Suddenly Charity felt very breathless, gazing up into the masked face and seeing the glint of the candlelight in his eyes.

There was only the length of the pin between them. She did not resist when he took her wrist and deflected the sharp point away from his body.

What was she doing? Alarmed, she dropped the brooch and put her free hand against his chest, but even as she opened her mouth to scream he captured her mouth, kissing her so ruthlessly that her bones melted under the onslaught. It was over in an instant. She was still gathering herself to resist him when he released her.

‘Yes,’ he said, his breathing a little ragged. ‘I was not wrong.’

‘A-about what?’

‘You kiss like an angel.’

In one swift, fluid movement he turned away from her, threw up the sash and slipped out into the darkness.

Charity ran to the window, but there was no sign of anyone and only the soft drumming of hoofbeats fading into the night.

AUTHOR NOTE

I first ‘met’ Charity Weston when I was writing an earlier book, LADY BENEATH THE VEIL. Then she was a successful London actress, calling herself Agnes Bennet and not behaving at all well. However, seeing the true happiness Gideon and Dominique achieved was a turning point for her, and she decided it was time to make a new start.

I knew then that I wanted to write Charity's story—to show her facing up to her past and using her real name, despite the fact that it might bring her back into the sphere of her abusive father.

Actresses in the Regency period could be fabulously successful, but they lived on the fringes of polite society. Some married, and one or two married very well. Others acquired a rich protector and some, like Charity, earned enough to secure their independence and were loath to relinquish all their worldly goods to a husband.

At the beginning of this book Charity is still an actress, but she is aware that she wants something more from her life—in modern parlance we might say she is aware of her biological clock ticking away! Then she meets the mysterious highwayman, ‘The Dark Rider’, who is so fickle that sometimes all he takes from his female victims is one sizzling kiss. After that encounter Charity's life will never be the same again.

I do hope you enjoy Charity's story. She is a strong lady, determined to fight injustice, and when she meets her hero she proves herself to be a worthy partner for him!

Happy reading.

At the

Highwayman’s

Pleasure

Sarah Mallory

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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SARAH MALLORY was born in Bristol, and now lives in an old farmhouse on the edge of the Pennines with her husband and family. She left grammar school at sixteen to work in companies as varied as stockbrokers, marine engineers, insurance brokers, biscuit manufacturers and even a quarrying company. Her first book was published shortly after the birth of her daughter. She has published more than a dozen books under the pen-name of Melinda Hammond, winning the Reviewers’ Choice Award from singletitles.com for Dance for a Diamond and the Historical Novel Society's Editors’ Choice for Gentlemen in Question. As Sarah Mallory she is the winner of the Romantic Novelists’ Association's RONA Rose® Award for 2012 and 2013 for The Dangerous Lord Darrington and Beneath the Major's Scars.

Previous novels by the same author: THE WICKED BARON MORE THAN A GOVERNESS (part of On Mothering Sunday) WICKED CAPTAIN, WAYWARD WIFE THE EARL'S RUNAWAY BRIDE DISGRACE AND DESIRE TO CATCH A HUSBAND … SNOWBOUND WITH THE NOTORIOUS RAKE (part of An Improper Regency Christmas) THE DANGEROUS LORD DARRINGTON BENEATH THE MAJOR'S SCARS* BEHIND THE RAKE'S WICKED WAGER* BOUGHT FOR REVENGE LADY BENEATH THE VEIL

* The Notorious Coale Brothers

AT THE HIGHWAYMAN'S PLEASURE

features characters you will have already met in

LADY BENEATH THE VEIL

And in Mills & Boon® Undone! eBooks: THE TANTALISING MISS COALE*

And in M&B: THE ILLEGITIMATE MONTAGUE (part of Castonbury Park Regency mini-series)

Did you know that some of these novels are also available as eBooks? Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Willow, my beautiful dog.

