The justice of the peace seemed determined to do his companion’s job. “Constable Kenyon will look into this incident, as well as the source of the other shot, immediately.”
“It is unnecessary,” Neville said, putting a hand out to halt the constable from running to get his horse and gallop into the darkness. “We were not harmed and nothing was taken.”
“Nothing?” blurted the constable, earning another scowl from Mr. Goodman.
Priscilla stepped closer to Neville, wrapped her hands around his arm and gazed up at him with the lovesick adoration she had seen on some young misses who thought the insipid expression was endearing. In a coo she borrowed from them as well, she exclaimed, “Oh, my dear husband was so brave. The highwayman knew he had met his match and scurried away empty-handed. Isn’t he wonderful?”
“Wonderful? The highwayman?” asked the justice of the peace, then flushed as he realized how silly he sounded.
“No, my dear, dear husband.” She gave Neville’s arm another squeeze and twittered, “He has always been my hero, but tonight he saved us all. Isn’t he wonderful?”
“Um . . . yes.” The justice of the peace appeared ill-at-ease with her exuberance. Clearing his throat, he said, “You were lucky, Sir Neville. The conveyancer must have been scared off by the sound of us approaching. You are not in London.”
Priscilla trilled a laugh. “What a jest! We do know where we are, Mr. Goodman.” She widened her eyes as she gazed up at Neville. “You do know, don’t you?”
“Yes.” He coughed as if trying to ease a tight throat, but she suspected he was, rather, fighting not to laugh at her response to the justice of the peace’s condescension.
“Give us a description of the highwayman,” Mr. Goodman went on, looking rather embarrassed. “We keep a list of those who have harassed travelers in this area. We can compare what you tell us with what is already on the list. Already we are beginning to see a pattern of which ones attack in which areas. Endlessly fascinating.”
The constable gave a sudden smile as he looked up shyly. “It was Lord Rossington’s idea. A brilliant one that is sure to make my job more rewarding.”
“Rossington?” asked Neville, astonished. “He is the last one I would expect to involve himself in the pursuit of highwaymen. For years, this area has been plagued with highwaymen and other criminals, and he has done nothing to halt their preying on innocent people.”
“His wife and daughters were stopped earlier in the year by a knight of the pad.” Constable Kenyon’s eyes snapped with an abrupt fury that startled Priscilla. He had been restrained until now. “The lady and her daughters were robbed of their jewelry and were terrified. Even Miss Verlyn, who is the bravest, most amazing woman—”
“Enough!” The justice of the peace fired a look at the constable that Priscilla could not read. It was clear the young man did because he nodded and added nothing more as the justice of the peace continued in a calmer tone, “Lord Rossington is determined not to have that incident repeated.”
“It was not tonight, fortunately,” Neville said, his voice even more serene than Mr. Goodman’s. “Now if you will excuse us, my wife should not linger out in the night’s dampness.”
Priscilla could see Mr. Goodman’s disappointment. What would the justice of the peace say if she mentioned it was almost identical to the highwayman’s?
The two men tipped their hats and walked back to their horses. As they swung up into the saddles, she heard Mr. Goodman chastise the constable. She considered reminding the man that the constable had clearly traveled at top speed to find out what had happened, but Neville turned her toward the inn’s door that was set between the two large windows.
He opened the door and murmured, “Just promise me that you will never act so bird-witted again.” He grinned as she stepped past him and onto the foyer’s stone floor. “If you had fluttered your eyelashes once more at me, I would have . . .” He faltered, then laughed. “I would have turned you over my knee as if you were no older than Isaac.”
“I would like to see you try.”
“Would you?” His eyes burned with the heat that thrilled her.
Knowing that she must put an end to the teasing before she flung her arms around him and kissed him boldly in the inn’s front entrance, she slapped his arm playfully.
An inner door opened, and a woman, who was tucking her hair back up under her cap, emerged into the small space. Her simple gray gown was covered with an apron that held the shadows of stains. With a smile, she greeted them, introduced herself as Mrs. Phelps, the innkeeper’s wife, and asked them to follow her.
Priscilla slipped her hand onto Neville’s arm as they went through the door into a hallway with two more doors flanking the stairs. She decided that one door must lead to the taproom because laughter came through it. The other might have been the innkeeper’s private quarters or a sitting room for those who chose not to enter the other room.
Mrs. Phelps put her hand on the newel post and said, “This way please, m’lady. Yer bags are up in yer room already.”
“Thank you.” She was glad her voice did not quiver as her knees did while she walked toward the stairs. Every inch of her quivered with the anticipation of what awaited them upstairs in their private chamber.
Neville’s hand at the small of her back as he walked behind her up the stairs sent a renewed tremor through her. She wanted to race past Mrs. Phelps and up to the room, pull Neville inside, and shut out the world for the whole night.
At the top of the stairs, the landing was too narrow to hold all of them. Mrs. Phelps opened the door, then stepped back to let them enter.
