by Lauren Royal
Jason raised Cait’s hand and brushed a kiss over her knuckles, earning a smile in return. “Perhaps we should turn him in,” he suggested playfully. “This is getting to be somewhat of a nuisance.”
“You wouldn’t dare!” Kendra burst out. “He’s so…well…um, he’s obviously a Royalist. He robbed only the Roundhead.”
“There could be a reward for him. And Lakefield House is in sad shape,” Viscount Lakefield, otherwise known as Ford, lamented half-seriously. “I cannot live with Jason forever.”
“Oh, yes, you can,” Kendra said heatedly.
Jason turned to her. “Is it that important to you, then? I didn’t realize your Royalist loyalty ran so deep.”
“Well…it does,” she declared, thinking about the highwayman’s broad shoulders.
“Well, then.” Ford’s deep-blue eyes gleamed with mischief. “I suppose we’ll have to leave him be. At least it provides him with a stake for the card games.”
Jason glared at their brother.
“What?” Kendra asked. “What card games?”
“All highwaymen play cards,” Jason said firmly. He picked up their own deck and shuffled it expertly, then dealt out new hands.
Kendra arranged her cards slowly, her mind not on the game.
She remembered the highwayman’s voice. He’d spoken cautiously, as though he were considering each word. Not like her family. The Chases, as a rule, blurted everything that came into their heads, generally at the tops of their lungs.
“What was his accent?” she asked. “Did you hear it?”
“Scots, aye?” Cait said, exaggerating her own burr. “Though I’d guess he hasn’t been home for many a year. I’m surprised you even noticed.”
When Jason looked up sharply, Kendra pretended to study her fan of cards. He frowned back down at his own hand. “Why do you want to know?”
Why? She could scarcely comprehend such a stupid question. She wanted to know everything about the mysterious highwayman.
“Just curious,” she said lightly, leading with a jack of hearts. “Your turn.”
TWO
THE DUKE OF Lechmere turned out to be everything Kendra had feared and then some. He was the epitome of what she did not want in a husband.
His skin appeared to have never seen the sun. She had no idea what color his hair was, since it was hidden beneath a periwig dusted with enough powder to choke a horse. She suspected he was bald underneath, anyway. His eyes were a pale, lifeless gray.
Not that looks were paramount, but his suit was peacock satin, adorned with so much dangling ribbon and lace that it seemed to quiver when he breathed. No matter the current fashion, Kendra had an aversion to men who wore prettier clothes than she did. A simple, dark velvet suit—like those her brothers favored—was far more to her taste.
Not to mention the expense of Lechmere’s apparel could probably fund an orphanage for a month. Having been orphaned herself at the age of one, she would much rather have seen the money spent there.
And he was a duke.
“Kendra plays the harpsichord like an angel,” Jason said, patting her arm from the coral-colored velvet armchair beside hers. She darted him a look. While it was true she played well, never in her life had she heard her name and the word angel in the same sentence. Especially not from her oldest brother, who had seen her through more than a few rebellious stages.
“An admirable accomplishment.” The duke waved a ring-encrusted hand. “I should like to hear Lady Kendra perform this eve.”
“And she’s a brilliant conversationalist,” Ford added, sending her into a coughing fit. Od’s fish, her twin hardly drew breath but to tell her she talked too much! Oh, she’d give him an earful of brilliant conversation later.
Just as soon as she figured out how to get rid of this mullipuff.
“Though she seems rather tongue-tied now,” Jason drawled. “First time in my memory.”
Kendra would have thrown a cushion at him were they not in polite company.
Actually, that was an idea. Men of Lechmere’s age and station were exceedingly dignified and stuffy, weren’t they? Perhaps exhibiting poor manners would put him off.
She was startled from her thoughts by a sound like a trumpet, which proved to be the duke blowing his nose, loudly and long, into a frilly handkerchief.
Perhaps not.
“As I was saying,” Lechmere sniffed, stuffing the handkerchief into his sleeve, “speechlessness in a lady is no sin.” Kendra disliked the way his unsmiling gray gaze swept her from head to toe. “I assure you, my dear, I’m not looking for conversation. I prefer a quiet, docile woman.”