Taking him for his daily walks over the moors has helped me to write this story.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Prologue

June 1794

Charity closed her eyes and raised her face to the sun. It was blazing down from the cloudless blue sky while a skylark high above trilled joyously and a soft breeze stirred her hair, hanging loose and damp about her shoulders.

This is heaven, she thought, but when she opened her eyes she saw only the familiar fields around her, and in the distance, just beyond the river but before the rugged hills to the east, was the village of Saltby, no more than a little cluster of houses dominated by the stark square tower of the church.

How she wished she didn’t have to go back there.

Charity tossed her head defiantly and felt the heavy weight of her hair rippling down her back. She would have to bundle it under her bonnet before they reached the village, but it was so good to have it loose, so deliciously free.

She heard a giggle.

‘Lord, Charity, ’tis so thick it will never be dry before we reach Saltby.’ Her friend Jenny lifted some of the blonde locks from her neck and let them fall again.

‘But it was worth it.’ She tucked her hand in her friend’s arm. ‘Come along now. Let’s get home.’

They continued along a narrow valley, chattering as they went and swinging their bonnets carelessly from the ribbons. It was not until they rounded the next bend that they saw the activity in the valley ahead of them.

‘Oh, heavens, I didn’t know they would be here today,’ muttered Jenny, coming to a halt.

On the flat land by the beck the sheep were being sheared. A stone-walled fold beside the stream was already packed with animals, while shepherds were driving more sheep into the water to wash the fat from their coats ready for shearing. A familiar black-clothed figure was standing on a boulder in the middle of the activity. His arms were raised to the heavens and he had a book clutched in one hand. Even at this distance Charity knew it was a Bible. He was reciting passages from the gospels, but the shearers paid him little heed, continuing with their work with a steady, dogged persistence that would see all the sheep sheared before dark.

‘Oh, heavens, ’tis your father,’ hissed Jenny.

‘Yes,’ said Charity bitterly. ‘Phineas thinks himself another Wesley, preaching to the godless. Let’s go back before he sees us. We’ll take the long way over the hill.’

‘Too late.’

The black-coated figure had jumped down from his makeshift pulpit and was striding towards them, shouting. There was no help for it. The girls stopped and waited for him to come up.

‘And where might you be going?’

It was Jenny who spoke up.

‘We are on our way home, Mr Weston. We have been to visit old Mother Crawshaw, to take her a basket of food. Now her son has gone for a soldier there is no one to provide for her and Mrs Weston thought—’

But Phineas wasn’t listening. He was glaring, his face mottled with fury as he raised a shaking finger to point at them.

‘You have been traipsing the countryside like that, with no kerchiefs to cover your shoulders and your hair down your backs like, like—’

‘It was so hot we stopped on the way back to bathe at the secret pool,’ said Charity, giving him a defiant look. ‘We have done it many times before.’

‘Aye, but you are not children now. You are fourteen years old and should know the Lord frowns upon women displaying themselves in such shameless fashion.’

‘We did not intend anyone to see us,’ she retorted. ‘Our hair will be dry by the time we reach Saltby, and if it is not we will put it up beneath our caps before we get there.’

Even though he was still some yards away his fierce eyes burned into her and she could see the spittle on his lip as he ground out his words.

‘And you would parade yourself here, before all these men, like the veriest trollop.’

‘No, we intended to go the other way—’ She broke off as he swiftly covered the ground between them and caught her wrist. ‘Let me go!’

‘God knows I have tried to teach you the ways of righteousness, but to no avail. “Even a child is known by his actions”, and you are certainly known by yours.’

‘But we have done nothing wrong.’

‘I’ll teach you to flaunt yourself in this way.’ He made a grab for Jenny, but Charity clutched his sleeve and pulled him away.

‘Run!’ she shrieked to her friend. ‘Run home now.’ When Jenny hesitated, she cried, ‘You can do nothing for me, save yourself!’

‘Run away, then!’ shouted Phineas as the girl fled. ‘You cannot hide from the Lord’s wrath, Jennifer Howe. I shall denounce you from the pulpit come Sunday!’

