He did not answer her. Instead, he dipped his mouth to hers. Hot and firm and skilled, he seized the control she’d had only a while earlier. Heat swirled in her belly, clogged her lungs, as she ran her hands over his chest.

Mouth never leaving hers, Wulf continued to play with her tongue—teasing, tasting—as one hand drifted below to caress her hip, her bottom.

But his gaze had shuttered. He was different now, as though he’d reined himself in. From her body, from their conversations. She understood that. Knew he had lost himself the first time—and knew as if it had been she just how terrifying that was. Control was as necessary as breathing or eating.

Could she give it to him? She did not know if she wanted to.

When he trailed his mouth between her breasts, she sighed. Let the licks and nips and kisses stir her desire. Sliding her hands upwards, she gripped the edge of the blanket and bared herself to him. He settled between her thighs, created magic with his fingers and mouth.

She wanted to stop him, to make him bend to her will instead of being lost in the need pulsing between them. In his caresses. In the pounding of her heart and the singing of her skin. Instead, Bea let his mouth and hands draw her up, bring her to pleasure, and lay her down again.

She opened her arms as she had before, wanting to bring him close to her again. Wulf shifted above her, arms braced on either side. His eyes, so deeply blue they held her captive, stared into hers.

“Who are you?” he whispered. “I want more of you. I don’t want tomorrow to be the end.”

“No one.” A part of her soul broke away, the pain of it slicing through her. There was nothing for them, whatever she might want. “There is only tonight, Wulf. That is all.”

His body was poised just at the entrance of hers. Hot, heavy. He held himself still, waiting. Thinking. Oh yes, he was thinking. And wanting.

“It is not enough.” He pressed his lips to hers and thrust into her, the muscles in his arms and shoulders shifting beneath his skin.

“Only tonight,” she repeated. Clamping her legs around his waist, she swung them around until she straddled him. Took him into her and rode him. “There is only tonight. We will make every moment count.”




CHAPTER 8




THE THICK BLANKETS still enveloped him, but Wulf was alone in that warm soft wool. Morning light crept through the cottage windows, infusing the room with a white glow. The fire had died to embers, and the air had cooled enough he could see his breath.

Through the curling vapor, he saw her clothing was missing. The boots she’d set by the fire had disappeared.

The highwayman was gone. Without a goodbye, without a word.

Damnation! At the very least, she could have woken him. Instead, she’d stolen away in the dark.

Wulf shucked off the coverlet and rose into the chilled air to dress. Cursing again as the cold fabric touched his skin, he pulled on his breeches, then what was left of his tattered shirt. They had agreed to nothing, but the woman could have afforded him common courtesy at least and said goodbye.

Intent on leaving the cottage prepared for some other stranded traveler—or highwayman—he folded the blankets and replaced them in the trunk. She had already stacked the kettle on the shelf with its mates, so there was little to tidy. He spread the embers in the hearth and strode toward the door.

Setting his hand on the latch, he turned for one final look at the room. The simple table and chairs. The wide hearth. He would always remember her lying naked on the blankets, beautifully curved, her nipples a dusky pink.

That vision would be forever seared into his mind.

Part of him understood they should mean nothing to each other beyond shared passion. She was clearly a woman who went her own way. A highwayman, while he was a duke. They would not meet again, and that was for the best.

Bugger that. He wanted more than one night. Wanted more from her.

He opened the door to the cottage, the chill of the morning bolstering his sudden fury instead of cooling it. He would find her—find her, explain that one night was not enough, and make love to her again. Then once more.

Because she had made him think, made him feel. Made him want more deeply than he’d ever wanted.

She was his highwayman. For good or ill, and for how long, he did not know—but at least for a little while, they would belong to each other.

Assuming he could find her.

Pulling the door shut with a snap, he studied the clearing in front of the cottage. White blanketed everything, bringing with it a still winter silence. Small boot prints disturbed the smooth surface of the snow, pointing toward the shed. A little farther beyond, horse tracks arrowed toward the north. Toward the forest path, as far as he knew.

He followed the tracks, each step in the ankle-deep snow increasing his discontent as the outside world crept back in. His stallion had disappeared, his shoulder was aching again, and his cursed highwayman had left him stranded. He did not know precisely how far he was from his own estate, nor where the nearest tenant or villager’s cottage might be.

Looking down at the horse tracks, he continued to follow them.

At least he knew where she was, and when he found her, he would wring the neck of that discourteous, beautiful, irritating, clever, sensual—

A wagon appeared on the path, bringing with it creaking wood and the muffled sound of hooves. A sway-backed mule led the weather-worn wood vehicle, its driver wizened and hunched against the cold—all three of them might be a century old.

“Yer Grace!” The driver reined in the mule, raised a hand, and wheezed, “I’m ‘ere to get yer!”

“Is that so?” Wulf eyed the piles of fresh hay in the wagon bed, then the wrinkled face, red with cold. Surely the man was one foot in the grave and did not deserve to be out on a morning like this.

“The ‘onest ‘ighwayman sent me, Yer Grace. I’m to take yer home on me way to find work.”

“I see. Thank you, then, sir.” At least the blasted woman hadn’t abandoned him entirely, though her gesture did not even his temper. “I would prefer to return to Falk Manor. Would you be so kind as to see me there?”

“’Spose.” A frowned creased the old man’s face. “I was going t’other way to pick up some work, but the ‘ighwayman said as ‘ow I ought to git you, and the jobs aren’t plentiful anyhow. So, work can wait.” He jerked his head toward the back of the wagon. “I’ve put out fresh hay.”

