Her Wicked Highwayman E-Book

Lauren Smith

• Herausgeber: Lauren Smith
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The League of Rogues
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 501

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Rafe Lennox:
Notorious highwayman…
Infamous rake…
Adopter of orphans…
If there’s one thing about Rafe Lennox that the women of London know…it’s that his heart cannot be tamed, except perhaps by the little Scottish orphan he has claimed as a daughter. That doesn’t stop every eligible woman in London from trying to convince the outrageous flirt to put a ring on their finger after they tumble into his bed.
But Rafe has never been tempted by love to marry, until he robs a coach one night and he steals a necklace from a brave and beautiful woman. Rafe wants nothing more than to seduce the young lady into his bed, but another highwayman is encroaching on his territory, robbing the rich before he can get to them, and until he can stop this his competitor he has no time to woo. When he discovers the other thief is a woman…the infamous rogue’s heart is stolen forever. Has the black sheep of the Lennox family finally met his match and perhaps his end?

Leseprobe

HER WICKED HIGHWAYMAN

THE LEAGUE OF ROGUES

BOOK XIX

LAUREN SMITH

CONTENTS

The Highwayman Poem

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Epilogue

A Note from the Author

About the Author

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright © 2024 by Lauren Smith

Cover art by Alan Ayers

The Highwaymen poem by Alfred Noyes was originally published in 1906 and is considered to be in the public domain.

All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitutes unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

No part of this book may be used to train AI, or language learning models for any reason.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

ISBN: 978-1-958196-54-0 (e-book edition)

ISBN: 978-1-958196-55-7 (paperback edition)

To you, the woman who feels the need to linger on a quiet country road, embracing the pull of the shadows and the mystery of the trees beyond, and senses that perhaps a highwayman had once passed through the very spot you are standing on. To you, the woman who wishes you could have met him on a moonlit night and seen the flash of that smirk beneath a mask and felt the gentlemanly caress of his gloved hand over the column of your throat as you tremble, torn between fear and desire. This story is for you.

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.

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,   

A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.

They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.   

And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,

         His pistol butts a-twinkle,

His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

- The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes

PROLOGUE

OCTOBER 13, 1803

“Malcolm please! Don’t go, I beg you!”

Rafe shut his eyes against the sounds of his parents quarreling. He held his breath as he prayed he would go unnoticed in his hiding place at the top of the stairs. But he was no longer a tiny child, able to tuck himself away in a wardrobe or a cupboard. At ten, he was too tall, too lean, and too large to hide himself behind the railings of the stairs. Rafe forced his eyes open, reminding himself that he was old enough to face the truth—that the deep love his parents had once shared was withering away like flowers after too much sun and too little rain.

The Lennox townhouse was nearly dark, the candles and lamps extinguished for the night. The servants were already abed, and they knew it was not their place to interfere in such quarrels. Only the grandfather clock dared to chime in the midst of such an argument.

His father stood in the marble entryway, the light from the open parlor door showcasing his aristocratic nose and the ice of his blue eyes. Rafe’s mother stepped toward Malcom, one hand clasping his coat sleeve to halt him.

“Let me go, Reggie, damn you. I have debts to settle, and I must handle them tonight!” Malcolm hissed. Regina paled, drawing back from her husband as though he’d struck her. He had never hit her, but ofttimes words could be just as brutal. As could a callous disregard for those one was supposed to love.

“More debts? How much more? Malcolm, we cannot afford—” Regina’s soft voice quavered. His mother had always been a commanding force, and now she was afraid. Rafe wanted to go downstairs, to stop this, to put an arm around his mother’s shoulders and tell her all would be well. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t get between them and defy his father, a man he loved just as much as his mother.

“Don’t you understand? I lost it all. We can afford nothing,” Malcom said, his voice rough with emotion. “I’ve been a bloody fool, and now . . . it’s too late.”

What did he mean? Rafe’s stomach dropped and his mind blanked with dread. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good.

Regina covered her mouth with her hands for a moment. Then she tried to calm herself. “But my bride price . . . My father put it in a trust for me to use if we had need of it. We still have that⁠—”

Malcolm gave a harsh and broken laugh, and the sound dragged invisible claws over Rafe’s spine. He had never heard his father sound like that before.

“I wagered that too. I was sure I could win this time, Reggie. But Lord Caddington cheated. The bastard won every shilling. I’ve already withdrawn the money from your trust.”

Regina’s lips parted and her face drained of color. The silence between them, albeit brief, could have frozen the entire world.

“How could you? It requires my approval,” she said.

“I forged your signature, and your solicitor and trustee believed it to be genuine.”

“You . . . you stole my future, our children’s future! Malcom . . .”

“Reggie,” he said and reached for her this time.

His mother slapped his father across the face and then, clutching her hand, fled the entryway, leaving his father to stand there alone, his shoulders hunched.

Malcolm stared in the direction that Regina had fled. Then, with a sigh so weary that it seemed to carry the weight of his every sin, Malcolm walked out the front door.

As the door closed, Rafe’s stomach clenched. He was going to be sick. He bent double, his belly cramping, and he struggled to breathe until he calmed. Was it true? Were they without any money? Surely his father hadn’t spent everything in the gambling hells. Surely he couldn’t have . . .

Suddenly, Ashton exited their father’s study and rushed down the stairs, looking the way their mother had gone and then toward the front door. Then he looked up toward the stairs, seeing Rafe as if he’d known as he always did where Rafe liked to hide.

“What happened? Where’s Father? I heard shouting.” Ashton was only fifteen, but he already held an air of command. Rafe knew his brother could fix the break between their parents—Ashton could do anything.

“He left—he and Mother quarreled about money again.”

Ashton cursed softly. “Stay here, you understand? I’ll bring him back.” Then Ashton grabbed his cloak and rushed out into the night.

Gripped by a need to help his elder brother, Rafe raced down the stairs and out into the night. Ashton walked ahead of him, and their father was just beyond them, barely visible in the gloom, his pace brisk, his head bowed.