‘Oh, no, you won’t,’ flashed Charity, struggling to free herself. ‘You will see Mr Howe and he will give you three guineas for your parish fund and that will be the end of it.’

‘You dare to censure me for doing the Lord’s work?’

Her lip curled. ‘I have seen too many times how a few pieces of silver will mollify your righteous temper!’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Unnatural daughter!’

‘We were doing the Lord’s work,’ she flung back at him. ‘We were ministering to the poor, which is of more use than your preaching to them.’

Phineas waved his free arm towards the scene of activity by the river.

‘You were using it for an excuse to come here and throw yourselves at these men. I know your wicked ways, girl.’ He thrust his hand into her hair and Charity screamed as he tightened his hold. ‘You know you distract men with this...this golden abundance, don’t you? It is a vanity, girl, do you hear me, a vanity. “They that are of forward heart are an abomination to the Lord!”’

‘Let me go!’

‘Not until you see what becomes of those who mock the Lord and his servants.’

Ignoring her screams, he dragged her with him, back towards the sheep shearers. The men looked up warily as he approached, some muttered under their breath, but none dared protest. He hauled Charity to the boulder that he had been standing on moments earlier and forced her to sit.

‘Jacob, come and hold her here.’

‘Nay then, Parson, I don’t—’

Phineas turned on the man with a snarl.

‘Dare you gainsay a servant of the Lord?’

Jacob stepped up and took her arms.

‘Sorry, lass.’

She hardly heard his muttered apology, for she was sobbing now, her scalp burning where Phineas had almost torn the hair out by the roots. She heard his hard voice boom out.

‘Elias, bring me the dagging shears.’

‘No!’

She screamed, cried, pleaded, but it was no use. She heard the rasp as the shears cut through her hair, handful by handful, and all the time Phineas was reciting from the Bible.

It was all over in minutes, less time than it would take a man to shear a sheep. There was a curious lightness to her head; she could feel the burning sun on her scalp. Jacob released her, but she did not move. She sat hunched on the rock, her eyes dry now, staring unseeing at the ground.

Phineas stood back.

‘And the Lord said, “Withhold not correction from the child”.’

His words fell into silence. The men were milling around, uncertain what to do. The skylark had gone, and even the sheep had ceased their bleating.

Slowly Charity got to her feet. She stared around her. The sky was still an unbroken blue vault and the hills looked the same, but everything was different, as if her world had tilted and she was looking at this scene as a detached, indifferent observer. She raised her eyes to look at her father. His face was still an angry red and he was breathing heavily, his arms by his sides and the cruel steel shears clasped in one hand.

‘But I am not a child,’ she said slowly. ‘Not anymore. And that is the last time I will let you lay a finger on me.’

With that she turned and walked away, leaving her hair, those long, silken tresses, lying at his feet like a creamy golden fleece.

Chapter One

January 1807

It was trying to snow, the bitter winds blowing the flakes horizontally across the carriage windows. Charity Weston felt a flicker of relief that there were no passengers riding on the top of the Scarborough to York cross-country mail. Black, low-lying clouds were making the winter day even shorter and soon the familiar landscape would be lost in a gloom as deep as that which filled the carriage. It was very different from the bright limelight in which she spent most of her days—or rather her nights—on stage.

She wondered what her fellow passengers would think if they knew she was an actress. The farmer and his wife might not have smiled at her quite so kindly when she took her seat, but then, all they saw was a fashionably dressed lady accompanied by her maid. She had even gone back to using the soft, cultured voice of a lady, having thrown off the rather flat, nasal tones of the south that she had assumed, along with another name, whilst working in London. It would be no wonder, therefore, if they thought her a lady of some standing. However, if they lived in or near Allingford it was quite possible that they would realise their error in the next few months, for she had accepted an offer from her old friend to join his theatre company.

A new town, new roles and a new audience. Once the idea would have filled her with excitement, but for some reason Charity could not raise any enthusiasm.