Heavens above. She’d better think of something, and quick.
When Jason asked her to pour the wine, she rose from her armchair and let herself trip on the edge of the drawing room’s patterned black-and-coral carpet.
“Oh, I’m so clumsy,” Kendra said.
She wasn’t.
“Take care,” Jason warned under his breath, then smiled at Lechmere. Kendra giggled.
She never giggled.
“That’s quite all right,” the duke said, calmly offering his goblet. He didn’t seem put off in the least.
Hang it. She’d have to do worse.
With exaggerated force, she pulled the stopper from the decanter and let it fly across the room to hit a portrait of one of her ancestors square on his painted forehead. Her great-great grandfather, the second Marquess of Cainewood.
“Kendra!” Ford and Jason cried.
She turned to see the duke’s reaction: he had his face buried in his handkerchief again. He’d missed the whole thing.
Hang it! She looked back to the second marquess for help. He seemed rather less forbidding than many of her other ancestors. Still, no advice was forthcoming.
“Quite all right, my dear.” Lechmere repeated, clearing his throat. “It’s natural for a young girl to be nervous when meeting a man of my stature. When you’re a duchess—”
“When I’m a duchess, I shall open lots of orphanages!” she said, changing tactics. “There are so many disadvantaged children who would blossom with a proper education in a caring environment. And speaking of blossoms, have you extensive gardens, your grace? Because I’ve theories on crossbreeding flowers—”
“I told you she’s a good conversationalist,” Ford interrupted.
“She certainly has, hmm, creative ideas,” said the duke, not unindulgently.
Hang it, hang it, hang it!
“Here, your grace, let me just take this goblet.” She reached to snatch it from his hand, cringing when her fingers met his cold, clammy ones. “My, what a lovely ruby.” The ring she was speaking of sported a stone wider than the thumb it was lodged on. “Amy would adore seeing it, I’m sure.”
“Amy?”
“My sister-in-law. My brother Colin’s wife. She’s a jeweler.” Kendra set the goblet on the table with a bang that made everyone jump.
“Your brother’s wife is a jeweler?” The duke looked positively scandalized.
Aha!
She had him now.
“Oh, yes.” Kendra couldn’t quite keep a triumphant grin off her face. “Colin found Amy on the streets of London.” Which was true, in a sense—since he’d rescued her from the Great Fire two years earlier—but more than a tad misleading. Though her family had been commoners, Amy was educated and wealthy in her own right. “Of course, she’s a countess now as well, but a jeweler all the same.”
“Hmmph,” the duke sniffed.
“Yes, your grace. It’s an admirable thing for a woman to be more than just a lady, don’t you think? Well, let me just pour, then.”
And she did—right into his lap.
He jumped up, watching in horror as a red stain spread on the turquoise satin in a very embarrassing place. “I think I’ve had enough, my lady, of both the wine and yourself. If you’ll excuse me.” With his pointy nose in the air, he strode stiffly from the room.
“Crossbreeding flowers?” W
hen her twin’s eyes met her own, they both burst out laughing.
But Jason wasn’t amused. “Very charming, Kendra.” Elbows on the arms of his chair, fingers steepled, he pinned her with stern green eyes. “That’s one prospect off your list. Need I remind you who is left? I’ll expect a decision after the weekend, and you’ll be wed by the end of the summer.”
THREE
KENDRA AWOKE the next morning with a massive headache.
Jason couldn’t be serious.
He and Ford and Colin were off to a monthly house party they attended—no females allowed—and, as usual, she and Caithren would be joined by their sister-in-law, Amy, and her baby daughter, Jewel, for the weekend. Usually they had something of a house party of their own, playing with the babe and gossiping until the men returned.
But when the men returned this time, they’d be expecting to hear whom she’d decided to marry.
