by Sabrina York
“Perhaps Caesar can travel with the earl to Scotland,” the duke suggested. “He knew Peter. He would recognize him at once.”
“A perfect plan,” Caesar said, taking his sister in his arms and giving her a squeeze—though the loving gesture seemed to annoy her. “But I cannot go with Wick. I have some business to attend to in Suffolk. It should take about a week. And then I will continue on to Scotland and meet this John.”
“What kind of business do you have in Suffolk?” the duchess asked, and, for some reason, Caesar pinkened and rocked back on his heels.
“Business,” he said in a cheery tone.
“Fine,” the duke gusted. “It is settled then. Caesar shall investigate for you, Britannia. You shall stay here in London and enjoy the season.”
To which the elegant Lady Britannia snorted. “I am in mourning. There is very little for me to enjoy.”
“We shall have a lovely time, darling,” the duchess said, wrapping her arm around her daughter.
“Excellent. It is settled then,” the duke repeated.
Although Charles could tell, given Britannia’s expression, in her mind, the matter wasn’t settled in the least.
It was annoying, having to grovel to a man like the Annoying Earl of Wick, but Britannia had no choice. Obviously her parents were not going to budge on their decision and Britannia was determined to see this mysterious John with her own eyes.
If she knew Caesar—and she did—his business in Suffolk involved a woman, and when it came to women, Caesar simply lost his mind. He would become embroiled in some tawdry romance and completely forget about her mission.
Aside from that, Britannia could not wait a month or two or more to discover the truth. She was going to Scotland and no man alive would stop her.
Given the length of the journey and the reports of danger on the Kings Road—as the countryside swelled with homeless and destitute soldiers following the war—it only made sense for her to travel with the earl.
All she had to do was convince him.
She found him in the library, sipping whiskey and staring into the fire.
“Hullo,” she said as she entered the room.
She liked the way his eyes lit on her. Warmed.
It gave her a brilliant idea.
Most men would never gainsay her father’s decision. He was a powerful duke. But Charles was an earl. Nearly as powerful as Papa. He might be swayed. And perhaps she could use her feminine charms to get him to give her what she wanted. It had certainly worked before.
“Good evening.” He lifted his glass.
“May I join you?”
His lips lifted with the hint of a smile. “Please.”
She sat with a sigh and then fixed him with her most besotted smile.
He blinked in surprise, but then smiled back.
“So you fought on the continent?”
He nodded. “I did.”
“You must be very brave.” Surely her tone wasn’t too…gushy.
“Ah… Thank you?”
“Are all Scotsmen as brave as you?”
He took a sip and eyed her warily over the rim of his glass. “One would suppose.”
“Are they all as tall?”
Perhaps she was overdoing it, because he snorted.
“I do love a brave man.” She batted her lashes.
“Do you?”
“Oh yes. Men who stand for something. Men who make up their own minds and stick to their principles, no matter what others say. Men who—”
“Britannia?”
Oh bother. How rude of him to interrupt. She was just getting started. “Yes?”
“I am not taking you to Scotland.”
Blast. She narrowed her eyes and glared at him. Apparently he found her ferocity amusing. He laughed.
“Did you think I would completely ignore your father’s command?”
“A brave man would.”
“A foolish man would.”
“Coward.”
He seemed torn between indignation and amusement—the amusement baffled her utterly.
“How can you be so heartless?”
“Heartless?”
“This is a matter of love. Of destiny. I must know the truth.”
“Caesar will—”
“Caesar is feckless.”
“I beg your pardon. Caesar is a war hero.”
“A feckless war hero. I wager he will take months to arrive in Scotland, and then it will be too late…” She trailed off and looked away.
“Too late for what?” Well, finally. Something that did not amuse him, that annoying, annoying man.
Britannia sighed and held out her hand, the one that bore The Lucius Ring. “I have two months to find him,” she said.
The earl shook his head. “I don’t understand.”
“This ring. There’s a curse on it. If I do not find my true love by my twenty-fifth birthday, I shall be alone and loveless forever.” Though she certainly didn’t believe in curses, she was not beyond using such theatrics to convince him she needed to go to Scotland. Besides, he was a Highlander. Certainly they believed in curses, savages that they were.
He stared at the ring for a moment and then met her gaze solemnly. “My lady. Surely you jest.”
Outrage swelled in her breast. How dare he doubt her? “It is a family legacy,” she spat. “A virulent curse. If you deny me, you condemn me to an eternity of agony.”
“Oh dear.” Caesar’s warble rounded the room and Britannia turned to glare at her brother as he stood in the doorway. “Surely she is not babbling on about that old family curse.”
She stood and set her hands on her hips, though it was not a ladylike position in the slightest. “How easy for you to mock the curse,” she said. “You are a male.”
“What does that have to do with anything?” the earl asked. She disliked the thread of humor in his tone, as though he were patronizing her. Which, of course, he was.
“The curse only affects the females of the family,” she explained.
“How verra inconvenient.”
