and the lazy afternoon had lulled both George and their father Sir Phillip to sleep, leaving her elder brother open to victimisation. Even their mother’s head bobbled about as Lady Hales fought the sandman. Only Merrybelle remained awake.
Two more hours until they returned to London. The carriage rumbled and bumped over the muddy roads. Some of the towns even had cobblestones, their nubbliness rattatatting against the iron-clad carriage wheels, the sound of civilisation. Oh, she was glad to be getting back. London meant the Season. The Season meant the Marriage Mart. London also meant Lord Alexander.
Her hand closed over the locket at her throat, her beautiful silver locket which Merrybelle had spent years imbuing with magic. Other young ladies had their various charms--brooches, bracelets, even hairpins--which they infused with attraction charms or beautification charms, anything that would catch the eye of an eligible bachelor. Every young lady came to Town with one goal in mind: a good marriage. What else was there?
What else could there be? They hoped for marriage not because their hearts necessarily yearned for love, but because the alternatives were not so pleasant. Governess? Merrybelle shuddered. Too many tales of that woeful life had reached her ears.
Poor relation, whose life was spent roaming from house to house, the perpetual "guest", never really wanted, but who couldn't really be turned away? Maiden aunt, loving and adoring children who were not her own?
Of all the alternatives, marriage was the best choice. Not every young lady was romantically inclined. They could marry for position or money (preferably both) and live a contented life.
Merrybelle wanted more.
Her parents had expectations for her this Season. They had their eyes on a most eligible suitor, her childhood friend Lord Alexander Rochester, Viscount Beckenham and heir to the Earl of Bromley. A longstanding agreement between the two families hinted greatly at a marriage between Alexander and one of the Hales daughters. Alas, the two elder sisters had not "taken" with Alexander. Perhaps they, being closer to his age, still considered him the boy with whom they had spent summers.
Merrybelle had every intention of marrying Lord Alexander, he whom she had loved since childhood. If only luck had nothing to do with it. Unlike other young ladies, who'd spread their magic out over several items, Merrybelle had spent the last several years imbuing only the one locket. To strengthen her chances shed stolen several blond hairs from Lord Alexander's head, storing them within the locket and focusing its magic hopefully.
She rubbed a thumb over the locket's finely tooled surface. Was it her imagination, or did it warm every time he entered the room? She liked to think so. In fact, it felt quite warm right now.
The carriage slowed to a stop. The crack of a gun startled everyone awake.
"Stand and deliver!" someone cried outside.
George, still groggy from his nap, said, "What the--?" He fumbled for the carriage door. Before he could do the deed, someone else opened it from outside. The muzzle of a pistol was thrust in, pointed directly at George's nose.
A man in a black cloak and hat with a black kerchief across his face threatened them. "Out."
Poor George, still affected by sleep, fell over his feet as he descended. "I say," he started, his ire rising. A pistol waved in his face shut him up. The fists he'd raised to put up a fight opened and his hands lifted above his head, as were his father's. One does not argue with a firearm. Could this really be happening?
Where was the footman? Didn't he have a pistol of his own? One never expected to use them, but one always travelled armed. And what about the driver? As Merrybelle exited the carriage, pulling her shawl close about her shoulders, she saw him up on his seat, his hands raised. The horses stood still, for another black-cloaked highwayman of slight build held the bridle of the lead horse by one hand. His other hand had a pistol pointed at the driver. It didn't look too steady in his hands, but at that range, the driver did not wish to chance the highwayman's accuracy.
As for the footman, Merrybelle spied him on the ground, hidden by a wheel. He clutched at his shoulder and groaned. "Oh my goodness," she cried and moved towards him. His pistol lay on the ground. She couldn't tell if it had been fired or not.
"Get back," the bigger highwayman shouted.
Merrybelle whimpered. Had the highwayman shot him? She couldn't see any blood. The highwayman had two pistols, plus a third tucked into a waistband. Still, there were only two of them. George, who excelled at the pugilistic arts, should have been able to take him on, pistols or no, and win.
What was wrong with George?
