Dangerous Desires

by Louise Clark

  When the coach heaved into view, she was not surprised to see that it was drawn by a team of only two horses. The beasts were draft animals, bred to pull heavy loads, but lacking the spirit of lighter, more hot-blooded horses. A small smile curled Stephanie's mouth. This would be easy plunder.

  When the coach had neared, she chirped to the mare. The restless horse was glad enough to move and cantered toward the road without coaxing. Stephanie touched her heels to the animal's flanks and obediently it picked up speed, so that when the occupants of the coach were able to identify the shadow of horse and rider in the dim light of the coach lamps, the form was bearing down on them at a fast, terrifying gallop.

  At the last minute Stephanie reined the mare to a shuddering, snorting halt. The tactic was intended to encourage the driver to pull up his team, especially since Stephanie was holding a raised pistol in her hand.

  "Good evening," she said politely. "Throw any weapons you are carrying onto the road." She waited while the coachman tossed his set of pistols to the ground, muttering under his breath all the while. Stephanie touched the wide brim of her hat with the barrel of her weapon. "Very sensible. Now, see that your horses remain calm and you will come to no harm."

  The driver sent her a menacing look, but made no overt movements. Satisfied that the robbery was following the typical pattern, Stephanie turned her attention to the passengers.

  She was edging the mare toward the door, intending to open it and demand that the terrified victims hand over their riches, when the latch moved and the door burst open from inside.

  "How dare you!" The man speaking was fat, his florid cheeks darkened by an evening stubble, his eyes as small and nasty as those of a wild boar. In his hand he held a gun. The barrel was aimed straight at Stephanie's heart. "How dare you stop a servant of the Crown on official business!"

  The mare fidgeted, sensing the fear that was making Stephanie's heart thump erratically. Deliberately squashing her alarm, she raised her own weapon. "Your money or your life," she said, feeling rather foolish as she uttered the melodramatic words.

  "Ha! It takes a might more than the bravado of a scurvy rogue to make me quail!" her victim announced. "I'll see you damned before I give you a penny!"

  Some instinct, or perhaps it was merely the agitated prancing of the mare, made Stephanie shift just at the moment her victim fired. The explosion terrified the skittish horse. The mare reared, and, finding no strong, comforting hand on the bridle, bolted for the woods.

  Stephanie barely managed to hang on. The shot had made contact, though not on the mark originally intended. Instead, the ball had grazed her shoulder, a painful wound, but not a serious one. Right then, the shock was more a danger to Stephanie than was her injury.

  Midnight Raider was running out of control, galloping by the side of the road, close to the protection of the trees, but not among them. The sound of the pistol shot reverberated through the still country night, drawing the attention of a patrolling troop of dragoons They were directly in the path of the racing mare.

  After some confusion, for their captain was riding with another patrol and they were commanded by a very young, inexperienced lieutenant, the men spurred their mounts in the direction of the shot.

  As the mare tired, the first effects of shock were dissipating in Stephanie. Shakily, she tightened up on the reins, slowing the horse. Even as she turned Midnight Raider's head toward the trees, she thought that she detected the thump of hooves and the clink of many harnesses.

  Panic seized her. Her mind screamed Dragoons! while every instinct urged her to flee. But to where?

  Her only option was the woods. To return the way she had come would have meant passing her erstwhile victim, something she was loath to do. Besides, if she guessed correctly, the troops were headed in that direction. If the woods were her refuge, however, they were also a prison of sorts. The trees would hide her, but she would not be able to do as her instincts demanded, putting her heels to the mare to fly from the danger chasing her.

  With a rough jerk on the reins, she guided her black mount into the sheltering shadows. By the time the dragoons passed her, she was deep in the trees, nothing more than one of one eerie forms that repelled and terrified those unaware of the secret paths within.

  Safe for the moment, Stephanie slumped in the saddle. Her shoulder throbbed with a fiery pain that made her dizzy. Deliberately she inhaled, slowly and deeply, fighting the faintness that she knew would be her undoing. The warm odor of hot, lathered horseflesh helped keep reality from slipping away and after a moment she straightened in the saddle. Home, she thought muzzily. She had to get back to Silverbrooke. There she would be safe. Nicholas would see to that.

