Highway

Be generous to the poor, be charitable, and give freely—but do not take from the rich. You must not steal from those who have so much overflowing they shall not even know ’tis gone.

Tell that to her once there was some equilibrium, then Ariadne would be glad to listen to the law. Until then, she saw nothing wrong with forsaking what the unjust called justice. She would make her own blasted recompense.

Ariadne counted down from ten.

Four... three... two...

She timed her whisper with the pace of approaching hooves. Enough time for the coach to stop, but not enough time to see her coming. This section of the road held the only trees for miles and was known for frequent robberies. That meant more guards on coaches, now deterring most bandits. Ariadne, however, knew this carriage. She knew when it was coming, where it was going, who was in it, and—the most important detail of all—what was in it.

One...

A slight tap on Darkin’s side jerked the dark bay forward. Ariadne lurched forward with the rush, adjusting in the saddle as a flash of jade brushed against her face. The acidic smell of leaves close against one’s cheek, dirt flying up to hit her coat and burst into the scent of rain-soaked earth.

The mud did not stop Darkin; she leaped to the center of the road, stilling at Ariadne’s cue. Her head flung up in defiance of the gilded carriage, the stamp of her hoof caused the single coachman to cock his head as though confused.

“Stand and deliver.”

A single command, basic and of frequent use among highway robbers. She called it to the coachman, taking the precaution of deepening her voice.

His trim figure leaned forward; Ariadne imagined him squinting under his tricorn. It was then that she noticed he was not uniform. Perhaps he was new, and it was not ready yet. She did not know every coachman at the house.

“I said, deliver your money.”

She did not have time to be stared at. There should not be anyone else on this road, but she was not so foolish to believe a stray traveler impossible.

Ariadne slackened her reins, Darkin dancing forward. She realized the coachman’s gaze followed, not her, but her horse. Her borrowed horse.

She was being ridiculous, ’twas dark. He could not recognize the horse in the dead of night.

There was moonlight enough to light the road, but not to outline every feature. Only Harding knew his horse that well, and she had left him sleeping.

A light breeze blew between them, the rustling noise seeming to bring the coachman back to reality, or Ariadne trotting forward broke his trance. Or perhaps it was the flash of her raised flintlock.

One graceful leap down, and a tap on the door, he was reaching inside for the box beneath the countess’ feet. It was a small box but held enough bejeweled gold to constitute a small fortune. A small fortune so insignificant to the countess that she would give the entire thing away to her niece as a wedding present. Yet still significant enough that they would travel at one in the morning to avoid the recent threat of highwaymen.

It seemed odd, did it not?

Such a contrary display. Ariadne called it avaricious. Give away fortune

like ’twas nothing, but only to one who already has as much wealth. Never to those starved and abused.

If they would not give it, then she shall just have to take it. Her sister and her niece need the money to live. To survive the bloody winter. A little extra for a new dress. Lily deserved it. These aristocrats did not.

“Hurry up,” she growled.

The voices inside the coach seemed to be arguing. Perhaps they did not realize how serious she was.

She trotted forward, leaning down to see what the problem was. It was then she realized her mistake.

Gad, she was stupid! How could she have fallen for that?

Talons attached to her arm; the pressure of nails dug into her felt even through the thickness of Harding’s coat. She lost her grip on the gun—good thing ’twas not loaded. She was a thief with bravado, not a murderer.

The coachman jerked her forward, but another force pulled her back. She should be falling against this man, but instead, it seemed she was being quartered, suspended in mid-air, and pulled. Ariadne could not restrain a small scream as she realized her foot was caught in the stirrup, and she was stretched between two grips as Darkin shied.

She was not sure how, but this coachman managed to yank her hard enough that she was saved from being dragged. He did precede, however, to pin her against the ground.

Again, duel forces slammed her, the ground at her back stole the breath from her, the chest against hers assured she would not regain it. The impact against her crown informed her tricorn had fallen, and she could not move to fight. He slackened enough for her to draw in wheezing breaths, but pressed harder on her arms to ensure there was no true struggle.

She gasped in breaths, turning her face away from the one mirroring hers. There was something in the scrutinizing gaze that made her heart pound. It was unnerving but familiar.

She was caught, what did it matter now? She was as good as deported or jailed—at worst hung.

Ariadne turned her thoughts, knowing it would lead to nothing but sobbing. She refused to cry. At the very least, she still had her pride. To a degree.

Sodden leaves were scattered over the road, making the smell of dirt stronger as mud oozed beneath the fallen canopy. A hint of something else lingered beneath it, but Ariadne could only describe it as conjuring the word “comfort” to her mind. A deeper inhale identified it.

Clove. But clove, as Harding once informed her, grew in Indonesia, not England.

Ariadne was sure someone punched her gut or drove a dagger through her chest.

Clove. Cologne. Harding.

She looked up with wide eyes, met his, and realized he knew exactly who she was.

It was so obvious, had she not been so blasted cocky and distracted she would have seen it right away as he had her.

“You kiss me, claim that is because you care, then steal my clothes and my horse?” When he complained his favorite coat was gone, she covered for the other servants but did not admit to taking it. “Ride out in the middle of the night to rob my family? Have you lost your mind? What—” He took a deep breath, managing to keep his words civil, but his eyes shot curses. “Are you doing here, Ariadne?”

She wanted to kiss him now, just to remind him he liked her.

“Y-you were asleep.” She still could not process just what had happened. He fell asleep by the fire in his room after they spent an hour discussing Darkin’s potential. She was only half-trained, and Harding knew Ariadne snuck rides on her to get her used to other riders, he just did not realize she also took the mare on highway runs.

“As I assumed you also were!”

“Why did you not tell me you were going with them?” Ariadne demanded.

It was all his fault. He ruined her run and all her future chances—if he decided to keep her secret.

“Darling, I—”

“Do not ‘darling’ me!” Harding growled. So, she was not going to charm him into forgiveness. She did not think it would work. “And I had no reason to tell you I was going with them! I do not owe you an outline of every action I take during the day, just as I do not demand an itinerary from you! A degree of privacy balanced with trust tend to take for good relationships, but I see you do not fit that model!”

His face was beginning to show he realized just what he had gotten himself into. More specifically, the dilemma she placed him in.

“If you needed money, Ariadne, you could have asked! I will give you money, or make sure you get a raise! This is madness!”

“Oh yes,” she spat. “Beg from my lover!”

“That must be better than stealing from him!”

“Get off of me!” Ariadne attempted to give a hard nudge. “You are too dashed heavy!”

He stood, pulling her with him. “Get up.”

Harding kept his hand on her arm, but now knowing for sure who she was, took a care not to bruise her. He told his father to carry on with the journey, he could drive the horses, and Harding would handle this highwayman.

He led her over to Darkin and mounted; Ariadne sat in front of him, smushed against the saddle horn but knowing she was in no position to complain. Before pulling out of the trees, he laid his head against her shoulder for a moment, brushed his lips against her neck, whispering in a voice that ached, “My bloody highwaywoman, what am I to do with you?”

Ariadne was unsure either, but hoped he would hear her reasons and be forgiving. He held not only her heart but three lives.

Stand and deliver. Money, justice, love. It could all be gained or lost in only a moment.