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  Copyright © 2017 by Gina Conkle

  Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Adams/Sourcebooks

  Cover image © Period Images

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  One

  Early November, 1768

  Brisk Northumberland wind slapped his face and stung his eyes. Beneath him, Khan’s hooves pounded Devil’s Causeway, the Roman road his path to exile. His grip on the reins tightened. Banished he was to Cornhill-on-Tweed by his own edict for excessive drinking and gambling. His brother, the Marquis of Northampton, had railed long and loud about damage done to the family reputation. Besmirching the family name…a bad practice when the marquis was on the hunt for a wealthy bride.

  Marcus squinted into the frigid darkness. A quiet winter stay at Pallinsburn cottage was required. He’d bide his time, look after his mother’s deserted childhood home. What possible trouble could be stirred up there?

  Limbs aching from his long ride, he spied a shortcut, but Khan crested a knoll, his gait flagging on the cracked stone road. Steam curled off his steed’s hot, silver-gray coat.

  “Need a rest, my friend?” Cupping his hands over his mouth, Marcus blew warmth on chilled skin.

  The horse snorted, tipping his muzzle at a moon-drenched meadow. They weren’t alone.

  “What have we here?” Marcus sat taller in the saddle, brown hair whipping across his eyes.

  A vehicle squatted at a fork in the road. Likely a stagecoach stuck in a rut. To his left, low, stone walls stretched far, the seams binding Northumberland. Those fences were child’s play for Khan. He counted them, planning his route when an icy gust boxed his ears.

  “Damn wind,” he muttered, hunkering deeper into his redingote. The comfort of a warm bed couldn’t be more than an hour’s ride if he cut through those pastures.

  His gaze darted back to the idle coach. The riders probably longed for a warm bed too. Humble buildings of Lowick village clustered a quarter mile ahead. The passengers weren’t truly stranded. He could move on. Patrons shoved coaches out of ruts all the time, a standard practice for middle-class travelers. Yet no one was pushing this coach. At the side of the road, an older man held up a swaying candle lantern. Short and slight of build, the man waggled a finger at a slouching fool of good size. The smaller man rocked onto the balls of his feet, his bandy-legged stance full of authority.

  “Got to be the driver giving an earful to an unruly rider,” Marcus mused aloud.

  Two women huddled near the back wheel. Did anyone look to their safety?

  “Where are the men?” He picked up the reins. Perhaps a trot down there was in order. Take a quick look and—

  Metal flashed.

  The old man stumbled backward. “Whot’s this?” His cry carried up Devil’s Causeway.

  The women shrieked and flattened themselves against the coach as the miscreant waved a weapon.

  A highwayman.

  Blood surging and coattails flying, Marcus palmed the Spanish wheel lock tucked in his hip boot. Khan’s hooves pounded like thunder. The highwayman startled, dropping his blunderbuss. A real crack criminal of the first order.

  Marcus reined Khan to a halt, dry dirt spraying the fallen weapon. The oaf bent at the waist, reaching for it.

  “I wouldn’t do that.” Marcus cocked his pistol, and moonlight bounced off polished steel.

  The man righted himself. “Who are ye?”

  “Lord Marcus Bowles, at your service.”

  He sprang from the saddle, expecting the highwayman to spout a colorful sobriquet, but this one merely staggered back, wiping his sleeve across his bulbous nose. A quick scan of the tree-lined gully showed no one lurking. Further out, a trio of stone cottages hunkered by a stone wall, their windows dark. Everything was stark and quiet, save the skirling wind.

  The coachman snatched his hat off the ground and whacked it against his leg. Head cocked, Marcus sized up the highwayman. The youth was tall but barely old enough to strop a razor.

  “Me blunderbuss. I need it back.”

  Marcus stepped on the brass barrel, a whiff of Irish stout coming off the youth. “I’m not in the habit of handing over pistols to highwaymen.”

  “Horatio? A highwaymon?” The coachman wheezed curt laughter. “Why, he’s the Jolly Sheep’s hostler come to fix a broken brace on me coach.” He swung his lantern around. “See there.”

  Light glowed over village names painted on garish yellow panels, the stage stops from London to Edinburgh. The tired vehicle listed to one side, a broken leather strap dangling off the front axle.

  Marcus peered at the driver. “Since when do hostlers point pistols at coachmen?”

  Cottony wisps of hair haloed the old man’s head. His lined face pinched. “Well, now, there was a wee problem. Horatio was a bit of a waddlehead, bein’ deep in his cups and all, but he’s a good lad, he is.”

  “A kiss.” Horatio’s sotted voice boomed. “That’s all I wonted.”

  Marcus cringed. “You wanted to kiss the coachman?”

  The women tittered behind him.

