Chapter Two

“It should not be long now.”

The words, spoken in a beloved voice, intruded oddly on Romayne’s dreams. She did not want to wake, for she had been dreaming of the moment when she could speak her wedding vows with Bradley Montcrief. In a luscious dress of white silk, lace tippets dripping from its shoulders, she would put her hand in Bradley’s as he slipped a ring onto her finger. She sighed. The dream was gone … for now.

Opening her eyes, she found herself surrounded by dark and cold instead of the warmth of her comfortable bedchamber. Fatigue weighed her eyelashes. So easily she could have crawled into her tester bed in her large room in Westhampton Hall and slept until Grange pulled back the gold drapes with the morning light. When the cushions against her aching back bounced, she moaned as her head bumped into the wall.

“Have you hurt yourself?”

Focusing her bleary eyes on the shadowed form sitting beside her in the cramped space, Romayne frowned. What was Bradley doing with her unchaperoned, if her bleary eyes were revealing the truth, in the middle of the night?

“Bradley, where are we?” Although she was eager for the day when she and Bradley could publicly announce the love in their hearts, she would be a widgeon to come to their wedding with her reputation tarnished by an unthinking ride alone.

Wedding … The word stuck in her mind. Realization followed hastily, and she laughed nervously as she sat straighter. Her reputation was in no peril, for she and Bradley must have reached Coldstream on the far side of the River Tweed. When Bradley had suggested eloping to Scotland yesterday, she could have imagined nothing more romantic. The reality of the long, cold ride had destroyed such illusions.

“Are you still certain that this is what you wish to do?” came Bradley’s whisper as if he could sense the course of her thoughts.

“Very sure.” She heard joy singing in her answer. Exhaustion was a small price to pay in exchange for the happiness of becoming Bradley’s wife. “Are you?”

“Very sure,” he murmured. He folded her kid-gloved hand between his and smiled. When she leaned her head on his shoulder, the thickness of his greatcoat, which he wore against the frigid night beyond the carriage, could not soften his bony ranginess. “Go back to sleep, my sweet. I shall wake you when we have reached our destination.”

Closing her eyes, Romayne waited for sleep to return. Her happiness faded when she thought of her grandfather’s dismay at her rash decision to flee with Bradley, but the duke had put her into a position where she had had to choose. She did not wish to remain a spinster in Westhampton Hall until she was as thin and old as Grange. If Grandfather had not been so adamant about her not marrying Bradley, she would be home now planning the wedding she had wanted.

Yet she loved her grandfather with every ounce of her being. That was why she had left a note for him.

Glancing at Bradley from beneath the wide brim of her bonnet, she hoped he would not be vexed at her unwillingness to follow his command that she should leave no clue behind of their destination. She could not bring herself to leave without informing the household where she was going. Her grandfather possessed a weak heart, and she must not let her joy bring him pain. The note was hidden where her abigail would find it only after an extensive search of her rooms.

“You are so quiet, my sweet,” Bradley whispered against her blue bonnet.

Silk rustled in her ear as she lifted her head from his shoulder. Brushing her gloved fingers against the rough wool of her pelisse allowed her an excuse to avoid meeting his eyes. “My thoughts are full of the future.” She winced, hoping he would not guess that she was being false with him.

When he chuckled, she discovered she had no need for anxiety. Bradley could not hide his unrestrained happiness. It was enough for both of them.

“We are within ambs-ace of being married,” he said in the same whisper. “They called me an addle cove for daring to aspire to marry the beautiful granddaughter of the Duke of Westhampton. So many told me that no woman with your luscious hair and crystal blue eyes would give a man like me as much as a second look. Yet here we are, my sweet Romayne and me.”

“Are we staying in Coldstream tonight? Is there an inn there?”

He laughed. “You need not worry, my sweet. I shall be taking care of you from this night forward.”

“I would like to know.”

“Why?”

Romayne was disconcerted by his question. Bradley usually enjoyed planning out their times together to the most trivial detail, and she had not suspected that he would balk at giving her an answer to a reasonable request. Then she felt a pang of guilt. He must be as exhausted as she was.