  Her return to the manor seemed to take an eternity. Vigilance impeded her progress, as twice she was forced to follow a roundabout path when an unaccustomed sound disturbed the evening quiet. Then, once she had reached the park surrounding Silverbrooke Manor, she knew that she must make sure she adhered to her usual pattern and unsaddle the mare before returning the horse to the paddock.

  Performing the ordinary tasks provided their own kind of agony. By now, the troops would have learned that the highwayman had been shot and would be looking for a wounded man. What if they burst upon her while she was leading the mare across the open grounds of the estate? How would she explain the wound? How would she escape on foot from a troop of mounted men? Her frightened thoughts gave her the strength to ignore the sharp, shooting pain in her right arm, and forced her to continue when she thought her last ounce of strength was gone.

  Leading the mare back to the paddock took less time than Stephanie had expected. Her fingers fumbled with the rope tied to the halter and, once, when Raider jerked her head up, Stephanie could not control a small cry of pain. "Be still," she hissed, glancing warily around to see what had frightened the horse. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. Stephanie sighed with relief and headed toward the manor.

  When she crept inside the house, only a grim determination kept her going. A minute or two longer, she told herself. That was all she needed; then she could collapse on her bed and slip into the oblivion of sleep. She hugged the promise to her until she had reach of the upper hallway. Then, once more, instinct drove her on.

  If she curled up in her bed as her body demanded, she would be discovered the next morning, wounded and dressed in a man's clothes. Stephanie knew that her maid would gossip with other servants and soon the dragoons might hear of it. She might be arrested as the highwayman, a fate she desperately wanted to avoid.

  What to do?

  Nicholas, her mind said. Find Nicholas! He'll sort everything out. He'll protect me.

  She drifted down the hallway to the doorway that led to the Earl's suite of rooms. A strange sort of contentment enveloped her as her hand touched the doorknob and turned. "Nicholas?" she whispered as she stepped into the darkened room. "Milord?"

  * * *

  Nicholas twisted restlessly in his seat as the swiftly moving carriage neared Silverbrooke. Suddenly the rhythm of the coach changed, as the horses were drawn up from a brisk trot to a careful walk. Abruptly all movement ceased.

  Even as he straightened, preparing to demand an explanation from his coachman, Nicholas heard the sound of agitated voices carried on the clear night air. The instincts that he had developed since becoming involved in French affairs sprang into life. There was no doubt in his mind that the unexpected stop and the excited voices had something to do with the highwayman roaming the area.

  He waited impatiently while a footman went to discover the cause of the delay. A few minutes later, he heard voices nearby and his coachman, who had been in the service of the Earls of Wroxton since before Nicholas inherited the title, came himself to announce grimly, "There's been a killin' up ahead, my lord." The flickering light from his lantern threw foreboding shadows across his disapproving features. "A fat old man keeps shoutin' he's done som'un in and a score or more troops is all standin' about gawking."

 
"Indeed," Nicholas said coolly, though his heart sank at the comment about the dead body. "Lower the steps, John. It appears I must endeavor to discover who is in charge if we are to reach Silverbrooke before morning."

  The coachman nodded, obviously as disgusted by the delay as his master. He directed the footman to take up the lantern from the other side of the coach, and together they followed Nicholas, lighting his way and providing him with the retinue due his rank.

  Nicholas strolled toward the squat black carriage, thinking hard. As he neared, the babble of voices sorted themselves into a strident tenor and an annoyed bass. When the pool of light cast by the lanterns reached the edge of the circle of troops, the speakers fell silent. Then the bass voice demanded, "Who goes there?"

  The captain Tony mentioned, Nicholas decided grimly. Aloud he said, "I am the Earl of Wroxton, though I doubt we have been introduced, sir."

  The troops parted magically at his words, allowing Nicholas to pass through their ranks. Surreptitiously he scanned the area, but he did not see a body, or even a dark pool of blood. A tension he was not even aware of eased away.

  With slow deliberation he inspected the coach, the driver, the group of cavalrymen. "What the devil is going on here?" he said at last.