Am I getting old? she wondered. I am seven and twenty and all I want is a place of my own—not the lodging houses I own in London, but something more....

The carriage was rattling through a village and she saw a little cottage set back from the road. Golden light shone from the downstairs window, and the door was open. A woman was standing in the threshold, arms thrown wide to welcome the two little children running up the path towards her. Charity watched her catch the babes in her arms and look up at the man following them. Even in the dying light it was possible to see happiness shining in her face, and Charity felt something clutching at her heart.

That was what she wanted: a home and a loving family.

She turned in her seat, pressing her head to the glass to look at the cottage until it was out of sight. The scene had been a happy one, but it was no more than a single moment, and she knew only too well how deceptive appearances could be. Once they were all indoors, out of sight, the children might shrink behind their mother’s skirts as the man towered over them, Bible in one hand and riding crop in the other. He would demand complete obedience and reward any defiance with a thrashing. Shivering, Charity huddled back into her corner and closed her eyes, struggling to repress the memories. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come back to Allingford, so close to her roots.

The sudden slowing of the coach and raised voices from outside caused the farmer’s wife to shriek. Charity heard a mutter from Betty, her maid, who was sitting beside her.

‘Oh, lordy, what’s amiss?’

‘Most likely a cow on the road,’ Charity replied calmly. She let down the window and leaned out. ‘No,’ she said with equal calm. ‘It is not a beast. Well, not a four-legged one, at any rate. It is a highwayman.’

Betty gasped and the farmer’s wife began to gabble hysterically, her hands clasping the silver locket resting on her ample bosom, but Charity felt nothing more than a mild excitement as she regarded the horseman who was standing beside the road and brandishing a pistol towards the driver and guard. In the gloomy half-light he presented a menacing figure with his hat pulled low over his brow, throwing his face into deep shadow. Everything about the highwayman was black, from his tricorn to the hooves of the great horse that carried him. In a rough, cheerful voice he ordered the guard to throw down his shotgun and hand over the mailbag.

Charity felt a touch on her arm.

‘I pray you, madam, come back into the shadows,’ muttered the farmer in an urgent whisper. ‘Mayhap once he has the mail he won’t bother with us.’

She sat back at once but made no attempt to put up the window again, lest the noise and movement should attract the man’s attention.

‘I think it pretty poor of the guard,’ she whispered. ‘He’s made not the least attempt at resistance.’

‘There must be a gang of them,’ breathed Betty.

‘No, I don’t think so.’ Charity leaned closer to the window again. ‘I can only see the one man.’

The rider dismounted and picked up the mailbag, throwing it over his saddle. Charity turned to the farmer.

‘Surely between you and the two men on the box, you could overpower him?’

The farmer immediately shrank back farther into his corner.

‘Not if he’s armed,’ he declared, a note of alarm in his voice.

‘He’s coming over,’ hissed Betty. ‘Oh, lordy!’

She clutched at Charity’s sleeve as the door was wrenched open and the stranger said jovially, ‘Well, now, let’s be seein’ who we have in here. If ye’d care to step down, ladies and gentleman!’

The farmer’s wife whimpered and shrank back against her husband as the lamplight glinted on the pistol being waved towards them. With a little tut of exasperation, Charity climbed out, sharply adjuring Betty not to dawdle. The farmer and his wife followed suit and soon they were all four of them standing on the open road, with the winter wind blowing around them. She glanced towards the box, where the driver and guard were sitting with their hands clasped above their heads.

‘Will that be everyone?’

‘Unless there is someone hiding under the seat,’ retorted Charity, rubbing her cold hands together. ‘If you intend to rob us then please get on with it so we may be on our way.’

The man’s face was in shadow, but she could feel his eyes upon her. Now that she was closer to him she could see the deeper black of a mask covering his upper face. It did not need Betty’s little gasp of dismay to tell her that drawing attention to herself was not the wisest thing to do.

‘And who might you be, ma’am, to be making demands?’

‘That is none of your business.’