Rafe followed his brother and father along Half Moon Street as they wandered deeper and deeper into a part of the city he knew they should not go. The streets grew narrower, the muck on the road thickened, and the mingled smells of fear and despair emanated off the walls of the hovel-like structures they passed. Where was his father going? Surely the people living here were not anyone he would or should know. Yet without a backward glance, his father strode toward a tavern, unbothered by being in such a place as this.

His father disappeared into the building, whose faded sign read, “Devil’s Spear.” A minute later, Ashton carefully crossed the road and entered the building as well. Rafe kept a watchful eye on the men around him who passed through these cramped streets. The men who lived in this part of London had hard and dangerous faces. Rafe had always been able to read a person by their expressions, even the most minute ones, and he could usually read a person’s intentions. These men would slit his throat without a second thought.

Rafe stepped deeper into the shadows of the mews across the street until he could decide what he should do. He cursed the light hue of his hair, fearing the shine of it might reveal him in the dark just as his bright-blue eyes so often did. If his father or Ashton saw that he was here, he would never hear the end of it.

Rafe squared his shoulders as he crossed the street and took hold of the door handle to the Devil’s Spear. When he opened it, he found a boisterous taproom filled with gambling tables and drunk men. The building was a ramshackle maze of rooms and corridors so crowded that it was hard to see where his elder brother had gone.

Women with bared breasts sat atop the laps of several men as they offered tankards of ale. Serving wenches wandered through the room with trays, handing out yet more ale. At one table, in full view of everyone, a man had a woman’s skirts up over her bottom and was . . .

Rafe’s face flushed at the unexpected intimate sight. Where the devil was his father and Ashton?

He wove his way through the chaotic din of rooms, seeking the familiar faces of either his father or his brother in the crowd. Finally, in the farthest corner of the room, he spotted a square table with three men speaking, their voices drowned out by the din. One of the men was his father. Letting out a sigh of relief, he decided to risk his father’s displeasure and show himself and beg him to come home. Rafe navigated his way through the room, feeling the menacing stares of the men and the wistful smiles of the wenches. One woman even grasped his arm as he walked past.

“My, my, ain’t ye quite the lad . . .” She batted her lashes at him and leaned forward, letting him see her bountiful bosom.

Rafe’s face flooded with heat as he pulled away from the woman. He was frightened by the way she looked at him.

The men around her sneered, and laughter broke out as one man slapped the woman’s bottom hard. She yelped, but then she started laughing too. Rafe took the opportunity to escape and moved even more quickly toward the table in the back.

When he reached his father, he stood behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Malcolm flinched and whirled, as if expecting a fight. He gaped when he saw it was Rafe.

“What the devil are you doing here?”

“I came to take you home, Father.” Rafe didn’t dare look at the other two men, but he could feel their eyes on him. He didn’t mention that Ashton was somewhere in this awful place—that might well make his father even more furious.

“I’m in the middle of something important, Rafe. Go home.” His father’s voice held a warning that terrified Rafe. His father was a strong man, and Rafe had always believed he could do anything. Now, for the first time in his life, he saw a different side to the man he had idolized.

“Go home, my boy, please.” His father grasped Rafe’s arm, giving it a hard squeeze. “Take care of your mother and sister. I will be home soon.”

Rafe wished desperately that his elder brother was there. Ashton always knew what to do, what to say. Where was he? How had he not found their father as quickly as Rafe had?

Rafe finally summoned the courage to look at the other two men at the table. One was stout but looked strong. He wore the fine coat of a gentleman, but cruelty lined his features in deep grooves. The second man was massive, a brute with a heavy, pockmarked face. He sneered at Rafe. This was the sort of man one would never dare wager against in one of those underground boxing rings he wasn’t supposed to know existed.

The gentleman eyed Rafe with frighteningly dark eyes. “Introduce us to your welp, Lennox.”

“I . . .” Malcom hesitated, but finally relented. “Rafe, this is Lord Caddington and his associate, Mr. Phelps.” His tone was so full of woe that Rafe immediately feared what lay between his father and this man.

Caddington swept a cold gaze over Rafe. “How old are you, boy? Ten, twelve?”

“Ten, my lord.” Rafe’s tone was steady, even though he was shaking inside. Something about this man felt terribly wrong. Rafe couldn’t read him like he could other people. He had no tells, no quirks, no slight expressions to indicate what he was thinking or feeling. The man’s eyes were empty.

“Pretty lad, aren’t you, boy?” Caddington mused and stroked his chin. “Lennox, perhaps your boy can work off your debts by attending me in my household.”

Malcolm shot to his feet. “No!”

The bellow was so loud and unexpected, the entire room quaked with the rumble of Malcolm’s shout. A hush fell across the drunken crowd until they resumed their activities like nothing had happened.

“No, Caddington,” Malcolm said more quietly, but with no less menace in his tone. “You have the necessary papers to acquire the funds I owe you, and that should be enough. My son has nothing to do with this.”

Caddington toyed with his glass of brandy as he assumed a contemplative expression.

“It may be enough for now, but you can’t avoid the tables forever, Lennox. We both know you will be back. And when you are, I will claim that boy as payment.” Caddington flashed Rafe a grin that promised dark and terrible things should he and Caddington ever meet again.

Rafe backed up a step. He wanted to leave, he wanted to turn tail and run, but he was a Lennox. He wouldn’t abandon his father to this man.

Malcolm grasped Rafe’s arm. “It’s time for you to go home, son.” They both headed for the door of the gambling den and stepped outside into the night.

“I’ll call a hackney for you,” his father muttered, refusing to look his son in the eye as he raised his hand and called a coach to come toward them. When the driver stopped before them, Malcolm paid the man and gave him the address of the Lennox townhouse.

“Aren’t you coming with me?” Rafe asked his father in a quiet, scared voice.

