The highwayman was not ten feet away, sitting atop a horse in the center of the path. His greatcoat swirled in the wind as he raised his arm, the double-barreled pistol he held appearing small and light.

Though size was not indicative of deadliness. The thief held the weapon as straight and steady as any spymaster Wulf had encountered during the Reign of Terror.

“What shall I deliver?” Wulf pitched his voice above the wind and narrowed his eyes, evaluating risk. He kept a pistol in his saddlebags, but he would never be fast enough to beat his opponent.

Still, he took one hand from the reins and slid it onto his thigh. Easily, he hoped, so it would seem natural and not calculated to move closer to the saddlebags.

“You may deliver whatever valuables you have on your person.” Through the eerie, dim, snow-light and thickening flakes, Wulf could distinguish a cap pulled low and a scarf wrapped around the thief’s face that was substantial enough to fight the wind. “Beginning with the winnings in your pockets, sir.”

“Now, how is it you know about the blunt in my pockets?” Wulf leaned casually on the pommel. Considered his adversary.

“A rich nabob like you, coming from a house party? Of course you have blunt.” The man’s jacket was big enough he might swim in it. A local lad, perhaps, fallen on difficult times.

Or the Honorable Highwayman.

Wulf had yet to make the acquaintance of the local legend, though he had heard a great deal about the highwayman’s ill-gained generosity.

“I don’t particularly care to give up my blunt, even for widows and orphans.” Though he was actually quite willing to forgo his winnings for such a cause. “At least not at the end of a pistol,” he continued, attempting to stall.

Another few inches and Wulf would be able to reach his weapon. He shifted again, setting his hand a little closer to the saddlebag.

Wind rattled the branches above them, so they clacked and creaked like brittle bones. Wulf’s stallion sidestepped, pranced a few paces. Using both hands—unfortunately—Wulf brought the animal under control again.

“Very well, Your Grace.” The pistol notched higher, its barrels seeming to stare at Wulf with two dark, round eyes. “Then I shall wound you with the first shot. Perhaps you shall change your mind.”

“Unlikely.” Still, Wulf had lost the precious inches he’d gained reaching for his own weapon. His stallion was edgy, and the storm swirled around them—and the coins and pound notes in his pocket were not worth the effort.

But by God, it was the principle. He’d not spent years dodging the guillotine in France only to be bested by a highwayman a few miles from his home.

The wind sharpened, howled, and in the momentary silence as it died again, Wulf clearly heard a long-suffering sigh.

“As you wish, Your Grace.”

The report was deafening, slicing through the silence of snow and night. The already-spooked stallion reared, pawed the air. Even as Wulf recognized the searing pain in his shoulder for what it was, he understood he would not keep his seat.

“Bloody hell!” he cursed, tumbling through flying snow.

When the ground slammed into the back of his head, everything went black.




CHAPTER 2




SHE’D SHOT HIM. Actually shot him.

“Damnation.” As the sound of panicked horse hooves faded into the night, Bea looked down at her pistol and let out an irritated huff. “Why did you have to pick now to be slippery?”

Her aim was nearly perfect, and she’d never yet wounded any of her intended prey.

Only frightened them.

Bea contemplated the man sprawled on the ground as snow began to blanket his greatcoat. She couldn’t leave him here. Unconscious, wounded, and without a horse, since his had gone running off into the trees.

He was also the Duke of Highrow—a boy she’d known. A man she didn’t.

“Damnation,” she said again, as she saw the stains on the snow. Blood. She didn’t need sunlight to recognize the dark drops dotting the ground.

Uncocking the second barrel of her pistol, Bea tucked the weapon into the waist of her breeches and dismounted. She tied her mare’s reins to the nearest tree, then strode forward.

Highrow lay on his back, face bared to the dark sky and biting wind. Crouching, she probed his shoulder among the folds of his greatcoat and evaluated the damage.

He groaned, which was heartening.

Her search revealed the shoulder was just a flesh wound, and she repeated the actions on the back of his head, hatless now. Beneath thick hair just long enough to curl over his collar, she found a large knot. It was no wonder he was unconscious.

Shifting, Bea stared down at the duke. She was close enough to discern the lean planes of his cheekbones, the strong jaw. Although she did not need any light to remember he was handsome. Extraordinarily so. Bea had known it since she was old enough to toddle after him at the village fair or at picnics. Before he had been the Duke of Highrow.

He had been Wulf to her, then. Especially when he’d grown into a young man who teased and laughed with her, indulging a young girl’s foolish infatuation.

She swallowed hard as guilt rippled through her. She’d wounded an old friend, even if it was barely a scratch. She ought to feel more appalled than she did, she supposed. But then, a highwayman did not feel pity for their victims when they were entirely too wealthy for their own good. Which he was.

Her bad fortune that Wulf’s tracks were the set she’d followed. He had never been her target. If there was one man the Honorable Highwayman knew to avoid, it was Wulfric Standover. He had been a soldier for far too long.

Leaning back on her heels, she studied the prone man. Well, she couldn’t leave him here. Wulf wouldn’t bleed to death, but he’d certainly freeze.