She stared up at the underside of the mint-green canopy she’d begged for in her girlhood. Although their parents had depleted the family fortune financing the king in the Civil War, Jason had always seen to it that she’d never wanted for anything. To the best of his abilities, he’d indulged her every whim. Would he really force her to marry now?
He had seemed rather serious…
With a huff, she rose and pulled on her new hunter-green riding habit. She ran a comb through her hair, not bothering to call her maid in to curl and pin it. Amy would be here within the hour, but she needed to think. Alone.
In no time at all, she was mounted on Pandora, her mare, galloping across the Sussex Downs. Her brothers would be mightily vexed if they knew she was riding unescorted, but the three of them could go hang for all she cared right now.
Besides, they were away all weekend and would never know.
The fresh country air eased her aching head, but just thinking about that weasel Lechmere made her shiver. And the rest of her prospects weren’t much better.
The Earl of Shrewsbury came complete with a meddling mother—the “shrew” in her title was all too fitting. The Marquess of Rochford was a widower and kind enough, but his hair was completely gray—doubtless from dealing with his seven unruly children. Viscount Davenport didn’t talk, he whined. The Duke of Lancashire lived in, well, Lancashire—which was entirely too far from her family. The Earl of Morely was wealthy and kind, but nearing fifty. Lord Rosslyn was young, handsome, and fun loving, but lacking somewhat in brains. She wondered if he could read.
Jason couldn’t be serious.
Coming out of her thoughts, she slowed to a stop. She hadn’t realized how far she’d ridden. In fact, she noticed with a start, she was at the same spot where they’d seen the highwayman yesterday.
His friends had been atop that hill, lying on their stomachs, their hats pulled down to conceal their faces, training an impressive assortment of pistols on the hapless Puritan.
This morning, the hill was deserted and the highwayman nowhere in sight. In an attempt to judge the time, Kendra glanced at the sky, but it was all clouded over. The day was turning beastly. Not cold, but muggy, with a definite threat of rain. With no sun to confirm it, she guessed the time to be about ten o’clock. Perhaps highwaymen slept in.
Plainly, highway robbery wasn’t a full-time occupation. Not that she had any idea of what she’d have done if the highwayman had been here. Run for her life, in all probability. But she drifted into a vague reverie, seeing herself riding down the road at breakneck speed, her long, dark red hair floating on the breeze, impressing him with her horsemanship and her grace. In her fantasy he stared after her, openmouthed with surprise and appreciation, struck temporarily dumb by a bolt of…love at first sight.
Well, second sight, actually—but he hadn’t paid any attention to her the first time, so surely that didn’t count.
Then she would turn around, ride back, stop in the middle of the road, right in front of him, and slide off Pandora slowly…so slowly. Still gazing at her, he’d come forward, reaching her in two or three of his long strides, his large, strong hands spanning her waist as he eased her to the ground. And then…
She had no idea. Inexperience didn’t make for detailed fantasies. And she certainly wouldn’t have anything to do with a highwayman, anyway. Her reverie wasn’t only boring, it was absurd.
But instead of turning back, she rode along the crest of the hill a spell, then turned away from the lane. And there, perhaps a hundred feet distant, was a very mysterious mound.
It wasn’t sculpted by nature, Kendra realized immediately. Its shape was angular, its surface dirt, not grass.
A grave. A fresh grave.
Her hands tightened on the reins as she approached the tomb. Who could be buried there? The highwayman? A victim of his? Either one was unthinkable. She bit the inside of her cheek, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth.
A single raindrop fell on one of her clenched fists, and a gust of wind whooshed as she reached the mound. From her perch atop Pandora, she saw the loose dirt blow across it, revealing a sheet of canvas underneath. Her heart hammered at the sight. Was the body not buried properly, then—just covered with a spot of fabric?
She slid off Pandora and led her forward to investigate. Leaning down, she took a corner of the canvas, just a corner, in two shaking fingers and lifted it…
If her brothers had been here, they’d have told her, as usual, not to jump to conclusions. And this time, they’d have been right. Her shout of laughter rang across the Downs as she threw back the canvas.