“No, there is something I must do . . . I will be home by morning.” His father’s voice had an odd sound to it, and Rafe didn’t like the strange look upon his father’s face.

Rafe shuddered and glanced back at the doorway of the tavern and gambling hell. A dark shadow blocked out the light coming from the open doorway. Rafe recognized the shape of the man. It was Mr. Phelps.

“He wants the boy, Lennox,” Phelps said. “Give him to me.”

“Never,” Malcom snarled. The beast of a man started toward Malcolm, a dark, glinting object in his hand. A knife.

“Father, look out!” Rafe cried out.

Malcolm spun and placed himself between Rafe and Phelps. His father, once a prizefighter at Jackson’s salon, swung and planted a facer on Phelps’s chin, catching the man off guard. The man grunted and then swiped the blade at Malcom’s chest. Malcolm dodged back. The men swung at each other, punches landing on flesh in sickening sounds. Rafe was forced to step back to stay out of the way. It was clear his father was winning the fight—Phelps was outmatched, even though Malcolm smelled strongly of ale.

“Get in the coach now, son!” Malcolm shouted at Rafe and pushed him into the waiting hackney his father had summoned. Rafe fell back against the stiff coach cushions as the hackney started to move, but he didn’t want to go home alone—he wanted to bring his father back with him. Before the coach could pick up any more speed, Rafe opened the door facing the opposite side of the street and jumped out onto the ground, his feet sinking into the dirt and muck upon the road, momentarily catching him in place.

A sharp clatter of hooves and a coach driver’s sudden shout startled Rafe. He had stumbled into the path of a passing carriage. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe as the horses bore down upon him.

Something slammed into him and Rafe hit the ground, rolling over and over until he landed on the other side of the street. His head collided with hard stone, and everything went dark.

* * *

Malcolm cursed as he watched that bastard Phelps stalk back into the tavern. It had been a close one tonight, but Phelps couldn’t win and they both knew it. Rafe was bound for home, he was safe . . . for now. But that wouldn’t always be true. Malcolm had made the mistake of tying his fate to Andrew Caddington’s when he’d started losing money to him, but he’d never dreamed that it would put his young son’s life in danger.

Caddington had a dark side, a side that liked to hurt people, especially young men. He had a fondness for beating men senseless, and it was rumored he’d killed more than one young man at his estate through his love of brutality. He was a devil, a devil whose darkness knew no limits, and now he’d set his sights on Rafe.

But Malcolm was sober enough tonight to know that he had a choice—let his child’s life be in danger, or do the thing that would damn his soul forever but would save his child. When he viewed the situation from that perspective, he knew there was but one course of action to take.

He must kill Caddington. Even if it brough ruin to his family in society, even if he faced the gallows for the murder, it must be done. Caddington could not be allowed to live. Malcom stepped back into the Devil’s Spear and glanced around, seeking out Phelps and Caddington.

“What now, dearie? Care for a ride?” one of the whores who frequented the brothel in the back asked him as he stepped inside. He’d made the mistake more than once of taking them to bed, when he should have gone home to his beloved Reggie, but he couldn’t bear the shame of seeing her pain, her disappointment in him. So he sought solace where he could, with who he could.

“No, not tonight. Where is Lord Caddington?” he asked the woman, knowing she would be well aware of where one of the good “marks” were in the establishment.

“Lord Caddington is in the back. Want me to show you?” She hooked her arm through his and led him past the main gambling room. They stopped at the door to one of the rooms at the end of the corridor and she opened it. “He’s just in there . . .”

As Malcolm stepped inside, something struck his head hard from behind. He stumbled and caught himself on the edge of the empty bed in the room. Everything in his vision spun wildly and he collapsed onto the bed, trying to catch his breath. He was vaguely aware of the whore searching his pockets for money. When she pried his pocket watch from his chest, he struggled to get it back but she shoved him hard and he fell back onto the bed, clutching his head.

The door to the room slammed shut, leaving him in darkness. Then the door suddenly whipped open and someone was rushing toward him.

“Father!” Ashton’s voice came through the haze too late as Malcom struck out, hitting his son across the face.

“Leave me, boy!”

Ashton put a hand to his face, and Malcolm hated the look of hurt in his eldest son’s eyes. He had never struck his son before.

“Father, please,” Ashton begged. “Come home. Mother needs you. We all need you.”

Lord Lennox stumbled to his feet. “Damned whore took my coin purse.” He patted his pockets. “Pocket watch too.”

“Father . . .”Ashton still touched his face where he’d been struck, but Malcom wasn’t listening.

He left the room, tripping over his feet into the hall. He had to find Caddington, had to make sure that man never had a chance to hurt Rafe or anyone ever again. Ashton hurried after him, dodging the gaming tables.

Several men shouted and cursed as Malcolm bowled into them. The blow he’d taken to his head was doing far more damage to his balance than the alcohol he’d consumed.

“Careful, man!” Someone shoved Malcolm toward the front door, trying to get him out of their way.

Have to find Caddington . . . have to . . .

Malcolm’s thoughts abruptly stopped as he reached the curb to the street and spotted something on the sidewalk across from him.

Rafe . . . his dear, sweet boy was sitting on the sidewalk, covered in street filth and holding a hand to his head as though he’d been hurt. Had Caddington tried to get to him again? Please, God, no . . .

“No,” Malcolm gasped and started across the street toward his younger son.

“Father!” Ashton’s shout from behind him came far too late.

* * *

After what felt like an eternity trapped in darkness, Rafe opened his eyes. His body hurt everywhere, and he lay on the stone walkway beside the road, his head throbbing.

Where was his father? Rafe struggled to sit up and looked around in confusion.

His father was across the street staring directly at him, shock and fear on his face. There was no sign of the frightening Mr. Phelps he’d been fighting with. Rafe stared back at his father as his father took a step off the curb and entered the street, not seeing the coach bearing down on him. Everything seemed to slow down, and Rafe could not move, could not blink or even cry out.