The room was as simple as the rest of the inn, but it had been aired and fresh flowers put in a chipped vase on the mantel. Priscilla moved aside as a boy set the last of their bags on the floor by a wooden screen. Running her hand along the quilt on the wide bed, she smiled. Tonight no sick son or anxious daughter or overbearing aunt would intrude on her and Neville. In a few days, they would reach her aunt’s house where Aunt Cordelia and the children would be waiting for them, but tonight was for her and Neville. Alone. Together.
She went to look out of the room’s sole window. Beyond the roof over a single story section of the inn, she could see lights near the stable. Wind teased the trees and sent the thinning clouds scudding across the moon.
Mrs. Phelps herded the boy out of the room and wished them a good night.
Silence fell in the innkeeper’s wife’s wake. Turning to face her husband, Priscilla wondered if anyone had ever been happier than she was at this moment.
“I will withdraw to the tavern while you . . .” His gaze swept over her, hungry with the same desire gnawing at her middle. For once, words seemed to abandon him, and he gestured toward the ewer and bowl.
“Are you saying that I am so dusty from our journey that I should clean myself before you deign to touch me?”
With a low groan, he swept his arms around her and kissed her with the need she understood all too well. He grumbled something under his breath as he released her just as quickly. When he turned to leave, she curved her hand along his cheek. He grasped it and pressed his mouth against her palm with the desperation of a man watching his dream slip through his fingers once more.
“You could stay . . .” she whispered.
He raised his head and gave her one of the self-deprecatory smiles she loved. “I know you packed something pretty for tonight, and I know I want to see you in it before I see you out of it.”
Her breath caught, and she wondered if she would ever be able to let it—or him—go.
“Will fifteen minutes be enough?” he asked.
“Be back in ten minutes.”
His grin widened. “Ten minutes, it is, sweetheart.” He opened the door, closed it, then opened it again to add, “I will not be a second late.”
Priscilla laughed as the door shut in his wake. He was being honest. She was certain of that.
Going to her smaller bag that had been set by the bed, she opened it. She lifted out the white nightdress and matching dressing gown. She shook the wrinkles from them. The lace had been a gift from her daughters, Daphne and Leah. Isaac had picked out the buttons under his sister’s supervision, not buying the metal ones that were, if Leah was to be believed, the size of a guinea. The small buttons he had chosen were mother-of-pearl and caught the light as she draped the clothes over the wooden screen in the corner.
Humming a nonsense tune, she washed the dust from her face before going behind the screen to change. She fumbled with a few of the buttons on the back of her gown, but she loosened enough so she could slide it down. Her fingers slowed over her hips. On her previous wedding night, she had been not much older than Daphne, and the years and the birth of three children had changed her. Would Neville find her desirable when they were in each other’s arms on that bed?
As if in answer to her question, she heard a sound that could only be the door opening and closing. Neville had been gone barely five minutes. She smiled. She did not want to wait any longer either.
She hastily undid her hair, running her fingers through it as the strands fell around her shoulders. Pulling the nightgown over her head, she buttoned it. She reached for the dressing gown and drew it around her as she stepped around the screen.
“Neville, I . . .” She gasped in horror.
A masked stranger pointed a gun directly at her.
Chapter Two
NEVILLE WIPED the ale foam off his mouth with the back of his hand. Glancing around the taproom, he was not surprised to see no clock. The publican wanted to avoid his patrons noticing the passage of time while they sampled his pints.
“Lookin’ fer someone, mate?” asked a slurred voice from the other end of the table.
“No,” he replied, tilting back his tankard, “I already have someone.”
“They be on their ’oneymoon,” crowed another drinker from the far side of the room. “Saw ’is lovely bride when they come in. She be a fine one.”
“I agree.” He added nothing more, not wanting to discuss Priscilla with these men. No, that was not the truth. He wanted to tell them he was the luckiest man alive to be married to the one woman who had always accepted him.
He remembered the first time he had seen Priscilla. That moment had changed his life forever, in ways he could not have imagined at the time.
It had been at the home where she lived with her late husband, Reverend Mr. Lazarus Flanders. Neville had come to the house as if drawn there. He had recently decided to live a gentleman’s life instead of continuing as the rogue of all trades he had been since he was old enough to be on his own. Few in his family had lived such a genteel life, preferring gambling and whoring and drinking. Just to be contrary, he had been determined to change that tradition. He had sought the vicar’s advice, having heard Lazarus on the pulpit the previous Sunday. Lazarus had been kind and patient and willing to listen, but Neville knew he had not heard a single word the pastor spoke during the short time Priscilla had come into the room with a teapot and cakes.
Her golden hair, demure and worn in a chignon at her nape. Her blue eyes the color of a still pond. Her simple gown that befit her life as a clergyman’s wife, even though she was an earl’s daughter. He had taken in the sight of her and fallen in love between two beats of his heart, but he had believed, as soon as he realized she was the pastor’s wife, it was impossible that she would ever be his. Her hand, lingering on Lazarus’s shoulder, had revealed the loving connection between them more clearly than any words could have.