  “Not him. Her.” The scarlet-faced hostler jabbed a grimy finger at the coach horses.

  A
tall woman cloaked in red held the lead horse’s bridle. No flesh was visible; red gloves even covered her hands.

  The driver faced the hostler. “When a woman says no, ye got to listen.” Putting on his hat, he turned to Marcus. “I was tellin’ him to go home when ye came ridin’.”

  Marcus couldn’t see the woman in red’s eyes, but she took his measure, her stare a palpable plumb line from the horses to where he stood.

  “Then I’ll stay and make sure the hostler takes his proper leave,” he said, his pistol arm relaxing.

  The hostler cleared his throat. Shoulders slumping, the young man’s glower swept to the woman in red. “Didn’t mean any harm,” he mumbled. “I’m…I’m sorry.”

  The mysterious woman closed the distance, the pitch of her skirts gentle yet full of purpose. Her cloak wasn’t long enough to hide hems browned from mud. Likely she’d been recruited to push the coach out of a rut or two. Marcus had theories about women’s skirts. They could be as telling as a broadsheet.

  “You’re forgiven, but I suggest you abstain from strong drink.” Her words rang clear above the wind. “You gave Mrs. Tubbs and Mrs. Farleigh a horrible fright.”

  Marcus tucked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket. Interesting. She omitted any mention of her own fright. Her posture rigid, the woman in red could be a sergeant in a skirt, redressing an errant recruit, the watermark of a strict governess. The admonished hostler stumbled forward, his droopy-eyed stare dipping to the blunderbuss.

  Marcus shook his head, his boot on the weapon. “The coachman will take your pistol. You’ll find it at the Jolly Sheep come morning when you’re good and sober.”

  Horatio hiccupped and lurched, unsteady on his feet. The old man stepped lively and wrapped an arm around him. “That’s it, lad,” the coachman said, his frame bending under the burden. “Lean on me.”

  Marcus tucked away his pistol. “Here. Let me see him home.”

  “Best if I do it. He lives there”—the driver nodded at the cottages—“beyond those trees, but I’d be grateful if ye tended the women. Me watchman ran ahead to fetch Horatio and stayed in the village, blast his eyes.”

  Marcus’s gaze slid to the woman in red. Her erect stature told him she could mind the coach herself, dark of midnight or not, but he was a gentleman born and bred.

  “Of course.”

  The only person in need of tending lumbered off on stout-addled legs. Nothing dangerous here. He smirked at the darkness. So much for riding to the rescue. They didn’t need him. His days of valor were long gone, sold off with his army commission five years past. He rubbed his eyes, grainy from lack of sleep, the autumn gusts taunting him with reminders of why he was in the forsaken north.

  His vices.

  Throat parched, he slipped a hand inside his coat. His whiskey flask waited, a close companion ready to fill his need. Sweat pricked his hairline, hot and antagonizing. His dark craving…the pull. He clasped the comforting shape, weak for the sloshing siren and her talent for soothing him. It was no mistake the whiskey sat near his heart. One swallow would satisfy, maybe two.

  Something to quench the bone-deep thirst that hounded him in all this cold northern air.

  Each breath came loud to his ears.

  In. Out.

  In. Out.

  His fingertips pinched cold metal. He slid the flask half out of his pocket, a peculiar tingle scraping his neck. Behind him. Someone stared. More like bored holes into his back, by the feel. Looking over his shoulder, he let go of the flask and his hand fell free of his coat.

  The mystery woman.

  With the lantern gone, midnight turned her red cloak to shades of wine. Her hood fluttered, but a firm grip held the wool in place. She wasn’t a threat. Banshee winds stirred her skirts, revealing the tips of her shoes pointed his way. A diversion of any kind would be welcome. He smiled, an invitation for her to smile back.

  But the woman in red turned, clapping her hands twice. “Ladies, the sooner we’re settled in the coach, the sooner we’ll be on our way.”

  Scratching week-old whiskers, he grinned. Bedraggled queue and bleary-eyed, he was no prize tonight. Nor could he remember his last decent bath. Ears perked, he tried gleaning information about her, but tree branches crackled. Khan snickered, his bridle jangling when he shook his head. Conversations overlapped, the women fussing the way excited hens clucked at the same kernel.

  “That hostler,” one woman hissed. “When he waved his pistol to show he was man enough to kiss you—”

  “Oh, a fool to be sure,” the other said. “We’ve suffered a long night…”

  The red-cloaked woman’s patient voice braided calmly in between, soothing ruffled feathers. Definitely a governess. If he were in a gambling establishment, he’d give minor odds on the lady’s companion. Shoes scuffed the coach steps. Iron joints whined from riders finding their seats. Feminine voices dimmed, and the door clicked shut. Chuckling, he stared at the midnight sky, the stars winking at him, witnesses to how far he’d fallen. The heavenly bodies could be reminding him that his night would end the way it began. Alone.