Twelve blocks of wood. Twelve narrow pipes of various gauges. Twelve hats with different colored plumes and a variety of hatbands.
She tethered Pandora to a tree. Atop a nearby hill, she set a hat on a block of wood with a pipe sticking out from under it. When she ran back down and glanced up, it looked for all the world like a man lying on his stomach, pointing a gun at her.
He was clever, this highwayman. Very clever.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
She froze. She hadn’t heard anyone approach, and for the barest second she thought the voice was in her head. But he was standing behind her. She could feel his presence, maybe three feet away.
“I’m…” Words failed her. “I’m…”
“You’re letting my hat get wet.”
“Oh.” Kendra put a hand to her head, feeling the mass of her hair curling with dampness. She hadn’t noticed the increasing drizzle. “It’s raining.”
“Very observant of you.”
She turned then and gazed up at him, and he looked exactly the way she’d known he would. His hair was golden—thick, silky, and straight. It was cut short, not chin-length like a Puritan’s, nor cropped like a wig-wearing Royalist’s, but somewhere in between, and the front was hanging in his eyes. She wanted to reach out and sweep it off his forehead, but she seemed rooted in place, and she wouldn’t have dared to touch him anyway.
His snug black breeches were wool, not velvet, and his shirt was white, not black. He wasn’t here for business, then.
“I’ve come to save my props from the rain. Will you help me, seeing as you’re here?”
Help him? She ought to be bolting for Pandora at this very moment. “Of course.”
Had she said that? She knew she shouldn’t have. He ran up the hill and snatched up the three props, then turned and strode back to the rest of them. Windblown, his golden hair bounced in time with his steps as she followed.
She concentrated on his broad back, watching the play of muscles beneath his thin shirt as he flipped over the canvas and piled the hats on top, bundling them up and tying the four corners in a neat knot to make a parcel. He hefted it, testing its weight, then turned to her. “You can carry this, aye? Before you, on your horse?”
He didn’t sound angry at her, more like he was simply resolved to complete his task in the most efficient manner possible. Kendra was somewhat relieved, but she moved in a haze of unreality.
She managed to find her voice, however. “If you’ll h
and it up to me, yes, I’m sure I can carry it. Where are we taking it?”
“A cottage over the next hill, not too far.” He gathered the pipes under one arm and lifted the bundle by its knot. “Let’s be off, before it starts raining in earnest.”
His horse was tied by hers—amber, of course, his glossy coat a tawny tan color. Pandora’s hide was a deep chestnut, and Kendra thought they made a handsome pair.
It was difficult to see over the bundle in front of her, but it was a short ride.
The cottage was unlocked, and the highwayman made short work of tethering their horses before depositing the pipes inside and returning for the bundle. After handing it to him, Kendra slid off Pandora slowly…so slowly…and a second later he was back, and his large, strong hands were spanning her waist as he eased her to the ground.
His fingers lingered on her waist a little longer than necessary, and she felt their warmth through her habit. She looked up at him. He looked older than her, but not as old as most of her suitors. He had a wide mouth, the full lower lip perfectly straight across the center bottom edge. She wanted to touch him, just there.
Her eyes locked on his, and her breath caught in her throat.
A crash of thunder rent the air, and big raindrops began pelting to the earth. He jumped back, motioning her to follow him inside.
She should leave. Now. But it was pouring…
The cottage looked more like a well-appointed hunting lodge, warm and cozy and very masculine. He shut the door behind them and wandered to a leather-upholstered couch, throwing his long form onto it with a surprising grace. “Close, aye? Five more minutes, and my hats would have been ruined. I thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome,” Kendra said from just inside the door where she still stood in a daze. She couldn’t believe she was in a hunting lodge with this dangerous man. It was incredible—and, all of a sudden, incredibly scary. She couldn’t remember ever having been alone with a man, save her brothers. And she didn’t know the first thing about this one—except that he was an outlaw.
The fear must have shown on her face, because he sat straight and waved at the cushion beside him. “You can sit—I don’t bite. You’ll stay till it stops raining, aye?”