Caesar flopped indolently into Britannia’s chair and poured himself a dram from the decanter on the table. “Curses so rarely are convenient.”
“How true.” The earl lifted his glass.
“Is she trying to convince you to take her to Scotland?”
“I believe so.”
The hair on Britannia’s neck riffled. How she hated being talked about when she was standing in the room.
Caesar shot her a smile. “He won’t do it, poppet.”
“Don’t call me poppet.”
“He can’t, you see. Wick and Papa have joined forces in a business venture. It would be the height of stupidity to blatantly oppose one’s new partner, now wouldn’t it?”
Oh hell. Bloody hell. Britannia glanced at the earl and he offered a repentant smile, one that did nothing to ease her chagrin.
He was, without exception, the most irritating, selfish, pompous man on the face of the earth.
He would, without a doubt, never agree to take her to Scotland.
She narrowed her eyes on him, filling her glower with every ort of her revulsion, raking him with a savage perusal.
He smiled.
With dimples.
The bastard.
A firm resolution rose within her.
To hell with the Heinous Earl of Wick. To hell with her brother. To hell with her father’s pronouncements.
She was going to Scotland if she had to walk.
And no one could stop her.
Charles watched Britannia flounce from the room and a wave of regret swamped him.
Though it would have been highly improper, the prospect of traveling with her had tugged at his soul. If he were being honest, there had been other improper thoughts as well. Ones of pulling her into his arms and kissing her. Ravaging her. Making her his own.
He’d never met a woman who so intrigued him, aroused him, exasperated him.
It had been a ye
ar since his return to Scotland from the continent. He’d spent the time making peace with his experience and helping other war veterans was a large part of that. But seeing his friend, Daniel, find the love of his life in Fia had started Charles thinking about the future of his dynasty, about marriage.
He’d decided to wed a nice Scottish lass, one of good breeding, but when he’d set eyes on Britannia, all thoughts of other women had faded. The more he knew of her, the more she intrigued him.
It was a damn shame he had to leave.
It was a damn shame the duke had forbidden him to escort her to Scotland.
A few weeks on the road would surely have been enough to win her. To make her forget poor, dead Peter. He was certain of it.
His mood dipped as he thought of John St. Andrews. Perhaps it was for the best that Britannia not travel to Scotland.
Because if John was, indeed, her Peter, it would break her heart when she discovered the truth about him.
Chapter Three
It had seemed like a brilliant idea when she’d first thought of it in the comfort of her luxurious bedroom in Axminster house in Mayfair. But now that she was here, on the mail coach rumbling north, Britannia was having second thoughts.
Oh, not about running away to Scotland.
About the mail coach.
As the pampered daughter of a powerful duke, she’d never once had to deal with discomfort. She’d certainly never rubbed elbows with the more common folk. And Mr. Cole-Winston had rather sharp elbows. He also had an annoying tendency to spread, his bulk taking up more and more of Britannia’s precious breathing room with each bumpy mile.
She resolved to ignore his body odor.
Which was decidedly difficult when the coach lurched and he reached overhead to grasp the strap by her window, firmly wedging her face into his armpit.
Ye gods. Did the man never bathe?
The other occupants of the coach were obviously used to traveling in such a manner. They had made themselves comfortable—at her expense—and drifted off to sleep. The young man across from her had stretched out his legs, tangling them with hers, and issued occasional and somewhat alarmingly snorty snores.
It was unthinkable in her world that a man treat a lady with such disrespect.
But then, on this coach, she wasn’t a lady.
To their mind, she wasn’t even a woman.
So she could hardly complain.
She’d thought it a stroke of genius to disguise herself as a boy. If her father was searching for her—which he undoubtedly was—the short hair and the costume she’d stolen from the groom living in the Axminster mews would throw them off the scent.
It caused a waft of regret to think of her shorn hair, but she rather liked it like this. The close-cropped curls framed her face and made her seem even younger than she was.
No one looked twice at her. Not when she’d boarded the coach. Not when they stopped for the occasional break to switch out the horses. Not even when she belched.
Not that she made it a habit of belching. It was frowned upon by the dragons of the ton. But when the other occupants of the coach had felt the need after one particularly gaseous meal, Britannia had joined in.
And she’d enjoyed it.
It was wonderful being a man, free to do whatever one wished.
All things considered—even the bilious Mr. Cole-Winston—this was an exciting adventure, wonderful and wild. A far cry from the constrained circumstances of her life up until now.
But as much as she was enjoying her charade, she couldn’t wait to reach Scotland. Couldn’t wait to make her way to Wick and set eyes on John St. Andrews. She knew—simply knew—she would find him to be her Peter. Each time she thought of it, her elation swelled.
It would be a joyous reunion. And if Peter didn’t remember her, she would remind him. She would soothe him. She would nurse him back to the fullness of the man he had once been.
They would marry—Scotland was a lovely place to be married, she’d heard—and then she would return to London, victorious and redeemed. Everyone who had ever doubted her or pitied her would finally realize…her and Peter’s love was a timeless thing. Nothing could tear them apart. Not even war.