  A jumble of words erupted as a result of his question. Nicholas put up a silencing hand and said curtly, "One at a time, if you please. I would like to make sense of what I am hearing." He pointed at the fat man. "You may speak first."

  "I shot the highwayman! Killed the evil wretch, I did. My ball went right through his heart, I tell you..."

  Nicholas looked pointedly about. "I see no corpse." The big man flushed. Nicholas took note of his clothes, fashionably cut, but of poor cloth, and reflected that the man was from the same mold as some of the revolutionaries he had run up against in France: a new man, puffed up with recently acquired power. Boastful and cowardly at the same moment. Nicholas very much doubted that this fellow had severely wounded the highwayman, but he had probably fired his pistol, as he claimed.

  The dragoon officer took the opportunity to step into the conversation. "My lord, pray, allow me to introduce myself. Captain Richard Longrin of the Tenth. I have been detached to bring the highwayman prowling this area to justice. Are you perhaps the owner of Silverbrooke Manor?"

  Nicholas's heart skipped a beat. "I am."

  "Then I have spoken to your relation, Mr. Anthony Baxter, on this very subject."

  "He has written me," Nicholas confirmed, bowing slightly.

  The fat man, tiring of the punctilious conversation between the two gentlemen, interrupted uncouthly. "What are you going to do about the highwayman? Is there a reward? How do I claim it?"

  "Undoubtedly fascinating questions," Nicholas murmured smoothly, "but I fear they must remain unanswered for the moment. Captain, has a highwayman been wounded?"

  Ignoring the bellicose victim, the Captain replied, "My men have found some traces of blood, my lord, but I suspect the wound is not severe, as the fellow was able to lose himself in the woods."

  "Then I am not needed here. If you will be so kind as to clear the road for me, I am anxious to reach my home tonight."

  "Of course, my lord. Sergeant! Move this coach out of the way for the Earl."

  The fat man sputtered and protested, but no one paid any attention. A few minutes later, Nicholas was back in his seat, having heard the Captain's promise that he would wait on him the next day to provide details of the action, as the carriage got underway once more.

  Silverbrooke was in darkness when Nicholas arrived, but the footman's energetic pounding on the door soon roused the house. As Nicholas entered, Jordan, the butler, who had hastily dressed in the Wroxton scarlet livery, said "My lord, we did not expect you! Your rooms are ready, of course. I shall send one of the footmen to light the fire immediately. You will wish your valet to attend you as soon as possible, of course."

  Nicholas relinquished his hat and gloves to the butler, but said wearily, "Don't bother with the fire. The evening is a fine one and not at all chilly. Have my man heat some water. I would like to wash before I seek my bed."

  Bowing, the butler replied, "As you wish, my lord."

  Nicholas picked up a two-branch candelabra and, disdaining the aid of a footman to light his way, sauntered up the stairs. Once he was in the long second-floor hallway, away from the prying eyes of his staff, his pace quickened. He had but moments to make his arrangements if all was not as it should have been.

  Pausing at Stephanie's door long enough to be sure that she was not sleeping peacefully in her bed as she should have been, he strode grimly to his suite. Thrusting open the door, he demanded curtly, "Stephanie? Are you in here?"

  A choking sob was all the reply he needed. Raising the candles high, he closed the door and searched for her in the shadows.

  "I am here," she said in a tired voice. She tried to rise and the movement caught his eye.

  Grimly he surveyed her. There could be no doubt that she was the highwayman; anyone who saw her now would never be convinced otherwise. "Were you wounded by the fat man's shot?"

  Stephanie did not bother to question how the Earl knew of her misfortune, or why he accepted her nefarious activities so calmly. All she knew was that he had arrived and she was safe at last. "The ball grazed my shoulder, but I think there is no great damage." She smiled wanly. "It hurts like the very devil, though."

  "I should think so," Nicholas muttered, memories of his own recent injury flitting through his head. It took all of his willpower not to draw her into his arms and comfort her, but an internal clock, ticking away the seconds, kept reminding him he must ensure that her secret remain between the two of them. "In a moment, my valet will be bringing up hot water. You must hide until he has gone."