‘Ah, well, now, beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but I have to disagree with you.’ He waved the pistol. His voice was still cheerful, but there was no mistaking the note of steel in his tone or the menacing gesture. She drew herself up.

‘I am Mrs Weston.’

‘The devil you are!’ He stepped a little closer and she had the impression that she was being scrutinised very carefully. ‘You’ll be on your way to Beringham, then?’

‘I have no business in Beringham.’

‘No?’

‘No, I am going to Allingford.’ She hesitated. ‘To the theatre. I am an actress.’ She held out her reticule. ‘Here, if you are going to rob us, take it!’

She saw the flash of white as he grinned. ‘No, I don’t think I will. ’Tis a charitable mood I’m in this evening.’

‘Are ye not going to rob us, then?’ The farmer goggled at him.

‘I am not. I’ve decided I’ll not take your purse, nor the ornament that’s a-twinkling on your lady wife. Get ye back into the carriage...ah, except you, ma’am.’

Charity’s heart lurched as he addressed her. Not for the world would she show her fear, and she said with creditable assurance, ‘I have nothing for you.’

‘Oh, but I think you have.’

Betty stepped up, crying, ‘You’ll not touch my mistress!’

Charity caught her arm. ‘Hush, Betty.’

The pistol waved ominously.

‘Send your maid back to the carriage with the others, Mrs Weston.’

‘Do as he says, Betty.’ Charity held her maid’s eye and put her hand up, her fingers touching the discreet pearl head of the hatpin that held her bonnet in place. ‘I’ll deal with this.’

She saw the understanding in the older woman’s eyes and with a grim little nod Betty walked away, leaving Charity alone with the highwayman.

‘I’ve changed my mind,’ he told her. ‘I’ll take that fancy brooch you have pinned to your coat.’

It was a small cameo and of no particular value. Charity supposed he would present it to his sweetheart and found the idea did not please her. He reached out his hand to pluck the brooch from her breast and she forced herself to keep still while his fingers fumbled with the catch, but after a moment, and with a huff of exasperation, she brushed his hands aside.

‘Here, let me.’ She unfastened the cameo and held it out to him. ‘There, take it. Now may I go?’

‘Not just yet, lady.’

He stepped closer and she was enveloped in his shadow. Charity was a tall woman, but he towered over her, the caped greatcoat making his shoulders impossibly broad. A tremor ran through her, but she told herself he was only a man, and in her profession she had dealt with many such situations.

She said calmly, ‘Surely you will not attack me here, in front of everyone.’

He laughed, and again she saw that flash of white teeth.

‘Attack? Faith, me darlin’, that suggests you ain’t willing.’

‘Indeed? Well, I—’

Her words were cut off as he reached out and dragged her to him. She found herself pinioned against his chest, one arm like an iron band around her shoulders. She looked up to protest and at that moment his head swooped down and he kissed her.

Through luck or expertise his mouth found hers immediately and her senses reeled from that first, electric touch. She could not move and he continued to kiss her, his tongue plundering her mouth and causing such a rush of sensation through her body that it was impossible to resist him. The stubble on his face grazed her skin but she hardly noticed, her mind spinning with such irrelevant thoughts as the fact that he did not smell of dirt and horses. Instead her head was filled with a succession of scents. First there had been the unmistakable smell of leather and the wool of his greatcoat, but when he pulled her closer she recognised the pleasant tang of soap and lemons, spices and clean linen. As his tongue explored her mouth her bones dissolved and hot arrows of pleasure drove deep into her body. The sensations were new and unnerving. She wanted to cling to him, to push herself against that hard, male body.

Time stopped. She was his prisoner, fighting her own desire to kiss him back rather than struggling against his embrace, and when he finally raised his head she was strangely disappointed. She remained in his arms, unable to move and staring up at him. Her eyes had grown more accustomed to the darkness and she could make out his features a little better beneath the shadow of his hat. The smiling mouth and lean cheeks, the strong lines of his jaw that ran down to the cleft of his chin, the hawkish nose and most of all those dark, dark eyes, gleaming at her through the slits of his mask.