“I am tired and cold and cramped from the long ride,” she said, noting that he frowned at the truth. Hearing him mutter something as he peered past the lowered curtain at the window, she asked, “Was I mistaken? I thought I heard the man in the village tell Scribner we should reach Coldstream before nightfall. That was hours ago.”

“The storm has slowed us.” He pulled on the check-string, and the vehicle came to a stop. When it bounced as the coachman leapt from the box, Bradley raised the curtain and leaned his elbow out. The wind-driven snow lashed them as he called, “Scribner, how much farther to Coldstream?”

The man hunched within his frozen cloak while he held up a lantern from the box. He stamped his feet as he answered, “I fear the numb-wit we asked for directions misdirected us badly, Mr. Montcrief. This road seems to be leading nowhere. We might be wiser to turn about and return to the main road north.”

“Do so,” Bradley ordered. He cursed, then apologized hastily to Romayne. “Forgive my frustration, my sweet. When I am so close to having you for my own, it enrages me to be denied even a moment longer.”

“We have waited so long for this day,” she said soothingly. “Think how much sweeter it shall be to speak our vows when the time finally comes.”

He grinned, his expression macabre in the long shadows from the dim lantern as Scribner walked back toward the horses. “You make it so simple to love you, Romayne. Tell me that you love me, my dear.”

She started to answer, raising her hands to his shoulders. Her words were swallowed by the coachman calling a warning.

Bradley pushed her away as he looked out the carriage window. Snapping an order, he swore again. Romayne started to ask what was wrong, then she heard hoofbeats approaching at a rapid pace on the frozen road. The taut expression on her betrothed’s face warned her he too suspected the sound heralded trouble.

“Get us out of here!” Bradley bellowed to his coachman.

Romayne said, “Perhaps if you help Scribner—”

“Be silent!”

Romayne gasped at the venom in his voice. Never had he spoken like this to her. She put her hand on his arm, but he shrugged it off as he leaned out the window to call to his coachman.

Shouts careened through the storm. The carriage jerked, tossing Romayne back against the seat as Scribner tried to turn the vehicle. The road was so narrow that he had to lead the horses in a crazy dance, moving them backward and forward at sharp angles as he tried to get the bulky carriage facing in the opposite direction.

“Hurry, man! Get us out of here!” shouted Bradley as the coachman clambered back into the box. Folding his arms over his chest, he grumbled, “I should have turned him off years ago. The man is a lame-hand.”

“He is doing his best, Bradley,” Romayne said, putting her hand over his.

She gasped when he brushed it away and retorted, “I hope you think so when those high pads catch up with us.”

Romayne pressed her hands to her mouth. Highwaymen! She had thought they would be free of that threat when the rain outside the carriage had changed into a late-winter snowstorm. Fear clamped its icy claws around her throat, and she clutched her pelisse when the carriage lurched forward as Scribner plied the whip to the horses. She wondered if they could possibly escape. The team hooked to the carriage were tired and pulling a heavy load. The highwaymen’s mounts might be fresh and eager for a run, even in the snow.

The carriage came to a halt so suddenly that Romayne rocked forward. She winced as pain raced up her arms when she stopped herself with her hands against the front of the carriage. She cried, “Bradley, tell him to drive on! Drive on before—”

A scream died in her throat as the barrel of a gun pushed aside the curtain in the window beside her. A battered face peered into the coach. She could see little beneath the floppy hat the high pad had pulled low to conceal himself. The cackle of triumphant laughter pinned her against the cushions, but her fingers inched toward Bradley’s. When she could not find his hand, she pulled her gaze from the highwayman’s to discover Bradley was raising his hands over his head in a pose of capitulation.

“A right charmin’ lady,” cooed the bridle-cull, leaning through her window. Using the end of his gun to tip back her bonnet’s brim, he laughed again as she cringed away. “A right charmin’ lady. Yer wife, sir?”

“Not yet,” Bradley said through clenched teeth. Romayne could see the strain along his jaw as he struggled not to throw curses into the highwayman’s teeth. She wanted to caution him to hold his temper. One misspoken word and they could be dead.