Horses screamed and Rafe lifted his head to see them frantically treading upon a lump in the road before the carriage wheels followed, thumping over the shape and crashing back down. A woman who’d been walking down the sidewalk by Rafe screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the mass upon the ground.

“Father!” Ashton’s shout caught Rafe’s attention as he saw his elder brother running after their father, who’d stepped into the street.

“Dead! The man is dead!”

The woman’s words caught Rafe’s heart in an icy grip and squeezed, making it impossible for him to move, to breathe.

Ashton raced down the steps and skidded to a stop a few feet away from their father’s crumpled body.

“Who is it?” the driver demanded as he climbed down from his perch on his coach.

Ashton cleared his throat, but the word still came out broken. “He’s my father.”

“He was your father,” a dark-haired young man with a cane said as he stopped by Ashton, along with others who’d been near the tavern and witnessed the accident. “Drunken fool.” The man walked back into the club, but Ashton remained still, staring at their father, his face utterly white.

Rafe stood up, brushed his bloody scraped hands on his trousers, and walked on shaky legs toward his elder brother.

Ashton lifted his head and stared at Rafe for a moment, his eyes unseeing, then rage and fury filled them.

“What the devil are you doing here? What have you done, Rafe?”

What had he done? Rafe’s lips parted, but he didn’t know what to say. He couldn’t remember. They’d been ready to leave, his father had been sending him home, and then that terrible man Mr. Phelps had come after them, and they’d fought. But Father had been winning the fight, hadn’t he? Hadn’t he? Rafe’s mind ached and he shut his eyes briefly, trying to think, but he couldn’t remember.

“I . . . don’t know . . . Ashton. I don’t know . . .”

“You’ve killed him, that’s what you’ve done, because you couldn’t stay home where you belonged,” Ashton snarled. “You killed him . . .” The last words choked from his brother as Ashton looked at Rafe in a way he never had before. With scorn—with hatred.

“No, he can’t be dead. Father . . .”

Pain throbbed in Rafe’s shoulder and head, where he’d fallen against the pavement. But none of that mattered. He knelt down and lifted his father’s head, trying to cradle it on his lap. Blood coated Malcolm’s lips and his body was bent at unnatural angles. His eyes were open, but his expression was dazed. Rafe didn’t want to think about how much pain his father was in. He’d broken his arm once, falling from a tree a few years ago, but his father was . . . beyond repair.

Malcolm licked his lips, his gaze slowly moving between Rafe and Ashton, who’d knelt down next to Rafe. Ashton’s face was white as marble. His lips were parted but he didn’t speak, didn’t move—it was as though he was frozen.

Rafe turned his focus back to his father. His hands shook as he gently touched his face. “Father.”

“My boy.” The words escaped Malcolm’s lips like a soft sigh, and then the glimmer of life in his eyes faded away.

Rafe held his father’s head in his lap, tears streaming down his face as he met Ashton’s gaze. His older brother didn’t move, he simply stared at their father . . . utterly broken.

“Someone help us! Anyone! Please!” he shouted at the bystanders who looked on with mingled sorrow and pity. But there was no help, not for Lord Malcom Lennox. It was far too late. Not even his elder brother could help their father now. He was gone—and Rafe had been the cause of it.

Rafe wiped at his eyes, a strange numbness creeping through his limbs as he saw Mr. Phelps and Lord Caddington staring at him from a short distance. They were more wraiths than flesh and blood. Rafe’s eyes burned with a hatred so strong that, for a moment, it filled the emptiness that his father’s death had left. They were responsible for this.

Someday he would kill them both. Even if he had to wait a lifetime. His steel would taste their blood and his father would be avenged.

* * *

Regina Lennox stared at the burning embers of the fire in the drawing room. Every bone in her body ached as her worry for Malcom deepened. She pulled her plaid shawl tighter around her shoulders. They had quarreled before, but never like this. And she’d never struck him before. But he’d done the unthinkable. He’d betrayed her trust in a way he’d sworn he never would.

That money, the dowry her father had given her, was to be a gift to their children someday. And he’d gambled it away without a thought . . . because he hadn’t bothered to think of her at all as he’d lingered over those tables full of vice. Her throat tightened as she struggled to keep herself from crying. Tears would do no good. She had to be strong, for herself and for her children.

It was two o’clock in the morning and still Malcolm had not returned. A hard clacking of the front door’s brass knocker pulled her from her thoughts. Malcom! She abandoned her seat in the drawing room and rushed into the entryway, flinging the door open.

“Malcolm, where have you⁠—”

Her voice died as she saw a stranger on the steps facing her. The man removed his hat and held it in his hand, his face solemn.

“Lady Lennox?”

“Y-yes.” She could barely speak. Her throat closed as a sudden inescapable weight pressed down on her chest, threatening to choke her. She knew what this was. She knew.

“I regret to inform you that your husband has died.”

A ringing started in her ears as she saw two figures step out from behind the man speaking to her. Rafe and Ashton. Their faces were ash-white, and Rafe’s clothes were covered in mud. When had her sons left the house?

“My lady?” the man asked. “Did you hear what I said? I said, your sons witnessed the accident.”

“Accident?” Regina had never fainted before, but right then the world spun dizzily around her. Her legs gave out.

Rafe dove to catch her, but Ashton shoved him out of the way and held their mother tenderly to him. “Mother!”

“How . . . how did it happen?” Her voice was breathless, but the man still heard her.

“He was run over by a carriage, my lady,” he said as he knelt close to Regina. “I was the constable on duty. I will need to ask you some questions about your husband’s movements this evening and⁠—”

Regina stopped listening to the man. She stared into her sons’ faces and read the pain in their eyes, the pain and . . . in Rafe’s face, guilt. Her beautiful little boy’s face was twisted with grief. Ashton shot Rafe a look of pure rage that Regina couldn’t understand. Her sons loved each other, they never fought . . . they never . . .