‘Mmm,’ he murmured, soft as a sigh. ‘Heavenly.’

Charity had forgotten her surroundings, the icy wind that was even now scattering tiny flakes of snow over them, the fact that he was a stranger. She had even forgotten that he was a highwayman, until he raised his head and barked out an order to the coachman and guard.

‘Keep yer hands on yer heads, me fine friends.’

His rough warning brought her back to reality. She pushed him away—no, he did not move, it was she who stepped back, hiding the trembling of her hands by vigorously shaking out her skirts. A glance behind her showed the coach still standing on the road, the driver and guard still sitting motionless on the box and the white faces of the passengers visible at the coach windows. It could only have been a minute that had passed, maybe two, yet Charity felt as if something momentous had occurred. She gave herself a mental shake. Good heavens, it was only a kiss, and she had been kissed before, but never had it had such an effect.

It was the excitement, she told herself sternly. Fear set your nerves on edge and made you feel the experience all the more keenly.

The highwayman was holding out his hand to her.

‘Having exacted my price from you, madam, you are now free to go on your way.’

Silently she took his hand and let him help her back into the carriage. He closed the door and she saw the glint of amusement in his eyes as he touched the barrel of the pistol to his hat brim in a mock salute. He stepped back and glanced up at the box.

‘Now, me lads, I’ll thank you to sit where you are a while longer.’

He whistled and the black horse trotted up to him. Charity noted the athletic way he leaped up into the saddle and galloped away, leaving everyone in a shocked, immobile silence.

As the hoofbeats faded, the spell was broken. The farmer began to rage about the impudence of such rascals while his wife fell back in her seat, fanning herself vigorously and declaring she could feel a seizure coming on. Betty muttered up a prayer of thanks and the guard clambered down to retrieve his shotgun and to ask if the passengers were all right.

‘All right? Of course we are not all right!’ shouted the farmer. ‘What’re you about, to let one rascally knave with a popgun cause us all such terror? Look! Look at my wife. Right terrified, she is. ’Tis a disgrace, I tell ’ee. One man on the road and all you can do is drop your gun!’

‘Aye, I dropped it right enough,’ replied the guard, affronted. ‘He were threatenin’ to shoot me head off.’

‘So you let ’im get away with daylight robbery!’

‘As I recall, he didn’t take anything o’ yours,’ the guard retorted.

‘He stole the mail,’ countered the farmer’s wife.

‘And he assaulted my mistress,’ added Betty.

‘Which is why I came to enquire if she was hurt.’ The guard turned his attention to Charity. ‘Well, ma’am? Have you suffered any injury?’

Charity was reliving the memory of being imprisoned in those strong arms and her lips still burned from the highwayman’s kiss, but she would never admit that to a soul.

‘N-no, I am a little shaken, but I am not hurt.’

‘The rascal stole your brooch, Miss—’

‘Hush, Betty. It was a mere trinket.’ She turned to the guard. ‘Please, it is not important. Let us get on.’

The guard seemed satisfied with that. He nodded.

‘Then we’ll be on our way. We’re stopping at Beringham to change horses, so we will report the incident then.’

He closed the door and the carriage rocked as he climbed back onto the box beside the driver.

‘Aye, and I’ll be reporting this to the mail company,’ muttered the farmer as they set off again. ‘Never seen the like, a guard and driver made to look no-how by a lone horseman—why, between the three of us we could have taken him!’

‘That’s just what my mistress sug—’

Charity dug her maid in the ribs. She summoned up a bright smile.

‘Well, I for one am glad we came off so lightly. I pray we will have no more excitement before we reach our destination.’

* * *

Her prayers were answered, and the short journey into Beringham was uneventful. The passengers were invited to go into the inn while the constable was summoned.