“Then she must be yer convenient,” continued the man in his broad, Lowlands accent. “Ye both be right convenient fer us tonight. M’boys thought nobody would be out on such a night, but I told them some fat-pated Englishman would dare to come along Duffie’s road. Ye proved me right again.”

“What do you want?” Bradley asked.

“Cooperation, milord.” He pushed his hat back to reveal a nose that had been broken many times. A scar ran along his left cheek, pulling his lips up into a perpetual smirk. “From ye and yer lady.”

“Leave Lady Romayne alone.”

“Lady Romayne, is it? A fancy name for yer dasher, milord.”

She flinched at the man’s insult. She was no Cyprian, and she had no wish to hear her name on his vulgar lips. How she would delight in telling him so, but she must guard her words as closely as Bradley must guard his temper.

“Take what you wish and begone,” Bradley ordered.

“Aye, that we will.”

Romayne steeled herself for his demands. When the gun was withdrawn and the curtain fell back into place, she breathed a ragged sigh of relief. She strained to hear anything to tell her that they were not alone on the country road. If someone else was riding this way, the highwaymen might play least in sight before the law was called down upon their scraggly heads.

Her hopes vanished when the door was jerked open. A filthy hand grabbed her arm. Horrified, she cried, “Bradley!”

“Cooperate,” he snarled back.

She stared at him in disbelief. Had Bradley gone queer in his attic? Slapping at the hand, she heard despicable laughter. The black-hearted collector grasped her arm and pulled her off the seat.

Her cry for help went unanswered as he lifted her from the carriage and placed her at the edge of the light from the lanterns his men held. There were at least a half-dozen highwaymen, each holding a weapon. Several were trained on Scribner, who was raising his hands in surrender as Bradley had.

Mud oozed over her low shoes, and icy snow scratched her face. She shivered as the wind taunted her with the odor from the highwaymen. They stank of too much horseflesh and too few baths. With her eyes focused on the pistol in her captor’s hand, she whispered Bradley’s name. How she longed for his arms around her to keep her safe from these thieves!

“Step to the side,” her captor ordered.

Romayne faltered, and he jabbed her with the sharp barrel of his pistol. She swallowed her scream as she took an uneasy step through the muck. Looking back, she watched Bradley emerge from the carriage. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw snowflakes drifting before the guns which glittered in the flickering carriage lantern.

Her captor, whom she guessed to be the leader of the highwaymen, motioned for Scribner to come down from the box. The nearly frozen coachman obeyed slowly. When a gun rose behind him, Romayne cried a warning. The sound became a gasp of horror as he was knocked to lie sprawled in the thickening snow. A trickle of blood edged along his cap.

She searched the road in both directions, but it was as deserted as if they stood in the middle of the Highlands instead of on the English side of the River Tweed. Uneven stone walls contorted along the twisting road, then vanished into the night. Not even the lowing of a cow broke the moan of the wind careening through the bare trees which were stretching their spindly fingers over the road.

Hearing Bradley’s raised voice, Romayne forced herself to suppress her panic so she could listen. His words were snatched away by the squall, but she saw fury in his stance. What could he promise these men when the squires of the pad could take whatever they wished?

“Bradley—” The poke of a pistol in her back silenced her.

When Bradley folded his arms against his greatcoat, the highwayman shrugged with insolent nonchalance, then laughed. Bradley clenched his fists.

Fear cramped her stomach. If Bradley, in his determination to protect her, struck the land-pirate, the other men would attack him. When she took a step toward him, a gun jabbed at her as another man growled a warning.

His voice must have reached his comrades, for the leader of the highwayman turned. He swaggered through the mud toward her. His laughter was as vicious as a slap when he splashed mire onto her. The dark stain inched along her pale blue coat, bringing icy coldness to climb up her legs.

She wanted to stamp her feet to keep them warm, but she did not dare. He might see the motion as defiance. Surely Bradley had been right. They must cooperate, so they could escape with their lives. Looking past the highwayman, she frowned in puzzlement when she saw Bradley sitting on the step to the carriage. He looked as unruffled as if they were among bosom bows.