Something had happened tonight to change that.

She clutched Ashton’s arms, her heart shattering and her voice breaking as she stared at her youngest son.

“Rafe, what have you done?”

CHAPTER1

Excerpt from the Quizzing Glass Gazette, October 13, 1822, the Lady Society column:

Lady Society has become aware of reports of a dangerous highwayman who hunts for jewels and coins on the road in the country throughout Hampshire. While Lady Society usually focuses on scandalous gossip of the goings-on of the ton, this tale was simply too delicious to ignore.

By all accounts, this highwayman is dangerous only to those who dare cross him. He holds the men at bay with a pistol in hand, while kissing the rings off the ladies with the other. He is without question a scoundrel of the highest order, but one can’t help but embrace the romantic imagery he evokes. Lady Society wonders what lies beneath the domino and the black cape. Who is this man who cries, “Stand and deliver!” as he collects his prizes? Perhaps he will move his hunting territory to the streets of London so that the ladies of the ton might feast their eyes on this handsome devil.

Diana Fox pulled her shawl tighter about her shoulders as she stared bleakly out of the coach window. She would be home in a few hours, but as much as she was glad to be returning, she had no good news to bring with her to those servants who had loyally stayed with her after her father died.

Foxglove Hall, her beloved family home, would soon belong to creditors if she could not find a steady source of income for the estate. They had the farming tenants, of course, but she could not take what little money they were able to earn. She’d spent the last three weeks in London, meeting with her father’s solicitor and doing her best to sort out the mess his passing had left her to deal with. At least now she had a complete list of the debts she must pay and the amounts. The solicitor had persuaded the banks to give her a month’s time to come up with at least half of what she owed. The problem was, she was without a means to earn it.

Wind whistled against the windows of the coach. Its chilliness permeated the cracks in the frame, freezing the interior of the coach, along with its passengers. Three others traveled with her on this stagecoach, two men and a woman. They were huddled together for warmth on one side of the coach, while she kept her distance on the opposite side. She had learned during their brief discussions that the other occupants were a family, with a father, a mother, and their son, Claude, who was around Diana’s age of twenty-three.

She had politely put off the young man’s attempts at small talk when it became clear he was interested in her. She had neither the time nor the inclination for romance, let alone the patience to entertain a restless young pup like this young man. He was nice enough, even pleasant looking, but his attentions only stirred a frustration deep inside her. She’d given up on love and marriage years ago, when she’d begun caring for her ailing father.

I barely have time to care for myself. How could I possibly stretch myself thin for yet another man?

It was a question she wearily voiced in her mind whenever a pang of loneliness struck her more deeply than usual. As always, she’d pushed the loneliness down, buried it so deep it could not easily claw its way back to the surface.

Other women might have married for security, but she couldn’t stomach the thought. A marriage as an agreement or contract would put Diana at a disadvantage—and ultimately at the will of the man she married. Should their relations sour, she would be the one who stood to lose everything.

Therefore, it made no sense to marry someone unless it was for love, a lasting love and friendship that would not devolve into a war of wills she would ultimately lose because she was a woman and therefore her husband’s property. If she married, it would be for love. It would be because her heart simply could not beat another second without the man she loved in her life. But that kind of man was nothing but a girlish daydream. Her home and the well-being of the servants who lived there were all that mattered to her now.

The coach dipped a little as the wheels fell into a rut on the road. Diana braced herself against the side of the coach, wincing at the jarring distraction.

Only a few miles down the road, the coach would stop in front of a pair of carved stone foxes on pillars that abutted the entrance to Foxglove Hall, her family’s home.

A bitter ache stirred in her chest as she reminded herself that she no longer had any family.

I’m all that’s left of the noble house of Fox.

Her mother had died when Diana was fifteen, and her older sister had run away from home to get married not long after. And then her father had passed from a stroke less than a year ago.

“Shouldn’t be long now,” Edwin, the older gentleman, pronounced to his wife. “Good thing to be home. A storm is coming. I can smell the rain.”

His wife nodded primly, as if she took her husband’s words as gospel. “We don’t want the road too muddy. If the coach becomes stuck, we would have to spend the night on the road.” She glanced at Diana, trying to include her in the conversation. “Do you have very far to go, my dear?”

Diana tore her gaze from the window. “Perhaps another two miles?”

“And where are you bound, Miss Fox?” Claude asked eagerly. “Perhaps I could escort you there?”

“No,” she gasped out, then calmed herself. “I mean, no, thank you. I will be quite fine. My staff will be waiting for me. My groom usually waits for me near the road.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Her groom, a wonderful though somewhat ancient fellow named Nelson, always insisted on riding out to meet her at the gates and escorting her home, but today he didn’t know when she would be coming home. But the last thing she needed was yet another man trying to woo her with his courtly gestures. She’d been through all this before and had seen where it ended—with a man believing he could take liberties, or force her hand into marriage. And it always started with a polite escort home.

He deflated instantly at her rejection. “Oh.”

The coach slammed down into another rut and the woman shrieked, clutching her husband’s arm.

“Miss Fox, you can hold on to me, if you like,” Claude offered with a hopeful look upon his face.

“I’m quite fine, I assure you.” She adjusted her white-knuckle grip on the faded pink curtains of the travel coach.

A crack of thunder, sharp and clear, forced the coach to a jolting stop. Diana grunted as her head bounced off the glass of the window she’d been peering through. She rubbed her forehead and looked for any sign of the storm that had suddenly descended upon them.

“That was rather close thunder,” Diana muttered. She hoped the storm would not come yet. It might be a long walk in the rain to the house, and she was already cold.

A shout outside the coach was partially muffled, but the words “Stand and deliver!” were clear enough for everyone to hear.

Edwin straightened, his face paling. “That wasn’t thunder. That was a pistol shot.”

His wife gasped. “Edwin, what are we to do? It must be a highwayman!”