After the chilly carriage, the sight of the inn’s blazing fire was very cheering, and when the landlord had supplied them all with a cup of hot coffee, even the farmer’s mood improved. The local constable turned out to be a stolid individual called Rigg who painstakingly wrote everything down, explaining that the magistrate would want to have all the details reported to him. Once the guard and driver had given their version of events, he turned to the passengers. Charity glanced at the clock. They should have been at Allingford by now, but the delay could not be helped, so she stifled her impatience and gave her attention to the matter in hand.

‘He got down off his horse and ordered you all out o’ the coach, you say?’ The constable looked at his notes. ‘So you had a chance to get a good look at the fellow, eh?’

The farmer shook his head. ‘Nay, ’twere too dark to see out by then.’

‘That’s true,’ affirmed Betty. ‘And he soon ordered us all back inside, except Mrs Weston.’

‘Weston?’ The constable looked up, all attention. ‘Mrs Weston, you say? Are you—?’

‘I am an actress.’ She smiled to atone for interrupting him. ‘Mrs Weston is my stage name.’

The farmer’s wife sniffed, her earlier smiles replaced now with a more haughty stare.

‘Ah, I see.’ The constable looked even more interested in that. ‘You’ll be on your way to Allingford, then.’ He added, with something like a sigh, ‘We have no theatre in Beringham.’

‘Nor any other entertainment,’ grumbled the farmer. ‘Even the inns ain’t what they was.’

‘But she was closest to the villain,’ put in the farmer’s wife, ignoring her husband. ‘In his arms, she was, and he was makin’ free with her—’

‘I beg your pardon, but it was no such thing,’ declared Betty, bristling in defence of her mistress. ‘He ravished her, quite against her will.’

Charity blushed and shook her head at the bemused constable.

‘He stole a cheap brooch, that is all.’

‘And he kissed her, too!’ cried the farmer’s wife in outraged accents.

‘Very understandable, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so,’ returned the officer of the law, then coloured to the tips of his ears.

‘It means she saw him better than the rest of us,’ said the farmer. ‘Right tall fellow, he was.’

‘Ma’am?’ The constable turned his eyes towards Charity, who shrugged.

‘I would not have said he was that tall. About medium height, I think.’

‘Bigger, surely,’ argued the farmer’s wife. ‘He towered over you!’

Charity remembered it only too well, but she shook her head now.

‘I was cowering a little.’

It was a lie. She had felt no fear in her encounter with the highwayman. There had been anger, yes, and excitement, but she had never felt afraid of him. The farmer’s wife was continuing.

‘A big man, all in black and astride a great black ’oss. And he had right broad shoulders.’

Charity remembered him coming close, the feeling that he was enveloping her in his shadow.

‘His coat was very large,’ she said. ‘It had several capes on the shoulders, which gave the impression of width.’

‘Did you see his face, or his hair—did he wear a wig, perhaps?’

‘He never removed his hat. And he wore a mask, so I could not see his countenance.’

That much was true. She could not even say with any certainty what colour his eyes had been, only that they were very dark and had bored into her, as if he could see into her very soul.

‘His horse, though—that should be easy to find.’ The coachman tapped out his pipe upon the hearth and set about refilling it. ‘It was a stallion, a great dark beast, pure black from mane to hoof.’

‘And he weren’t from around these parts,’ added the guard. ‘Irish, I do reckon.’

‘Aye,’ agreed the farmer. ‘Definitely Irish, no mistaking that brogue.’

Charity said nothing. She had spent her life working with actors and mimics and suspected that lilting Irish accent had been as false as the inflection she had adopted in London to make everyone think she had grown up south of the Thames. The landlord, who had been hovering by all the while, nodded sagely.

‘The Dark Rider. They say he comes from Dublin.’

‘Oh, Lord bless us!’ exclaimed the farmer’s wife, falling back in her chair. No one paid her any heed.

‘Nay, I thought it was Shannon,’ said the coachman, ‘But that’s who I guessed it might be. I’ve never seen him afore, though.’

‘The Dark Rider?’ asked Betty nervously.