“That is kind of you.” Favoring his aching shoulder, Wulf pulled himself into the wagon and braced for the jolting ride. Even as he did so, he noted patches on the jacket draped over the hunched, frail shoulders in driver’s seat. Surely the threadbare garment would not be warm enough for this bitter cold.

Yet the man was looking for work, despite shoulders bent with age.

Wulf thought of the Honest Highwayman’s words the night before, of the poor and the old and infirm she provided for. Was this man one of Wulf’s own tenants? He did not know, and could not say he would have paid attention before. He would not have looked. Really looked.

That shamed him, though he doubted he would ever fail to notice those around him again.

“My good sir,” he said, turning in the wagon and leaning against the planked wall. “Might I ask how long you have been acquainted with the Honest Highwayman?”

“Fer some time.” The driver clucked to the mule and did not turn around. “I came to git yer, because I was asked. I won’t say no more, for the ‘ighwayman ‘as done well by me.”

Wulf had thought as much. The ancient man was one of the recipients of her thievery, and from the look of his frail frame, he could use it. “You are looking for work, you said?”

“Aye.” The word carried a cautious tone. “Cutting ice, dragging it to the ice houses. The big families will want it come summer.”

“Hm. Well, I’ve a need for another man in my stables, if he’s good with animals and vehicles. Light repair to wheels and such, a bit of polish to the carriage lamps, currying the horses.” He rubbed at his chin, as if he wasn’t thinking about that frail body hauling huge blocks of ice through the winter cold. “If you’ve the interest.”

“Could be.” The man clucked to the mule again, the sound inattentive rather than meaningful. “In the stables, you say?”

“Yes.” He waited as the man glanced over his shoulder, consideration moving over weathered features. “Just present yourself at the rear door of Highrow Place if you’ve a mind.”

The sound the aged driver made as they passed beneath the gate to Falk Manor was part grunt, part assent. Wulf accepted that as noncommittal, but noted he needed to speak with the head groom about finding a place for another set of hands should the offer be accepted.

The wagon trundled to a stop in front of Falk Manor’s double doors, and the butler quickly opened them. Eyes wide, he examined the rough vehicle and the less-than-respectable appearance of both its occupants.

“Your Grace!” The butler called out as Wulf jumped from the wagon to stride up the front steps. “Has there been an accident? Are you injured?”

“I was delayed by a highwayman last evening and my horse bolted.” He knew he sounded irritated and gruff, and smoothed his tone. “If I might seek assistance?”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The butler glanced behind him as the lord of Falk Manor staggered across the parquet floor of the entryway, muttering something unintelligible “His lordship,” the butler murmured, “would be willing to offer whatever assistance you require.”

“Thank you.” Wulf eyed his host of the evening before.

The man still reeled from the effects of brandy and smelled like a perfumery. He appeared to have been sleeping, as his gaze was heavy-lidded and vague, and there were crease lines across his cheek.

“Highrow.” The earl squinted one eye and focused on Wulf. “Are you back? If so, ‘tis too late. My damned sister has rousted the lot of us, and the enjoyment is over. Everyone is off to bed.”

“I am sorry to hear that.” Not, of course, that he was. The fewer guests he had to address, the better. Still, he decided to avoid mention of the Honest Highwayman altogether to the earl. “I was forced to shelter in the woods overnight. I thought perhaps I might impose upon you to arrange conveyance to Highrow Place.”

“’Course. Stewart?” The earl turned to the butler, waved vaguely in the air.

“I will send word to the stables to arrange a carriage.” Stewart bowed to Wulf and spared his lordship not a glance—the butler was clearly accustomed to taking the reins of responsibility from his employer. “In the interim, I shall procure a room for you, where you might refresh yourself and perhaps break your fast.”

“That would be most appreciated.” He ignored the earl as much as the butler had, which was just as well. His still-drunk host was listing sideways as he peered into the empty snifter in his hand.

“Your Grace,” Stewart gestured toward the stairs leading to the upper floors. “If you would follow me—”

“Bloody hell!” Filled with utter fury, the feminine shout rang under the high, painted ceiling of the entry and echoed long enough that the subsequent silence became ominous.

To a man, the occupants of the hall hunched their shoulders against that most terrifying thing—a woman’s anger—and turned toward the sound.




CHAPTER 9




THE LADY STRODE briskly through the sliding doors of the front drawing room, heels issuing a staccato beat on the polished parquet. Green flowers dotted her muslin gown, shifting over her skirts as if they marched along with as her temper.

“Did my brother ruin the drawing room rug? Truly? Mother took great care in bringing that from India ages ago. She would be heartbroken. There are burns. Burns!” The lady opened her arms wide, not in supplication or explanation, but as if to encompass the enormity of the transgression. A dusty paste bird nested in wigged curls just as the creature might have done during the woman’s come out a decade earlier. “The rug is not meant for the ends of cheroots. Or brandy. There is an extensive spill—Oh.”

She stopped, blinked at Wulf through round, wire-rimmed spectacles. Her skirts floated to rest around her slippers, the embroidered flowers ending their patrol.

“My lady.” He nodded in greeting, wincing because he should have addressed her as ‘Lady Christian Name’, but he could not remember her Christian name. He gestured to the wrinkled greatcoat, his bared head. “My apologies as to my appearance.”

“Of course.” A quick nod of her head, a flush of cheeks. “Your Grace.”