“Unfortunately, that is likely,” Edwin agreed. “Claude, my boy, you must do exactly as we are told. No foolish heroics, do you understand? These scoundrels will shoot a man for the slightest insult.”

Claude puffed out his shoulders, but then gave his father a solemn nod. “Miss Fox, I will protect you.”

Diana offered him a wan smile. This boy couldn’t defend her, and she didn’t expect him to, not against a highwayman. And given her current mood, she was far more likely to be able to defend herself than any man, even against a highwayman. The last few months had been among the most wretched of her life, and if he dared demand a thing from her, Diana would make sure he regretted it.

More shouts came from outside the coach. The horses whinnied and the coach rocked back and forth.

“You bloody scoundrels!” the stagecoach driver shouted from above.

“Come down, now!” came a voice that carried a sharp air of command that stilled Diana’s rapidly beating heart.

The door next to her was wrenched open, illuminating them in moonlight and silhouetting the figure staring at them. A masked man peered inside the coach, his pistol raised at the occupants. He wore no billowing cloak, but a trim black wool greatcoat that sparkled with rain droplets.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” the highwayman said. He had a Scottish burr that rippled across Diana’s skin. She frowned at the unexpected reaction. Perhaps it was just the rich timbre of his voice that she admired?

Admired? Was she going mad? She didn’t admire this man. He was a petty thief—there was certainly nothing to admire about that.

The highwayman grinned, the domino he wore concealing all but his mouth and eyes.

“Please kindly step outside and form a line. If ye cooperate, this will go smoothly and I willna hurt anyone. I request that ye remove all valuable coins and jewels from yer persons.” He waved the pistol at Edwin. “Ye will exit first.”

Edwin climbed out of the coach and helped his wife down. The poor woman was trembling so hard she nearly fell.

The highwayman pointed his pistol at Claude. “Ye go next, laddie.”

“You vile thief!” Claude puffed his chest out but made no move to reach for the man’s gun. “How dare you rob us!”

The thief chuckled and spoke over his shoulder to two other riders, also wearing masks, who waited nearby, their pistols raised and ready to shoot.

“Ach, I’m wounded. The laddie thinks we are vile thieves!”

The other highwaymen laughed, unbothered by the insult.

“All right, laddie, ye’ve proven ye’re brave. Now be at ease, young pup.”

Claude reluctantly climbed down and stood beside his parents. He turned to assist Diana, but the thief nudged him aside with the barrel of his gun.

“Well now,” the man purred as he spotted Diana. “What a bonnie wee thing ye are.” He held out a gloved hand to her.

Diana scowled at him. Bonnie. She wasn’t unkind in her appraisal of her looks, but she was well aware that she possessed an impertinent chin and a slightly upturned nose that made her look more mischievous when in good spirits and quite harsh when she was in a bad mood. And right then, she was most assuredly in a foul mood.

“I do not require any assistance, nor any of your false flattery.” She braced herself on the side of the door and used her free hand to lift her blue velvet skirts out of the way as she stepped through the coach’s doorway. She’d worn her best dresses while in London, hoping to remind the bankers she was still from a noble family, and now she regretted that choice. If it rained now, her dress would be like lead weights upon her skin.

“Ye will let me help you, lass. I insist.” The man reached forward, curling one arm around her waist and lifting her off her feet.

She slid down the front of his body, all too aware of every hard, muscled inch of him, like a marble statue. She clutched his shoulders in surprise at the way her body warmed in response to his. She gazed into bright-blue eyes that seemed like clouds shot through with moonlight. As he set her down, her shawl slipped and she released his shoulders, intending to pull it back up.

“Allow me,” the Scotsman said. He took the shawl and wrapped it back around her, but his gaze lingered on her breasts as he tucked the opposite ends of the shawl into her shaking hands.

“Exquisite,” he said, his gaze still focused on her chest.

“I beg your pardon!” she hissed and covered herself.

The man’s low, rough chuckle scraped over her skin in a most erotic way, sending a flutter of heat through her. “I was speaking of yer necklace. Although, I could say the same of yer beautiful breasts. They are also exquisite.”

“How dare you speak to a lady thus!” Claude shouted. He took a step toward the thief.

Rather than feel challenged, the highwayman seemed only amused by the young man.

“Every lass likes to hear her beauty praised, laddie. Best to learn that lesson before ye start bending women over, eh? All women deserve a bit of wooing before the loving.” The Scotsman’s gaze never left Diana as he brushed the backs of his gloved fingers over her cheek and then down to the column of her throat.

She should have slapped his hand away, but she was caught still by his gaze. She’d never felt like this before. This man’s eyes held her pinned like some poor butterfly beneath a pane of glass. She was powerless before him, but why? No man had ever made her feel like this. His sinfully lush lips parted, and she tasted the sweetness of his breath as he continued to watch her. Their faces were so close now that he could almost kiss her. He seemed to realize the startling effect he had on her, and his grin grew wistful.

“Ye’re too sweet for a man like me, kitten,” he said, his lips curving into a charming, crooked grin. That singular grin unfurled a river of sweet heat that licked through her veins.

“On that, you are quite wrong,” she replied. Some of the fire came back into her blood. Fire she could use. Fire she understood. “I am anything but sweet. I spew fire and I rage,” she warned. But the words came out more breathless than she had thought they would. She was angry, wasn’t she? Why didn’t she sound angry?

“Lucky for ye, lass, I quite like to be burned.” The way he said the word burned sent a thrill through her. What could he mean by that? Were there other ways to burn other than from anger?

One of the other highwaymen spoke up with a light Irish lilt. “Come now, Tyburn, collect our winnings so we can leave.”

Had these men come from all parts of the kingdom? Joined forces to rob Englishmen and women? Given how the government had treated the Scots and the Irish in the last hundred years, she couldn’t blame them. A moment later, she realized that she’d learned the dashing Scotsman’s name.

Tyburn.

Rather fitting, since he would someday hang at Tyburn for his crimes.