As time passed, he realized her heart was large enough to offer him a place in it as a friend. He had come to treasure that friendship and the times he shared with her and Lazarus and the children as they were born. With each child, he had been offered the chance to be the godfather. With each, he had declined, because he did not want to think of a day when Priscilla and Lazarus would not be there to raise their children.
Then Lazarus died, and Neville had been torn. He wanted to give Priscilla time to mourn for her beloved husband who had become his best friend. At the same time, he did not want another man to capture her attention. He never let himself consider the fact that she might choose to stay a widow the rest of her days, for that would have meant she never would be his.
Those uncertain days were behind them now. She was his wife and his best friend, closer than even Lazarus had been, because he could speak to her of everything. She made him laugh and awed him with how she could be the epitome of a graceful lady even while wandering among the lowest of the low without flinching. Her inquisitive mind matched his, but while he thought solely of solving the crimes that had intruded on their courtship, she had concerned herself as well with the grieving families of the victims of a heartless murderer.
And she possessed a sensuality that had mesmerized him more with each passing day. Tonight would be different. Tonight, they would think only of each other’s pleasure. He had not wanted to wait even ten minutes to be with her, but the night would be theirs.
“Ale-spinner!” he called.
The heavyset man by the cask looked at him. Tossing a cloth over his shoulder, he raised his ruddy brows toward his bald pate.
“A pair of pints for everyone in the house,” Neville ordered, standing and going to the counter.
Cheers met his words as he slapped coins into the publican’s hand before heading toward the stairs. His coachman raised his tankard in a silent toast, and Neville grinned. Stuttman must see right through his ploy to keep the patrons occupied with their ale while Neville was busy with his bride. Two pints would be downed quickly, but Neville had no intention of hurrying this night. For so long he had anticipated the moment when he could hold Priscilla in their bed. He intended to take his time tonight and savor every bit of his wife.
Wife! He chuckled under his breath as he left the taproom. Up until the moment when he had spoken his vows with Priscilla, there had been those who had wagered he would never wed. He hoped those who bet in favor were enjoying their winnings.
Walking up the stairs, he listened to the muted sound of wind across the thatched roof. The perfect background music for the sweet melody created by two people seeking ecstasy together. He had waited long enough. And he never had been called a patient man. Anticipation was fine, but satisfaction would be far better. He took the last steps two at a time.
Neville was startled when he faltered at the door like a lad about to try to kiss a girl for the first time. There was no uncertainty in him, save that he wondered if he was worthy of the woman waiting for him on the other side of the door. He knew what he had been . . . and what he was.
But so did she, and she loved him even so. She did not care if he had been a blackguard and a thief and a smuggler and an actor and a reluctant recipient of his family’s tarnished title. Nor did she expect him to become some exemplary person honorable enough for her. She loved him just as he was, and that was the sweetest gift he had ever been given.
He pushed open the door. “Pris, I could not wait another . . .” He stared at the unexpected tableau in the room.
His wife was dressed in a milky nightdress with her hair falling around her shoulders, a luscious sight no other man should see. Most especially not a man who held a pistol aimed at her. The man wore one tattered black cloak and had wrapped what looked like another around his head, leaving room for eyeholes. When Priscilla glanced toward the door and him, despair had swept away any remnants of the joyous glow from her face.
The gunman’s eyes shifted rapidly between him and Priscilla. A nervous twitch on his left cheek below the mask warned Neville to make no untoward moves.
“Get in and close the door,” ordered the man with the gun. “Make a sound, a
nd she dies.”
“There is no need for that.” Neville raised his hands and took a single step into the room. Lowering his right hand long enough to close the door, he lifted it over his head again. His fingertips brushed the rafters, sending dust down over his head. He fought a sneeze as he glared at the man with the pistol pointed at Priscilla.
Inspiration gripped him, and he used every skill he had learned during his brief time as an actor in London to keep his burst of excitement hidden. It might be possible . . . He did not have time to consider his options when he had so few left.
As he took another step into the room, he swept his hand along the rafter. Dust flew into the hooded man’s eyes. Blinded, he tried to wave it away.
Neville leaped forward.
“Stay back,” the man ordered, then sneezed. “Stay back, or I will shoot her.”
The threat was an impotent one. The man kept sneezing and coughing. Neville drove his fist down on the masked man’s arm. The gun dropped, hitting the floor with a thud and sliding out of sight. Neville struck the man at the same time. That same dull sound resonated up his arm as the man reeled back against the bed. The man swung wildly, but fell to one knee as water splashed everywhere. Shattered pieces of the water pitcher rained around him.
Neville looked past the man, who clutched his head in his hands, to see Priscilla holding a china handle, all that remained of the ewer. He gave her a grin, then reached down and yanked the man to his feet.
“You owe her an apology,” Neville said coolly. And you owe me one, too, for making a muddle of my wedding night. He needed to keep his focus on this thief now. Later . . . His body ached with the need he had suppressed so long.
The man muttered something.
“Speak up!” Neville ordered.
All he received in an answer was a low groan. The man’s head lolled to one side. With an oath that would have earned him a dressing-down from Priscilla’s stodgy aunt, he let the man fall to the floor. He backed away and reached out to Priscilla.
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