“Ye be a good girl now,” the leader ordered in his nasal tone. “Do ye ride?”

Bradley must have felt her eyes on him, because he looked in her direction. With his blond hair frosted with a thin layer of snow, he pulled his feet beneath his great coat. She wanted to beg him to help her deal with the madman who was poking a pistol into her shoulder. Bradley did not move.

“Yes,” Romayne said as she looked at the highwayman again. “I can ride.”

“Can you keep yer seat? Or do ye fall off the beast if he does more than walks?”

She considered lying, but she had no idea what he might do if he discovered her falsehood. Again she looked to Bradley, but he was staring at the frozen mud and tapping his fingers impatiently on his knee. Why was he sitting there when this man was pointing a gun at her? She silenced the horrible thought. She did not want Bradley to sacrifice his life needlessly.

“Do ye ride well, Lady Romayne?” demanded the highwayman.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“That be good.” He snapped his fingers. A man brought a black horse forward. “Ye will need to where we be goin’.”

“Going?” She shook her head. “I cannot leave Bradley.”

Again he chuckled. “Ye will not want to be goin’ where he be goin’.”

Horror strangled her as hands seized her by the waist. When an involuntary shriek burst from her lips, she heard more laughter. She grasped the front of the low saddle as she was placed on the scrawny horse. When she started to slide from the saddle, the leader of the highwaymen aimed his pistol at her heart.

“Sit yerself there, lassie, or we shall have to be dealin’ rough with ye now.”

Romayne knew it would be useless to argue. In silence, she watched as the leader mounted another black horse and grasped the rein hooked to her horse’s bridle. Twisting in the saddle, she saw Bradley was standing over Scribner as the coachman struggled to his feet. They still were surrounded by a quartet of bridle-culls.

“Bradley!” she cried as the leader tugged her horse closer to his. A pistol appeared in front of her face. The click of its trigger warned her not to speak again.

“Get what ye want, lads, then finish up here.” He flashed a broken-toothed grin at Romayne as his men pulled everything from the carriage’s boot, tossing her clothes into the muddy snow as the highwaymen looked for anything of value. “We have more fun ahead of us tonight.”

She was sure her heart had forgotten how to beat as she saw the lascivious glow in his eyes. Was this torment the price she must pay for ignoring her grandfather’s orders? With a shudder, she thought of his sorrow when he learned what had happened to her.

Romayne swallowed past the lump of fear in her throat. She was the granddaughter of the Duke of Westhampton, a respected diplomat and a veteran of the Colonial wars in America. Never had he surrendered. Neither would she. Raising her chin in weak defiance, she was startled and satisfied when the highwayman lowered his eyes first.

When her left hand was grasped, Romayne cried, “Don’t touch me, sirrah!”

“Be quiet, lass, or ye will be sorry,” growled her captor as one of his men ripped off her left glove and threw it into the snow.

Victorious cheers from the brigands confused her. If they feared her cries might alert others to their crimes, why were they acting as if they were celebrating a fair day? Her bafflement became anguish as the thief pulled her betrothal ring from her finger. In the dim light from the carriage’s lantern, the pearl, set in the gold and rubies, had a luminous glow.

Tipping his hat to her, the high-boty grinned and tossed the ring to his leader. The man cached it beneath his ragged coat.

“You shall not enjoy the profits of your misdeeds for long,” Romayne said with every ounce of her bravado. “I shall see you wear a hempen cravat.”

“No one has caught Artair Duffie yet, lass. No one will.” He shouted orders to his men.

Three of the thieves swung into their saddles with the ease of men accustomed to their hard profession. They encircled her. Her horse was tugged to follow the leader’s mount. Glancing back, she saw two men guarding Bradley and Scribner, who was fighting to stay on his feet.

Her false courage abandoned her. “Bradley,” she whispered. She feared she never would see him alive again. She could imagine but one reason for the highwaymen to separate them. The villains planned to kill both of them and leave their corpses in two different locations to confuse the authorities.