“Verra well,” Tyburn said as he stepped back from her and removed a leather pouch, opening it with one hand while keeping his pistol aimed at his victims. “Ye heard him. Pocket watches, jewels, and any coins, if ye please.” He started with Edwin and his wife, who dropped their money and jewelry into the pouch. Claude reluctantly surrendered his money and pocket watch. When the highwayman held out the bag to Diana, she poured the meager contents of her coin purse into the pouch with great regret. She needed that money, blast him! He cleared his throat and stared at her expectantly.

“I gave you all the money I have!” she practically spat.

“Ye forgot yer necklace, my lovely fire drake.”

Her hand shot instinctively to curl around the large freshwater pearl that hung from the gold chain around her neck. It was the only thing of her mother’s she had left that she hadn’t sold to help her keep possession of her home. It was the one thing she couldn’t part with. Her father had given it to her mother the day she’d given birth to Diana. Unlike many men, he hadn’t cared that they’d had no male children. He’d been overjoyed to have a second daughter, and that pearl was a representation of his love for his wife and their new child.

All the fire inside her left. “Please, I must keep it,” she begged. If she had to grovel to keep the necklace, she would.

Tyburn’s lips twitched. “Alas, love, I canna show favoritism to ye or my reputation will be ruined.” He reached up, most likely intending to break the chain in order to remove it from her.

“Wait! Let me do it.” She reached up to undo the clasp, then she cupped it in her gloved palm. He raised the pouch up for her, but rather than drop it into the pouch, she blew out a fast breath, which created a small space between her breasts and the bodice of her gown. She dropped the necklace into the valley of her bosom, then inhaled, preventing the man from being able to reach the pearl.

“Why, ye little—” The thief halted at whatever insult he’d intended and scowled, his blue eyes frosting like a lake in winter. “That wasna a clever thing to do, lass.”

“There is no way you can get to it now,” Diana declared.

“Ye think so, lass? Now ye’ve gone and tempted me.” He eyed her clothes with a measuring look that took her by surprise.

Oh dear Lord . . . She’d made a terrible mistake. No gentleman would have taken that as a challenge.

“But you are a gentlemen! You wouldn’t dare.” She’d read about highwaymen in the papers. They were often men of noble or gentle birth who had fallen upon hard times or circumstances that forced them to resort to thievery. The ones she’d read about were not callous murderers, and they hardly ever forced themselves on women.

“My friends may be gentlemen, but I am not, lass. I will have that necklace, even if I must strip every inch of clothing off yer body to get it.” He reached up and grasped her throat with a gloved hand. He didn’t squeeze, but held her trapped between his powerful fingers. A shot of wild heat ripped through her body and she gasped, but not from fear. His possessive, dominating hold on her neck should have terrified her, but rather it only excited her.

I must be mad . . . truly mad, she thought.

His hand moved to the nape of her neck as he forced her to walk away from the others.

“What are you doing?” Edwin and Claude both shouted. “You cannot abduct a lady!”

“’Tis exactly what I’m doing,” Tyburn growled as he pushed Diana toward his horse. The moment he reached the steed, he picked her up and tossed her over the saddle. She scrambled to catch hold of the reins and briefly envisioned riding off, but he quickly mounted up behind her and seized the reins from her hands. He tucked his pistol inside his coat, well out of her reach.

“Keep a watch on them, Oxford. Then take the third route back to our meeting place,” Tyburn ordered. The man he’d called Oxford nodded. When Tyburn and the third man urged their horses forward, they reached a full gallop after only a few moments.

Diana clutched the horse’s mane, trying not to fall, but Tyburn wrapped an arm around her tight and jerked her back against him. He seemed to be quite used to riding with a hostage in front of him. His long legs settled against her own, his thighs pressing in against hers. She could tell he was laying a hard path to follow, given the varied terrain he took them over, which was far from any roads. It would be hard to track them.

Oxford, she realized, would leave yet another trail to confuse anyone who might come searching for them. Still, Diana did her best to memorize everything she saw. Although much of the countryside looked the same to her, there were places she felt she could remember if pressed.

They rode for half an hour, then slowed their horses in the middle of a field and stopped.

“Why have we stopped?” she asked.

“Cambridge, the blindfold, if you please.” Tyburn pointed to the third man’s waist. Cambridge removed a strip of black cloth from a pocket in his greatcoat and urged his horse next to Tyburn to hand it to him.

“No!” She tried to duck and slide off the horse’s back, but Tyburn held her still with his iron band of an arm. Cambridge manhandled her until he had a grasp on her head and neck. His touch then gentled as he wrapped the blindfold over her eyes. Then her wrists were bound together with another bit of cloth. She wanted to fight, but she wasn’t a fool. If she fell now, bound and blind, she could be trampled by their tall, powerful horses. It was better to bide her time and pretend she was compliant. Once she found out where they had their hideout, she would develop a plan for escape.

The two men were silent as they rode for another length of time. This was harder for her to measure because she was unable to see her surroundings. All she had was the heat of Tyburn’s body behind her and the sound of the horses’ hooves pounding upon the ground.

The rain finally came in driving sheets that soaked her to the bone, but she made no protest. She still had her pride. Still, she couldn’t stop herself from shivering. Her captor seemed to feel it because Tyburn pulled his coat close around her. But it wasn’t large enough to cover them both.

“We havena much farther to go, lass. I’ll warm ye up when we are inside,” he murmured in her ear. She found herself nodding, and her teeth began to chatter.

When they finally stopped, he slid off the horse behind her and helped her down. He then swept her up in his arms as though she were a child and carried her across a threshold, where the rain became muted and ceased to pelt down on her skin. He settled her onto something warm, which she sank back into. An old overstuffed chair, perhaps? The scents she breathed in were clean, no hint of must, nor did she hear the sounds of other people around save for herself and her captors.