It was, perhaps, a bad omen that a shot rang out on the tail end of that very thought. Everyone in the coach jerked awake, eyes wide and mouths agape.
“What was that?” Mr. Cole-Winston burbled.
A deep, ominous voice responded.
“Stand and deliver!”
Britannia froze. She’d read about highwaymen in the papers and once or twice in a novel, but she’d never met one before.
In all honesty, she’d never had any kind of adventure before, so she was torn between fear…and a strange elation. It was probably unwise to find such a predicament exciting, but somehow it was.
A highwayman. Imagine that.
Thank heaven she’d hidden all her money in her shoes. No one would think to look there.
The coach rolled to a stop and after a moment, the door whipped open and their assailant poked his head in.
Britannia’s exhilaration deflated as though it had been pricked with a pin. The highwayman was not at all what she had expected. Somehow she’d imagined he would be tall and dark and mysterious, but he was not. He was rather short and stout, with troll-like limbs and a scarred, scruffy face half-covered by a beard that probably held remnants of a weeks’ worth of meals. Oh. And his breath… It was noxious.
How disappointing.
He closed one eye and peered at the occupants of the coach, then grunted and said, “All right. Out. All of you.” He waggled a pistol to underscore his command.
Because Britannia was closest to the door, she slipped out first, which was a good thing, because as the others filed out, she was able to position herself behind them. It seemed sensible, for if this brigand decided to shoot, a bullet would have to pass through the considerable bulk of Mr. Cole-Winston to reach her. She tugged the brim of her hat down as well. Though she knew it did not make her invisible, it made her feel less conspicuous.
“Empty your pockets,” the highwayman said with no preamble. He moved from one man to the next, collecting their purses, and the occasional pocket watch. When he came to Britannia, who had nothing but pennies to offer, he snorted and looked her up and down.
She had a moment of terror that he might see her for what she was, but he did not. When he turned away, she nearly collapsed in relief.
Until, of course, he issued his next command.
“All of you,” he barked. “Strip.”
Oh dear.
Oh mercy.
Britannia cast around wildly searching for some escape. She could not strip. That would expose her disguise. Expose her utterly. And lord knew what this beastly highwayman would do to her then.
Terror, real terror, prickled on her skin. She went hot then cold. Her muscles seized.
As though all that weren’t bad enough, the other occupants of the coach—to a man—sighed and began removing their clothing.
This was something of a mercy, because the sight of Mr. Cole-Winston in the altogether distracted her from the raging fear.
She’d never seen a man naked before.
It was a perturbing sight.
He had stork-like legs, which somehow held up his rotund body. His chest was a vast landscape of pasty skin flecked with anemic hair and his large belly hung down over parts south. Which was also a mercy.
The other men, in their altogether, were no less unappealing.
A sudden and incongruous thought filled her mind.
Naked men are not attractive in the least.
“You there!”
Britannia jumped as the highwayman shouted and waggled his pistol at her.
“Um, yes?”
“Take off your clothes, boy. Let’s see what you’ve hidden under them.”
Egads.
Egads!
This was, indeed, a disaster she had not anticipated.
How
ever would she escape from this dilemma unscathed?
It was a beautiful day for travel, Charles thought as he spurred Seneca into a trot. Now that he’d passed York and was into the countryside, it was even pleasanter. The woods were shadowed and cool and he loved the way the sun filtered through the leafy canopy. While his coach followed behind, he’d insisted on riding. A man could not be expected to spend a day like this in a cramped carriage.
There was something about the feel of the sun on his face, the breeze in his hair that freed him from his dark thoughts, darker memories. They haunted him at times, the scenes from his past. From one day in June, to be specific. Sometimes he envied John, that he had been able to forget it all.
And then…blast. Thoughts of John quickly heralded thoughts of Britannia Halsey, and ignited again that flare of regret. He had been sorely tempted to accede to her request and bring her with him to Wick, despite the fact that it would have destroyed his relationship with her father, which was a prosperous one.
There was a part of him that would have done anything to spend more time with her.
But it was a foolish part.
A woman raised in the heart of London, a duke’s daughter, would have no interest in a Scottish laird. She would certainly never want to live in the wild reaches of Caithness County, so far from the glittering balls and soirees and excitement of Town. And Charles could never live in the south. His heart was in the Highlands.
Aye, it was probably for the best that he’d left her where she belonged.
She’d marry some London lord.
He’d marry a Scottish lass.
It was the way such things went.
He made an attempt to banish that annoying prickle of remorse. He had no use for it. It was pointless, indeed.
He rounded a corner on the road and slowed as the strangest scene played out before him—a mail coach surrounded by a huddle of naked men. There was another man there waving a pistol and bellowing at a boy.
It took a second for the meaning to percolate in his brain.
He’d been robbed on the King’s Road before—or at least an attempt had been made. One did not rob a member of the Scots Greys with impunity. There was little Charles deplored more than predators, unless it was the boredom of travel. This tawdry vignette was just what he needed to break the tedium of a long trip.