He leaned against his father. Indeed, both of them did not look well, clinging to each other for support. Surely they weren't so terrified they couldn't... No. Something else had happened.
The highwayman threw a rucksack at them. "Gi'me your dosh."
The rucksack hit George. He tried to catch it before it fell. He snatched at it, missed and tumbled to the ground after it. Sack in hand, he rose unsteadily to his feet. When the muzzle of a pistol waved in his face, he reluctantly gave up his valuables--his second-best watch and sixpence.
Her father, likewise, carried very little. No watch or jewellery to speak of, and only a shilling in his pockets. Lady Hales had but her reticule of smelling salts, a handkerchief and a small bottle of scent. This went into the rucksack.
"I want yer shawls as well."
Mrs Hales slid off her shawl and place it in the sack with a steely gaze at the highwayman. Merrybelle's shuddered off her shoulders and she put it in the sack.
As the larger of the two black-cloaked, bemasked figures stared into his woefully empty rucksack, his gaze settled on Merrybelle. Oh, such a wicked gleam in his familiar blue eyes as they met with hers. Her heart thumped hard. What more could she possibly give him? She took a backwards step into the protection of her mother.
The highwayman lowered his gaze. Her bosom felt as exposed as the bar matron's back at the inn. She couldn't help but cross her arms over her chest. She closed her eyes tight so she wouldn't have to look at the highwayman again.
"That!" he demanded. "Give me that!"
"No!" cried her mother, gripping Merrybelle's arms tightly. "You can't have her."
"Give me the damn necklace!"
Merrybelle's eyes flew open. "You want what?"
The highwayman didn't bother with words. He reached out with a gloved fist and grabbed the silver locket around Merrybelle's throat. He gave a yank, but the chain did not break. Merrybelle cried out as it dug into her neck.
"I say!" George declared. He advanced, but a pistol shoved in his face changed his mind. Sir Phillip put a hand on his son's arm.
"Dammit!" The highwayman yanked on it again, but it wouldn't give. Of course it wouldn't. Merrybelle had spent several months spelling the chain so it wouldn't break. She had worked so hard on imbuing that locket with the most powerful magic she knew, that she didn't want to risk losing it.
Shame that tonight it had drawn entirely the wrong man. And it looked that she was to lose the charm anyhow. That chain dug so hard into her skin she feared he might pop off her head like a dandelion.
Caught up in a tug of war between the highwayman and her mother, Merrybelle called out, "Please sir! I will give it to you. Just leave me alone!"
The man released her locket and her mother stumbled back with her.
Fearing another attack, Merrybelle raised her hands to the clasp of the necklace--her fingers brushed against raw skin--and removed the locket. She flung it at him. "Take it and be gone!"
He caught it with deft fingers. He lif
ted it up by the chain and let it twirl before his eyes.
The locket mesmerised the highwayman. If their situation had not been so dire, she would have felt satisfaction at seeing him so drawn to it. He lowered it, but then brought it back up. Eventually he forced his hand down. He hesitated a moment, wrapping the chain about his fist.
He drew the locket up once more, to press against his lips.
His anger drained away. He moved forward. In a swift movement, he grabbed Merrybelle's hand. The chain, still wrapped around his hand, pressed into her skin. In an uncharacteristic token of gentlemanliness, he placed a gentle and lingering kiss on the back of her bare hand. He looked up at her. His eyes looked hungry.
Those eyes! She had seen them before. But where? The cold air chilled Merrybelle's ungloved hands.
When that man had laid that kiss upon her hand, it tingled until she thought she'd lose control over her own fingers. Even after he released her hand, the electric shock spread up her arm, making her shudder. It was as if his touch had embedded itself into her skin, never to be washed off. Even flaying would not remove such an unpleasant touch.
Suddenly her parents fell away, the coach disappeared and even the trees receded. It was just Merrybelle and the Highwayman. Her whole body felt like it had dropped into an icy ocean.
The sound of an approaching carriage broke the spell. The highwayman released her hand, shouted at his partner in crime, and together they melted into the trees.
Her loss consumed her. Merrybelle sank to the muddy ground.
Her locket was gone. How would she ever attract Lord Alexander now?
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