Although he could not have heard her, Bradley looked at her for what she feared was a final time. His shadowed face gave no hint of his expression, but she could feel his frustration and distress in her own heart. The stiff set of his shoulders warned of the temper she had tried never to rouse. She feared it would matter little if he lost it now, for their lives were already forfeit as a price for getting lost on this deserted road.

As they rode past a bend, trees closed around them and obscured the carriage they had left behind. Romayne heard a sharp retort, and her heart halted in mid-beat. A second blast followed in quick succession.

“No!” she moaned as the echo of gunshots faded into the night.

With a yell, Duffie raced his horse along the uneven road, dragging her mount behind him. She gripped the useless reins. Tears burned along her cheeks, but she did not wipe them away. She cursed when the last two men joined them. When they laughed at her, she looked away but could not close her ears to their jubilant voices.

Bradley was dead, and she soon would be. A twinge of terror mocked her, for she knew her death might not come as swiftly or as easily as his.

A gun fired, and a man screamed. Romayne gasped when she saw one of the highwaymen fall from his horse. Curses filled the air. The highwaymen raced their horses toward the trees, and she realized someone was firing upon them, someone who might be her ally.

“Help me!” she screamed. “They are kidnapping me!”

“Shut yer mouth, woman,” snarled Duffie. He swung his pistol in her direction.

Romayne nearly slipped from the saddle as she avoided the vicious weapon. Clinging to the reins, she regained her seat when he swore at her. He pulled her horse beneath the trees where shadows cloaked them in darkness.

Duffie whispered to his men. Scanning the trees on the other side of the road, Romayne saw a movement. She prayed it was salvation, yet it could have been nothing more than the branches in the wind.

She cringed when the highwaymen’s guns fired. Smoke filled the air. She choked on the acrid smell but flattened herself against the horse’s neck when a single shot answered the volley. Duffie shrieked. She did not wait to see where he had been hit. She reached forward to grasp the leading rein of her horse and jerked on the leather. It snapped out of his hand, striking the horse.

Slapping the reins, she screamed, “Go!”

She rode past the startled highwaymen and onto the road. Her spine pricked with the anticipation of a ball in her back. Hearing shouts, she urged her horse to go faster, but tightened her hold on the reins as she felt its feet slide on the frozen mud. She had no idea where to go; she simply wanted to get away from the highwaymen.

Smacking her hand against the horse, she turned it toward the trees on the far side of the road. She raised her head to see a stone wall in front of her. The horse reared, refusing to take the wall. She flew over its head.

Romayne hit the ground hard. The shriek of tearing fabric filled her ears, but she cared little for the state of her ruined clothes. Even as she fought to get her breath, she could hear hoofbeats. She could not lie here waiting to catch her breath. If she was recaptured, she would not get a second chance at escape. She must flee. She struggled to find the strength to push herself to her feet.

Broad hands grasped her shoulders. With a cry, she beat her fists against the hands, but her captor refused to let her evade him. He dragged her to her feet and behind a large stone in the shadow of the wall.

“Down!” he ordered.

Romayne hesitated as she stared at the man. Snow clung to his ruddy hair and outlined a hint of whiskers along his cheeks, but he was not one of the highwaymen. She backed away as she realized he could be another cove who was preying on rival thieves.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

He put his hand on her broken bonnet and pressed her toward the ground. “Shall we save the niceties for later? For now, we have to save our skins.”

“You’re a Scotsman, too!”

“And unless you are as cork-brained as you are acting,” he said in a clipped voice that did not disguise his brogue, “you shall worry your mind about such things later.”

Romayne nodded as she squatted beside him. She knew she was being foolish, but she was so frightened, she was nearly separated from what was left of her wits. Looking across the muddy snow, she recoiled when she heard the report of a gun. Something struck the boulder in front of them.

The man swore viciously, then raised his pistol to take aim. The sound was louder than any she had heard before, and she held her hands to her ears. Even so, she could hear the panicked neighing of a horse.

“Are you hurt?” asked the red-haired man as he reloaded his weapon.

