"About bloody time," said Lord Upton as the last spats of a driving rain pattered down on the roof of the carriage. "Intolerable, this weather, like everything else in this bloody, backward country." Lord Upton leered across the closed carriage at his young wife, mistaken in his belief that his crude language somehow titillated her. Lady Upton looked away, out the window and across the moors as the carriage slipped and sloshed its way up the muddy road towards Belfast.
Lord Upton had made the journey from England to Ireland to determine why wheat production was down on the vast holdings he had been given by the Crown. The Irish land had been a reward for a speech he had given in Parliament, explaining why higher taxes were actually good for the poor. He had insisted his wife accompany him so that she might witness the manly way he would deal with the thieving Paddys. His bed had been a cold one ever since she had discovered him there with Lord Henroid-Smithe's nephew. "Well, dammit. A man needs his diversions," he had explained.
"Bloody bog-wallowers," he snorted, causing his wife to jump. "Thieves, the lot of them. Imagine thinking that I wouldn't notice that they were stuffing their bellys with my wheat. 'But our children have no food.' Rot! They would have no troubles if they didn't breed like vermin. Rutting sows, these women. Mark me well, wife. Your Paddy is like a plow horse. It takes a taste of the lash to make him pull his load. And just look at the way they live! Filthy bastards."
The carriage was passing a ramshackle farm house. It was indeed a hovel, but Lady Upton couldn't help but notice the sounds of music and laughter coming from inside. Sounds that had been absent from her home for many years.
"Are you listening to me, wife?"
"Yes...yes, of course."
"You seem distracted."
"I'm sorry. Travel makes me weary."
"Well, we will soon wash the mud of this beastly country from our shoes and sail again for England." He leaned across the carriage to pat her knee with his pale, soft hand.
Lady Upton turned her gaze again to the window. The clouds had begun to part and a strong wind was blowing. The dancing of the trees in the blue-white light of the moon gave the landscape a magical look. She found it beautiful, wild. She wondered how such a place would shape the men who lived there.
Suddenly, there was a loud crack, a pistol shot or a bull whip, she couldn't tell. She was thrown to the floor as the horses reared and the carriage crashed to a halt. She lifted her head to the window again and saw the coachman running away across the moor. With an oath, Lord Upton threw open the door and jumped down onto the muddy road. The Lady rose and went to the hatch. What she saw there caused her heart to leap in her bosom.
It was a man. A giant of a man, standing in the road. In one hand he held a saber. In the other a bullwhip. The moonlight shining in his wild, golden curls made an angelic halo about his head. But his soft beard and the gleam in his ice blue eyes made Lady Upton think of the other place. He wore a loose, white shirt and had a woollen cape tossed back from his broad shoulders. He wore high boots and leather breeches so tight they might have been painted on. Lady Upton could see every muscle in his iron thighs. She had to stifle a gasp when she saw the bulge beneath his belt buckle. He seemed more god than man.
"See here, what is the meaning of this?" Lord Upton stammered. "Do you mean to rob us, like the rest of your thieving kind?"
"You mistake me," said the Highwayman. "I was merely curious to see what manner of man would take food from the mouths of starving children. I must say, I am not impressed."
"What...what do you intend?" Lord Upton's shoulders began to twitch and a tic tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Well, I thought I might whip you to death in front of your lovely wife, as you did that poor farmer this afternoon."
Upton staggered back and sprawled on his ass in the mud
"But there would be little sport in that," the Highwayman continued, a laugh in the lilt of his Irish brogue. "Instead, I shall simply take up a collection. For the widow and orphans, don't you see."
"Yes, yes, whatever you like," Upton cried, offering his purse. "And my wife has jewels."
Indeed she does," said the Highwayman, his eyes on the brooch that nestled between her ample breasts. "And in such a lovely setting."
He strode slowly towards her, taking her in. She was indeed lovely, her skin like alabaster, her eyes as blue as a spring sky. Her rust-red hair whipped in the wind. She stood defiant in the door of the coach, her head high and her chest thrust out. Her soft lips were slightly parted and the white of her teeth gave her a feral, dangerous look. She might almost have been an Irishwoman. The Highwayman locked his eyes on hers, but her gaze never wavered. Suddenly, he caught a movement from the corner of his eye. He whirled to face the coming attack, but instead saw Lord Upton high-tailing down the road as fast as his spindly legs would carry him. The Highwayman roared with laughter as he turned back to Lady Upton.
"Well, Milady, it seems your husband values his purse more than he does his bride. I always suspected the British were fools. Step down, Milady. Let me have a look at you."
Lady Upton lifted her long skirt and stepped down into the Irish mud. The Highwayman circled her, his insolent eyes taking in every curve. He lingered over her mud-spattered calves and smiled.
"A little thin, you are, but nicely put together. I will have you."
The Lady had had enough. With a shriek, she leapt at the rogue, a well-aimed fist sailing at his face. He easily side-stepped the punch and the Lady spun past him and splashed face first into the mud.
The Highwayman stood over her, his hands on his hips, and he laughed long and hard. The sky chose that moment to break open again and the rain joined with her tears of rage. Still laughing, the rogue reached down and grabbed a handful of hair at the nape of her neck.
"Best come with me, Milady, or you will surely catch your death." He yanked her roughly to her feet and dragged her a little ways up the road to the ruins of a stable. By the time they reached shelter, they were both soaked to the bone. The rain had washed the mud from the Lady's face and her sodden blouse had become nearly transparent. He tossed her like a rag doll into a pile of hay and she lay there, her up-thrust breasts heaving with anger and her cold-stiffened nipples straining at the thin fabric that hid them from his seeking eyes. Her dress had bunched up to her waist when she landed in the hay, exposing the creamy white of her bare thighs. She sprawled there and her eyes flared with undisguised contempt.
"Beast," she hissed, yet she made no move to cover her nakedness.
"If you like," he said. Then he began to undress. He pulled off his cape and tossed it aside. He slid the soaked shirt over his head and hung it on a post to dry. Then he stepped to her and thrust his boot in her face. Flecks of mud speckled her cheeks.