Bea judged the area, stared up into the driving snow. The storm was getting worse. Blinding. The bite of the wind penetrated her woolen coat and even the thick scarf she’d wrapped about her face.

“I suppose I should take care of you, now I’ve shot you.” Bea shook him a little, careful not to jostle his head, and was rewarded with a groaning curse. “Wake up,” she shouted over a sudden, howling gust.

Wulf twitched, cursed again and clutched his shoulder.

“Easy now,” she said, pitching her voice to the lower tenor she used as a highwayman. “I imagine it burns like hell, but it is not bad.”

Eyes flicking open, he stared up at her. She remembered quite clearly the deep blue of his irises, though in the night they only appeared to be dark and fathomless.

She wondered briefly if he would recognize her, then dismissed the idea. He’d never recognize her in her current garb. No one ever did. Hair short, no spectacles. Breeches. And it had been nearly a decade since they exchanged more than brief pleasantries. Wulf had been at war, and when he was home, he had paid no attention to an aging spinster.

“Bloody hell, my head hurts.” Slowly, as if testing whether his skull would stay attached, Wulf turned to face her more fully.

“I imagine so. You’ve a knot back there—not caused by me, I am happy to report. That was the ground.” Bea fought not to set a comforting hand on the broad expanse of his chest. Drawing back, she met his gaze. “Can you sit? Stand?”

“You shot me.” Struggling to a sitting position, Wulf peered up at her from beneath hair whipped by the storm into an unruly frenzy. Fury sharpened the already keen planes of his face.

“I told you I would. Now, you are bleeding, and we will both die if we do not find shelter.” She pointed to the sky. “Snowstorm.”

“Surely, this is a jest. Or a dream.”

“Not at all.” Bea pushed to standing, careful to keep the scarf hiding her face. “I know of a cottage not far from here. We will be safe enough until the storm lets up.”

Another groan, and Wulf staggered to his feet. Casting his gaze about the path, he growled, “Where the devil is my horse?”

“The horse has run off, and I don’t think there’s much to be done for him.” Bea retrieved her own mare, who still stood patiently waiting in the trees. “Horses are wily creatures, though. He’ll find a place to weather the—er, weather. As we should do, unless you’d prefer I leave you here to freeze?”

A long, weighty pause spun out, fighting the tossed snowflakes.

“First,” he said finally, “you intend to rob me—I presume you’re the Honorable Highwayman?” At her short, acknowledging nod, he continued. “Then you shoot me, and now you plan to shelter with me?”

“I won’t shoot you again. I give you my word.” Bea shrugged, though she sent up a quick prayer he would not recognize her once they reached the cottage. Yet she could not abandon him. “You can’t walk back, my horse can’t carry the weight of both of us, and you really should attend to the wound. Also, I cannot help being honest. Or at least, to a degree. Leaving you here to freeze seems—dishonest.”

He stared at her, mouth open. “What strange hell have I fallen into?”

WULF WAS NOT SO foolish as to deny himself refuge, even if he was sheltering with a daft highwayman.

The little cottage hunkered between dense trees, appearing barely strong enough to withstand the storm. An even more dilapidated shed leaned beside it. Wulf warily eyed the structures, expecting them to blow over at any moment.

Yet the highwayman was correct that weathering the storm overnight would be impossible. Wulf was trapped—no horse and too far from sanctuary, and now he carried no weapon.

Add to that, his damned wounds. Pain burned through Wulf’s shoulder—a pain he’d felt before, having taken a musket ball to the thigh in France, another in the shoulder in Brussels. Probing this new injury proved it was only a nick, as the highwayman indicated, and the blood had already thickened and slowed.

It was his aching head he couldn’t escape.

The highwayman gestured toward the cottage door, as if shooing Wulf inside. Narrowing his eyes, Wulf watched the man carefully lead his horse toward the shed.

No choice but to enter. Even if he overpowered the slight man, restrained him, what would that accomplish? Very little at present. So, he would wait and see.

He pushed at the cottage door, but it was stuck tight. Gritting his teeth, he thrust his good shoulder against the worn wood. The movement made his head throb, his abused shoulder beating in time even though he favored it, but he burst into the room with an explosion of dust and snow.

Breath curling out to fade into the dark, he studied the single room and the shadowed furniture ranged throughout. Beyond the walls, the wind shrieked and wailed, but there was no betraying whistle. The cold would not fight its way between the wattle and daub that snugged the cottage frame. The little structure would do well enough.

He picked his way toward the shadow of the wide hearth. Searching blindly with his good arm, he found a tinderbox and stacked wood. Kindling sat neatly beside it.

The cottage might have appeared abandoned, but it clearly was not.

He began to build the fire by touch rather than sight, then glanced over as he heard the highwayman step inside. The man moved toward a deep shadow, lifted something. As the kindling caught in the hearth, Wulf saw it was a blanket.

“For the horse,” came the explanation. The voice was smooth now that it wasn’t fighting the storm and wind. Just how young was the highwayman? “I will return in a moment.”