“No, just scared.” She added nothing about her dread that Bradley had been murdered. She must concentrate on surviving. Then she could help him and Scribner … if that was still possible.

He smiled at her, his teeth flashing in the faint light glittering off the new snow. “You would be a simpleton not to be frightened.” Looking toward the trees between them and the stone wall edging the road, he added, “I hope you are not planning on swooning?”

“No.”

“I cannot carry you and save our skins at the same time.”

“I said I would not faint!” If she were not so vexed by his words, she would have been startled that she could be angry with a man who was rescuing her from degradation and death.

“Good.” She thought she heard him chuckle, and she wondered if he was as wanting for sense as he sounded. “You have spirit. I was not sure if you were escaping when I panicked your erstwhile companions or if your horse was simply running away with you.”

Romayne started to answer, but he motioned her to silence with a wave of his hand. As she crouched next to him, the cold oozing through her torn coat and dress, she heard him whisper words she could not understand. She did not care if he spoke Gaelic or even French as long as he would save her from the high pads.

“They are trying to encompass us,” he murmured. “We have to get out of here before they discover how few our number truly is.”

“Few?” A tentative smile pulled at her wind-scored lips. “You have allies?”

He laughed softly. “Only one.”

“Where is he?”

“She. You.”

Romayne’s hopes evaporated as quickly as they had formed. “There are six of them.”

“Only four now.”

“You killed two?” she gasped in horror.

“What do you care? They are the most common of thieves without a brain among the lot of them. We should be able to outwit them. You must have a lick of sense if you were smart enough to see the chance I gave you to flee, and I can assure you that I am smarter than a low-toby.”

“I have only your word for that.”

Again he chuckled. “If I had guessed you were such a dashed virago, I would have left you with them. It would be their just reward. I—” His words were swallowed by a gunshot. “By gravy! They are more persistent than I would have guessed. Are you loaded down with centuries?”

“They stole my ring.” Her voice nearly broke, but she fought to continue. “It was all I had of value with me.”

“Stay here.”

He edged around the rock before she could ask him what he intended to do. Peeking past it, she saw him sneak over another, lower wall to where a pale horse stood in the snow. He pulled something out of the bags on the back of the horse, shoved it under his coat, and started to turn back to her. He paused and bent toward the horse.

Romayne could not hide her curiosity. What could be so blasted important about his horse when death hid in the trees all around them?

A hand clamped over her mouth. In horror, she saw, from the far corner of her eyes, a gun raise to aim at her rescuer.

She clamped her teeth on one finger. The bridle-cull let out a screech as he pulled his hand back. Jumping to her feet, she had no time to shout a warning. Her rescuer leapt over the wall and struck the highwayman. A gun exploded.

Romayne shrank to the ground, waiting for death, but her hand was grasped. She heard her rescuer urge in an oddly strained voice, “Come on. We have to get out of here in case the rest of them have more guts than brains.”

As if in answer to his warning, another gun fired. She scrambled over the low wall as he shot back. When he ran toward the horse, she tried to keep pace with him. Snow and mud conspired to mire her on each step. Her thin slippers tore on the stones hidden beneath the snow as the wind buffeted her. Something hummed past her ear, and she screamed.

“Damn!” the man muttered as he reloaded his pistol and fired it into the night. “I have never seen them this persistent. What do you have that they want?” His gaze raked along her, and she drew away from him, for his eyes were colder than the wind. Putting his hand on her arm, he tugged her behind the horse. “Do not think your charms are so priceless, miss. They can get a willing lass along with a glass of ale at any pump in the valley. They want something else from you.”

“I have nothing else,” she answered tightly.

He pulled out a knife and cut the bags off the back of his horse. Tossing them toward the wall, he said, “If they are rapacious enough to pause to check out what booty might wait in my bags, it might buy us time to hide from them.” He took the horse’s reins and began to stride through the shadows as he ordered in a whisper, “Hurry. We might not have much time.”

“Where are you taking me?” she gasped as she looked back toward the road.

He grasped her hand and brought her closer to his tall form. “What does it matter as long as you are alive when you get there?”