The blindfold was removed. Diana blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim light around her. It appeared to be some sort of hunting lodge, given the rustic look of the furniture, including the chair he’d set her down on. It was cozy and felt lived in, but most certainly by bachelors. It had no feminine touches, no draperies, nor matching fabrics.

The two highwaymen moved to a corner of the room and spoke in low tones while stealing glances at her. Then, the one called Cambridge nodded and left the lodge. She saw him through one of the windows as he walked the horses to a nearby stable.

“Now, lass, what am I to do with ye?” Tyburn mused as he came to stand in front of her. She shrank back in the chair, then despised herself for showing such fear, so she raised her chin and met his gaze with a stubborn glare of her own.

Tyburn was tall, and his pale-gold hair turned to a burnished filigree with the rain. His domino still concealed most of his face. In this light, she could see clearly that his eyes were a piercing blue and those sensual lips were too lush for a man’s mouth.

“You shouldn’t have taken me. The others will send the authorities after you.” She tested the restraints that bound her wrists. It only pulled tighter at her struggles.

“I suppose they will. But until they come to yer rescue, I plan to have that necklace, kitten, and ye will give it to me one way or another.” His gaze rolled over her body, and she trembled. “Lucky for me, getting ye out of those wet clothes is to yer advantage. Let no one say ye caught yer death in my arms.” He chuckled as if at some private joke.

Then he leaned over and braced his palms on either side of her chair, staring down at her. She stared back, refusing to flinch this time. She was not some shrinking violet. She was as rough and hardy as a dandelion.

Tyburn reached for her wrists, removing the binding and rubbing them to soothe the red marks that Cambridge had left when he’d tied the rope hastily around her.

“Do ye have a husband waiting for ye at home, lass?”

“Yes.”

He grinned. “So ye arna married. What about brothers?” He removed his gloves and tossed them onto a nearby table.

“A dozen,” she said. “Rather large and angry ones. They will destroy you if you dare touch me.”

“Another lie, kitten. You seem to be as alone as I am in this world.” His Scottish burr came out in a seductive purr.

“I am not alone,” she argued, even though the flash of old pain at the truth stung. She’d never let him see that, never.

The Scotsman pulled her to her feet, so they were standing before each other. “Ach, but that’s the biggest lie of all, lassie. Ye are alone. Like calls to like, ye see. There is a deep longing in yer lovely brown eyes. Looking at ye makes me feel warm.” He reached up to stroke her arms, as if to warm her, not seduce her, and she realized she had started to shiver again. “But it seems ye are still half-frozen.”

Tyburn released her and knelt by the fireplace to start a fire in the hearth. She stared down at his bent head and wondered if she could find something heavy to knock him out with, perhaps one of the logs in the iron stand beside him? No, she’d have to reach past him to get to it. Before she could locate a different weapon in the room, he was standing again and had taken her hand, lifting it to his lips.

“There’s only one way to get ye warm, lass. It’s time we get ye out of these clothes.” He kissed her hand and then removed her soaked shawl, letting it fall to the floor in a damp heap. The cool air around her shoulders and neck made her shiver even harder.

“Please . . . ,” she begged as he unfastened the front of her gown. This was one of her easier dresses to travel in—the blue velvet could be done up the front and required no maid. But it left her feeling vulnerable to stare at his masked face as his fingers delicately slid buttons through slits.

“I willna hurt ye,” he said, sounding both amused and exasperated. “I havena forced a woman to my bed yet, and I willna start now.”

“You are a man,” she whispered. “It’s in your nature to hurt women.”

His hand stilled. “Have ye been hurt before, lass?” he asked, his voice holding a hint of quiet rage that she didn’t understand.

Flashes of memory filled her head. Hands touching her, clawing at her clothing. After her father had died, a number of local men had believed her easy prey, either for rape or ruination so that she would have to marry them. But she’d avoided falling into either trap.

He caught her chin and turned her face so that he could see her eyes again. “Who hurt ye? Give me a name, lass, and I’ll put a bullet through the bastard’s heart.” His voice was a low growl, so full of a menace that she hadn’t expected that her eyes flashed wider with fear.

“I wasn’t hurt. I wasn’t,” she insisted when he seemed to doubt her. “Most women aren’t raised to defend themselves, but for me, it’s second nature to swing a fist.” She thought back to the man who’d tried to assault her as she rode home from the market one afternoon. She’d punched him so hard he’d fallen right off his horse and lay stunned in the road as she’d ridden off.

“Ye havena flung a fist toward me yet, lass,” he said with a smug smile.

“Give me a good reason, and I certainly shall.”

Unbothered by her threat, he grinned back at her, the silence between them charged with something too strange and exciting for her to name. The moment was broken when her teeth started to chatter again. He cursed under his breath and grasped her shoulders, pushing her toward the fire he’d started. When her back was to the warm flames, heating her body, he resumed unbuttoning her gown until it draped away from her. She clutched her arms to her chest. Without a word, he gently pried her fingers away, and the velvet cloth of her dress dropped down over her hips to the floor. He tugged at the ties that kept her petticoats fastened until they too fell to the floor. She now wore nothing more than her chemise and stays.

“These are too wet for ye, lass. They’ll need to come off as well.”

He gently turned her around, letting the front of her body feel the kiss of the fire’s warmth. His fingers touched the laces of her stays.

“Please don’t take my necklace,” she said as the stays around her breasts loosened.

He slid a hand down her collarbone from behind, then moved his hand past her breasts and into the valley of her bosom until he found the necklace just below the undersides of her breasts, where it rested against the stays that hugged her lower ribs. She flinched as he lifted the necklace out from beneath her clothing. He didn’t try to grope or touch her; he simply held on to the pearl and its chain as he pulled it out from her clothing.

“What value does it hold for ye?” he whispered, his breath tickling her neck. The sensation washed over her and lit a fire inside her before she reminded herself what was at stake. He held the necklace between them, and her breath caught at the sight of something that mattered so much to her.

“It was my mother’s.”