  At least his dark craving had passed.

  He crouched low and dug out the blunderbuss wedged in the ground. Fingers stiff from the cold wiped dirt off the nicked brass barrel. He ought to open the coach door, say something witty to her, but his brain was porridge tonight. Was he losing his touch with the fair sex?

  Balancing the blunderbuss on his palm, he inspected his cursory cleaning job. Wind howled, blowing his hair across his face. A door opened and snapped shut behind him. Cautious footsteps crunched dry ground, and a slow smile formed against his collar. The woman in red. Had to be. He kept a careful eye on the driver and hostler navigating the tree-lined gully and waited for those browned hems to come to him.

  Flirtation was a patient man’s game.

  “A French espingole,” a feminine voice said over his shoulder.

  His ear caught untutored French, but the woman in red knew her weapons—at least this one. The blunderbuss was in fact a French espingole manufactured eight years past…in the middle of the war.

  She inched closer, her skirts and a leather strap grazing his thigh. “You could’ve given it back. I doubt the hostler knows how to use it.”

  “I’ve been shot at enough times not to tempt fate.” Grinning, he rose to full height. “And interrupting a romantic interlude has a way of agitating a man.”

  “Romantic interlude indeed,” she huffed. “I offered to help the hostler, not kiss him.”

  Help the hostler? With the broken brace?

  He glanced at her slender hands. His roadside companion pushed back one side of her hood as though she sought a better view of him. With the moon at her back, pallid light spilled over him, leaving her in shadows.

  “May I?” She looped the leather strap over her arm and extended an upright palm.

  He passed over the blunderbuss. One red-gloved hand curled around the walnut stock with feminine authority. She angled the weapon in moonlight, her thumb stroking the rounded end. His hips twitched. Her careful touch stirred languorous heat in his smalls as if those red-clad fingers were fondling him.

  “A good hold, but the wood needs oiling.” A leather-clad finger drew a leisured line down the hammer. “Cockspur’s bent. Probably doesn’t fire right.”

  “I wouldn’t rush to any conclusions,” he mused.

  “There’s no visible powder on the flashpan. It’s the worse for wear, milord. Not a piece to be taken seriously.”

  “Making it all the more dangerous. Don’t you think?”

  Was his roadside companion delivering her estimation of him? Her eyes weren’t visible in the darkness, but he could feel them…tracing his features, assessing, wondering.

  She tipped her chin, and moonlight touched a smile ghosting her lips. “Looks harmless to me.”

  He chuckled
drily, savoring her voice, the firmness of it dipping on certain syllables like a velvet caress. Addressing the hostler, she had been all business. A no-nonsense alto, this woman in red. Standing with him, she enlivened the bare country road, treating innuendo like a sword and shield.

  “Looks can be deceiving. Never underestimate what’s the worse for wear.” His mouth quirked. “You might be surprised at what you find.”

  Wind fluttered the sides of her hood. “A fine point, sir. Well-traveled weapons, if given proper care, provide…fluid handling.”

  A twinge teased his bollocks. Her droll tone and intimate knowledge of weaponry danced at the edge of fast. He quashed the governess idea. Progeny and pistols didn’t mix. Whatever her status, he was grateful for his roadside companion. Flirtation was its own elixir, helping him to forget his dark cravings.

  A sharp squall knocked back her hood. She gasped, shivering. He stepped closer and turned his body to shield her, the dry, cold air blasting his back. Long amber hair fell past her shoulders.

  “You’re blocking the wind for me. I can’t remember the last time a man’s done something like that.” She touched his sleeve. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure…miss.” He stood taller. The need to protect was primal, as old as time itself. “Midnight or not, this is a peculiar situation.”

  “Indeed.” She checked the coach and leaning closer, her lips parted.

  Did she seek a kiss? He waited stock-still. A whispered confidence or a kiss…the start of both looked the same. Conversation with the gentler sex often resembled battle, with lots of parries and thrusts, charges and retreats. The wise man assessed the field before charging boldly onward.

  “Was there something you wanted to say?” he asked.

  She hesitated, her profile dark as she looked again at the coach. “I would like a word with you, milord, but the coach needs fixing first. I was going to secure the brace myself. Perhaps you can help?”

  “Of course.” He drew a mind-clearing breath and took a decent half step back, catching matronly glares from the coach windows.

  His talent for reading women must be slipping. Midnight or not, a quick kiss wouldn’t happen, not here in staid Northumberland. He’d do well to remember he wasn’t loitering in some London alley.