  "Shall I go to my room?" Stephanie had no desire to do anything of the sort, but she had to ask.

  "There is not enough time. It would be just as bad for your reputation if you were seen creeping away from my rooms, as it would be if you were caught here." Nicholas deliberately did not mention the worst option, of her being identified as the highwayman. He realized that she was near exhaustion and that her panic simmered close to the surface.

  "My reputation?" she repeated, and laughed. "Mon Dieu, at this precise moment, I care little about my reputation!"

  "Then it is a good thing I am here," he said, putting the candelabra on a table so that he could scoop her up into his arms. He carried her to his sitting room, where he gently placed her on an ottoman before the empty hearth. There were sounds of movement in the bedroom. "Do not stir," he whispered.

  His valet had evidently dressed hurriedly, for his shirttail was untidily tucked in and his neckcloth was a simple knot. "We did not expect you this evening, my lord. I am sorry I was not prepared for your arrival..."

  "Your concern is kindness itself, Jenkins, but not necessary. If you will leave the water and towels in the dressing room, I will tend to myself."

  "But my lord!" the valet protested, scandalized.

  Nicholas smiled gently. "Good night, Jenkins." Accepting the voice of authority, the manservant did as he was bid. Nicholas allowed a few minutes to pass before he carefully locked the door to ensure no further interruptions. He found Stephanie huddled where he had left her, a small, defenseless figure who tugged at his heart. The sympathy he had been suppressing rushed over him in a tide of emotion. Once again, he gathered her into his arms, this time more gently.

  She sighed and laid her head against his shoulder. "Is he gone?"

  "For the moment. Stephanie, I need to clean and bandage your wound. Can you help me?"

  "What must I do?" she asked wearily as he sat her down on the edge of the bed.

  "Take off your coat," he said bluntly. She nodded and began to shrug her uninjured shoulder free of the coat. Her face was pale and strained, but Nicholas noted proudly that she did not complain. When it came to removing the tattered garment from her right shoulder, he quickly took over as she sucked i
n her breath to suppress a cry. With the wound revealed, Nicholas brought the candles close to get a better look.

  As he had hoped, the injury not serious. The light played on Stephanie's ashen features. Her eyes were huge, frightened and hurting. "En bien," she whispered. "Tell me truly, Milord. Is it very bad?"

  He smiled and ran the back of his hand down her white cheek. "Truly, Mademoiselle, I must clean and bandage your injury, but I have seen much worse than this."

  Her eyes widened. "You have?"

  Nicholas realized that he had slipped, but did not care. "Yes. Now, lie down. I'll be back in a moment." He eased away, leaving Stephanie as she stretched out on the bed with a sigh.

  When he returned, he held a box and a small knife in his hand. He put these beside the bed, then went to get the basin of water and the cloths that Jenkins had left. Stephanie had to swallow hard to keep from whimpering with dismay and fear.

  At some time during the operation that followed, she was able to surrender to the pain invading her, and fall into oblivion. Relieved, Nicholas quickly completed the cleansing of the wound, then neatly bandaged it, keeping the dressing as thin as he dared, so that it would be less noticeable. When at last he was finished, he surveyed her.

  She lay sprawled on his bed, her feminine shape emphasized by the male garments she wore. Gently, he pulled off her riding boots, then debated whether or not to remove the rest of her clothing. She moaned and moved restlessly. The heavy cloth of her breeches caught at the fine linen of the sheets, deciding the question for him.

  Propriety be damned. He would make her as comfortable as possible and that meant removing the breeches. It also meant changing the ruined shirt for another. Nicholas gritted his teeth, telling himself to remember that tonight he was her sawbones and nothing else, and set about stripping the garments from her body.

  Chapter 12

  As the spring evening cooled into the depths of night, Nicholas felt the chill in every part of his body. He had been dozing on and off, seated in a chair by the bed so that he would be nearby should Stephanie turn feverish. After an initial period of restlessness, she was now sleeping peacefully, but Nicholas was wide awake. His uncomfortable position, plus the nip in the air, had banished slumber.