INTRODUCTION
"Highwaymen" is a long and still developing story of a Master (who does not yet know he is such), and a slave (who thinks she is Mistress). It concerns their twin entwined journeys to full discovery of their true natures. It includes graphic sex and developing BDSM elements. Some people (my slave in particular!) would have me warn you that there are considerable elements of over-romantic fiction.
CHAPTER 1
He had dressed carefully. As he pulled the black leather riding boots up to his knees, and tucked the dusky velvet of his breeches into them, he turned to a tarnished looking-glass on the chest in the dingy room to check his appearance. He saw there his midnight-dark silk shirt tucked into the breeches, its black-dyed lace cuffs encircling his wrists. An old but well-wrought leather belt, also black, held up those breeches. Now he buckled on his rapier and checked his pistol and powder, before tucking them into a small saddle bag. He slipped a quilted sable jacket over all, donned black leather gauntlets, and placed his cockaded hat on his head. Even the feather was black. He scowled, then smiled disarmingly for a moment, impressed somewhat by the dark reflection, the single thin scar down his left cheek which, he felt, added to his roguish air.
Pinching out the candle and picking up his saddle bag, he slipped noiselessly from the room, listened to check that all was clear, then padded silent as a cat down the stairs at the back of the dingy old inn. The stairs took him to the yard, where he paused and listened again, before gliding into the stables and retrieving his horse. He saddled the dark-flanked mare swiftly, tied on the little saddle bag, and also another larger but empty bag. Then he swung himself into the stirrups and urged the obedient animal into a slow and careful trot, over the cobbles of the yard, and out of the village. After a minute or so, just out of sight of any who might be watching from the inn, he turned her and rejoined the road, though on that moonless autumnal night such a voyeur was hardly likely to see him.
He rode at an easy trot, at first along open road, but a few miles further onward it became a dark tunnel between trees gathered densely on either side. He trotted on, his bearing erect and confident.
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The figure waited patiently, behind a tree just three paces from the road. The black clothes and black kerchief over the face left only the eyes, together with the fair skin around those eyes, exposed. Dark hair curled around the face and down to the shoulders, adding to the figure's invisibility under the gloom of the forest at night. In the right hand was a pistol, cocked already. The hand holding it was black-gloved. The well-trained horse was tethered well back from the road. In concentration the figure remained motionless, eyes and ears attuned to the slightest provocation of their senses. Suddenly the hand on the pistol clenched a little tighter as the sound of a horse's hooves came low but distinct. The approaching rider was moving at a steady pace, clearly on a ride of some length. The watcher tensed, ready to move quickly at need. Then the quarry appeared where the road parted the trees, perhaps twenty paces from the spying figure. The horse was dark, the rider darker still. Only his face showed white, and the little light which filtered through the overcast sky made his dark eyes glitter. The watcher made a face at the arrogant nonchalance with which the rider braved the treacherous road, then flexed knees, ready to move fast.
The rider was a little weary, but with determination held himself upright in the saddle. Suddenly there was a movement in the trees a few yards ahead and to the left. No more than a flitting shadow it seemed. He pulled up, the mare tossing her head at the sudden reining in. His hand flew to his rapier, and as he found the grip, a figure stepped into the road, a pistol aimed at his chest.
"Leave the weapon!" The command was peremptory, assured. The speaker's voice had a rich vibrancy, though there was something about it seemed not quite right, as if it were disguised. The rider slowly moved his hand from the blade, and placed it on the saddle. His eyes were on the face and the hand which held the pistol. The face, where all he could see were the eyes, their piercing gaze, and the hand which held the pistol steady as a rock. He considered his options. Decided they were few indeed at this moment. He must await a suitable opportunity to turn the tables on this impertinent stranger! In the meantime, his words and his wits were all he could rely upon. He started to speak, but the other cut across him.
"My business need not detain you long. If you would be so kind as to dismount slowly Sir, making no sudden movements, you will remain unharmed."
That voice! What was it about it? It had such a pleasant timbre, so mannered, so.. his musing was interrupted.
"Now! I do not have any time to waste!" The eyes watched him as he swung slowly down from his mount. He kept his hands in view. Inside he was seething that this should be happening to
him
. The irony of it did not amuse him in the least. He must try to play for a chance, stall until fate offered him some glimmer of a means to rid himself of this arrogant upstart. He looked at the eyes again. He would guess the slim figure might be ten years younger than himself. Twenty maybe? Twenty-two? Twenty-four at the most! He ventured a few words.
"I know your business Sir, that is clear enough from your garb."
There was a laugh. In other circumstances he would have found it an infectious laugh. "Oh, and do you believe you know me and my business Sir! From such a brief acquaintance too! No, don't trouble to answer, I am in haste. Stand with your hands on the saddle, whilst I relieve you of your encumbrances."