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"What is the meaning of this, Bertrand?" he asked, sliding the window open. To Isobel's shock a fist swung through the small hole, shattering the Duke of Thrushmore's nose in a precisely-placed, quick punch. The duke howled in pain, falling backwards from the force, scrambling along the carriage's floor. Isobel inched back along the bench, and with sudden force the door to the vehicle flew open. Blood streamed from the duke's broken nose, the flesh swelling, and he shouted garbled protests as a strong pair of arms reached into the cabin and tugged his shrunken, elderly body out into the rain. Isobel watched the duke fall to his knees; she could see little else amid the darkness of the storm, but the duke's heated shouting met only with more punches and laughs. Suddenly, a man appeared before her, clad in a heavy black cloak, a thespian's laughing mask upon his face, a parasol unfurled.
"M'lady," the mysterious man offered her his hand. She had heard tell of these masks, cloaks - the Merry Bandits, oft mentioned by those nobles traveling the paths through north England, as a scourge of the rich and friends to the needy. She blinked, fearing they would seek her as another target.
"I'm... please," she stammered. The masked man chuckled; he grasped his mask, pulling it from his face - and Isobel's heart throbbed and her eyes gleamed as she saw her Lord Brighton, damp and dirty but grinning at her, beneath the mask.
"The little bird certainly didn't know all of my secrets," Lord Brighton chuckled.
"You're a b—a bandit?!" Isobel exclaimed.
"Bandit? What an outdated term," he scoffed. "Bandits pilfer, hurt. Kill. What do you think of that, Merry Bandits?" Lord Brighton looked back on his crew of cloaked men, who joined in with hearty laughs and jeers.
"I can't... you're a bandit," she mumbled in disbelief.
"Not quite, m'lady," Lord Brighton smirked. "Though I appreciate their style."
"Merry Bandits, what do we do?" one of the masked men asked his brethren aloud.
"Medicine for the hurt, food for the starving," one of the masked men proclaimed proudly.
"And never a soul claimed or a person hurt," another echoed proudly.
"Well... except this one," Lord Brighton smirked, looking down at the Duke of Thrushmore; on his knees, his arms held by two of the Merry Bandits, he thrashed in a puddle of pooling rainwater, blood streaming along his face.
"You! You, you bastard, you," he seethed upon seeing Lord Brighton's face. "Consorting with criminals! If you thought your situation wasn't already untenable, you wicked wretch," the Duke snarled. Lord Brighton smirked.
"I knew I'd need some help, if I was going to thoroughly embarrass you," Lord Brighton laughed. "A few of the Merry Bandits might be friends of mine, certainly. And I may appreciate their mission, certainly. But me, a bandit? I'm a proper gentleman," Lord Brighton growled facetiously. Overcome, Lady Isobel rushed from the carriage; she didn't care about the rain, or the puddles beneath her feet, or the roar of the thunder or the flash of the lightning, or the bandits or the pain in her wrists or any of the disastrous things to befall the two of them, today. All she cared about was seeing his face; as she rushed into his arms he nearly dropped the parasol, their lips locking and all that desire burning hot through their bodies as they reunited.
"I couldn't let you leave, not after I looked into your eyes," Lord Brighton admitted, wrapping an arm around her waist. The bandits laughed, a few catcalling the display; Lady Duskwood blushed. "Quiet down, you rapscallions," Lord Brighton joked.
"What... what about," Isobel swallowed hard, "the... Lady Maryweather, and all the lies? The evidence she has, against you, and against us—"
"I love you, Isobel. I thought it to be quite improper of me to demand that you throw off your chains, and to watch you submit yourself to me, wanting and willing - and then, that I not reciprocate," he smiled warmly, kissing along her jawline as the rain fell around them. "I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't dare to let you go, love." Tears of pain turned to tears of joy streaming down her face as they embraced; she didn't want to let him go.
"I'll have the constable arrest the lot of you - you'll never see the outside of a prison again, do you understand me, Ellery Brighton?!" the Duke of Thrushmore's protests began again, but were quickly silenced by a harsh fist to the face by one of the Merry Bandits, to which he moaned pathetically in pain, his suit drenched through and coated in mud.
"I think we ought to get out of the rain, don't you, love?" Lord Brighton asked his darling. "Do you think the duke'd much mind if we borrowed his carriage, for just a short while?" Lady Isobel glanced at the old man and seethed; her fists balled up as she recalled the story, and all the things he'd done to her, she nearly shook with the rage.
"Let me ask," she answered, storming out from beneath the parasol, into the rain. Lightning crackled across the sky, illuminating her face, skin beat-red. The Duke of Thrushmore glanced up at her, his lip trembling in the cold.
"Tell these roustabouts to unhand me, Isobel, and... and I'll still consider forgetting all of this," the duke offered weakly.
"I want you to beg," she said coldly. "Like I'm sure Lady Willemer did. Like I did." Confused, in pain, and soaked in rain, the duke cried out pathetically.
"Pl-please, Lady Duskwood!" he shrieked. She thanked him for his obedience by swinging her foot straight at his crotch, striking him with her toe; he writhed in agony, yowling like a nasty old dog as acute pain struck his faculties. She watched him fall to his side into the puddle and smiled.
"This man is a cheat, a liar, and a murderer, Merry Bandits. I'm certain the constable would be interested in the story of Lady Willemer," she announced proudly, stepping back to her lover's side.
"We'll take care of it, m'lady," the masked bandit nodded, as Isobel embraced Lord Brighton again.
"I'll drive the horses," Lord Brighton kissed her deeply.
"Hurry them along," Isobel added, her voice shaking, "I can't stand to be away from you for another moment."
CHAPTER NINETEEN
As the Duke's pilfered carriage rolled up the hill and into view of Norbury Manor again, Isobel savored everything about that perfect moment - the sun had broken through gray-black storm clouds, its yellowed beams shining through the abyss, filling the sky with bands of rainbow color. Thunder growled in the distance, but the patter of raindrops slowed to a stop as the horses whinnied, the axles creaked and Isobel threw the door open, climbed atop the driver's perch and threw her arms around her lover. The rain fell as a faint drizzle, coating their skin, cresting along their bodies, gripped with so much tension and terror after the events of the last few days. Lord Brighton swept Isobel into his grasp, lifting and carrying her through the dewy mist; Werner pulled the doors open for them, pleasant surprise creaking across his grumpy, wrinkled face. Lilian idly cleaned an end table; the sight of the two lovers bursting in to the manor once more widened her eyes in shock. Isobel caught sight of the treacherous maid as Lord Brighton hefted her up the stairway toward the bedroom, and as their eyes met, Lilian couldn't stand to watch; her gaze shot away quickly, shame filling her cheeks.
When they arrived and Lord Brighton laid his wet, weary and relieved lover across the bed gently, laying at her side and kissing her lips deeply, she looked away, catching her breath before she spoke.
