The wind was a torrent of darkness,
Among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon.
Tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight,
Over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding –
Riding – Riding –
The highwayman came riding,
Up to the old inn-door.
The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes
THE OUTSKIRTS OF LONDON - APRIL 1750
He observed the coach as it approached, noting from the pace and speed of the horses that the animals were tired. The coachman had to gently flick the lead horse's ear with his whip to spur them on to increase their pace.
They were close to home, but it was dark and they were on a lonely stretch of road. That made them vulnerable.
When the coach had to slow down to navigate a bend in the road safely, Sherlock Holmes made his move.
He covered the lower half of his face with the handkerchief around his neck. Easing his horse forward he raised his pistol in readiness as he emerged from his hiding place behind a knot of trees on the side of the road.
The coachman who had been busy keeping control of his horses looked up in alarm when he heard the sound of pounding hooves galloping towards him.
He barely had time to register the lone masked figure bearing down on him before he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.
Sherlock indicated with the pistol that the coachman should get down from his box. As soon as the terrified mans feet touched the ground, Sherlock ordered him to "Drop your breeches." This the man did in great haste, and then without being told placed both hands behind his head.
Satisfied, Sherlock got down from his horse, walked over to the carriage and opened the door.
To become immediately mesmerised by a pair of big brown eyes, encased in a delicate face that was surrounded by chestnut coloured ringlets. All thought of demands for valuables fading away.
Lady-in-waiting Margaret Elizabeth Hooper gasped when the door to the coach was flung open. Though it was not because the person in question was a highwayman carrying a loaded pistol. Rather it was the man himself that left her breathless. The inside of the carriage was illuminated by a full moon, allowing her to see him clearly. He was tall, slim, with penetrating, intelligent eyes that watched her intently over the handkerchief he used to hide his other features. She was nonetheless able to make a quick inventory of all that she could see; short, curly black hair could be seen under the black tricorne he wore. Under his emerald green velvet jacket he wore a shirt made of Indian cotton. Margaret's cheeks became noticeably warm when she realised that the shirt was almost indecent, undone as it was so that it revealed a scattering of hair on his chest. His feet were shod in boots that came up to the thigh, all but covering the doeskin breeches dyed dark blue they were almost black.
"Aren't you going to demand that we 'stand and deliver'," snapped the other occupant of the coach.
Sherlock turned and under his handkerchief he smirked with delight, for sitting there was none other than Lady Smallwood.
He turned his pistol towards the older woman who simply glared at him.
He shook his head. "Tedious," he replied.
"Why?" Margaret asked before she could stop herself.
She could tell from Lady Smallwood's expression that she was going to be reprimanded later for her curious nature.
The highwayman turned to her, surprise evident in the lift of his eyebrow.
"Because my reason for being here is plainly obvious and so does not require the too oft' used standard by which other gentlemen of the road choose to employ."
He turned back to Lady Smallwood. "If you would be so kind?" he said as he pointed towards the small trunk at her feet that he knew would contain valuables.
When she initially refused to move he cocked his pistol so that it was ready to fire. Only then did Lady Smallwood reluctantly lean down to pick up the box.
But when she went to pass it to him he stopped her. And turned to Margaret, inclining his head towards the item in her mistresses hands. "I require you assistance," he said.
Margaret got up without a word. Taking the box she followed Sherlock out of the carriage, and over to his horse that had walked back over to the trees to graze at the fresh green grass that grew there.
When she handed him the trunk, he took it and strapped it securely to his horse.
As she turned to go back to the coach Sherlock waylaid her, placing his hand on her upper arm and pulling her back to him.
"I believe payment is due for your assistance," he said.
Margaret shivered as his deep voice washed over her. She wondered if he'd placed her under a spell.
She was certain of it when their gazes met. He whipped off the handkerchief, bent down and pressed his lips firmly to hers.
Margaret gasped with surprise, then moaned as his tongue invaded her mouth, taking possession of it. Instinct had her reaching up to grasp him around the neck. Pulling him down to her as her fingers sank into his rich, unruly curls.
When their lips parted they were both breathing heavily.
"Your name little one, I must have it," he gasped.
"Margaret," she replied unsteadily. "Margaret Elizabeth Hooper."
Sherlock brushed his thumb against her trembling lips. "To me you are Molly," he murmured. "My sweet little Molly."
He skimmed his fingers over her cheeks and down her pale throat until they reached the chair and the locket she wore.
She froze when she felt him undoing the clasp. "No," she cried.
"Shhhush," he whispered. "I only wish it as a keepsake."
"But the locket is very dear to me."
"And so it shall be to me," Sherlock assured her before he glanced over towards the coach. "You had better return to your mistress. She will wonder what has become of you."
Placing the locket in the pocket of his jacket he mounted his horse and with a tip of his hat he rode away into the night.