‘Aye.’ The landlord nodded. ‘He’s been working the roads around Beringham for a year or so now. Robbed Absalom Keldy and his wife afore Christmas, he did.’

‘And I was told he took fifty guineas off Mr Hutton only last month,’ put in the coachman.

The farmer snorted. ‘Well, he can take what he likes off Hutton, with my blessing. Self-serving old scoundrel that he is!’

‘Aye,’ agreed the landlord, ‘but the Dark Rider’s capricious, see. You never know what he will take. It might be no more than a kiss from a pretty woman, other times it’s a purse.’

‘He always takes the mailbag,’ added the constable, ‘although they turn up again at the roadside after he’s looked through ’em. Searching for money, I dare say, although who’d be foolish enough to send money in a letter, I don’t know.’

The landlord winked at Charity. ‘He’s got the ladies around here all of a pother. They all wants to meet ’im. Many think he’s a gentleman in disguise, kicking up a lark.’

‘Gentleman or no, he’ll be dancing on the gibbet when he’s caught,’ growled the constable. ‘I think that’s all I needs for now, so you can be on your way.’ His unhurried gaze swept over the passengers. ‘You’d best tell me your direction, in case we needs to speak to you again, or to ask you to identify the culprit.’

‘Well, you’ll find us at Broad Ings Farm.’ The farmer’s buxom wife stood up and shook out her skirts. ‘And we’ve paid our fare to the next crossroads, so the quicker we get moving the better.’

‘And you, Mrs Weston?’

Charity spread her hands.

‘I have no idea where I shall be living in Allingford, but you can always find me at the theatre.’

They were ushered back to the coach. The driver was anxious to make up time and they rattled quickly through the darkness to the crossroads, where the farmer and his wife alighted, leaving Charity and her maid with the carriage to themselves.

‘Well, well, what a to-do, mistress! We should have been in Allingford three hours since.’

‘I know, Betty. I hope Hywel has a dinner put aside for us. All this excitement has given me an appetite.’

Betty gave a disapproving sniff.

‘Don’t know how you can be thinking of food when you were ravished by that scoundrel! Still, it couldn’t have been that bad, since you didn’t have to make use of your hatpin, and I know full well that you’ve used it on more than one occasion when an admirer has been a bit too familiar.’

Charity did not reply, but settled back in her corner and closed her eyes. To be truthful, she had not even thought of her hatpin when the highwayman had pulled her close. She had not thought of anything. She had known ladies in the audience to swoon at the sight of a particularly handsome actor, but had always considered them very silly beings. Now she could understand them a little better, for the powerful attraction she had felt for the audacious rascal had made her light-headed, and she had come very close to swooning herself.

Heavens, what was she about?

You are growing old, my girl, she told herself sternly. Old and lonely, if you must needs faint at the attentions of a stranger.

The lights of Allingford interrupted her musings and Charity was grateful to put aside her disturbing thoughts. A servant was waiting to escort them the short distance from the inn to a modest house where they were admitted by a very superior manservant who announced that Mr Jenkin was waiting for Mrs Weston in the parlour. As the servant opened the door she saw a tall, distinguished-looking man with silver hair standing before the fire. Upon her entrance he came forward to greet her.

‘I was beginning to think you had changed your mind about coming to work for me.’

Laughing, she gave him her hands and pulled him close to kiss his cheek.

‘Not a bit of it, Hywel! And good evening, my dear. We were delayed on the road. A highwayman, no less!’ She turned away to remove her cloak and bonnet so that Hywel would not see her face; he knew her so well he would see in an instant that there was more to the encounter than she was telling him. ‘He is well known in this area, I believe—the Dark Rider. A very poor example of his kind, in my opinion.’

‘I have heard of him.’ He handed her a glass of wine as she came back towards the fire. ‘What did he take from you?’

‘He stole a trinket, a cheap brooch of mine.’

‘And did he demand a kiss from all the ladies?’

She blushed.

‘Yes.’

‘Of which you were by far the prettiest.’

Her mouth twisted in a little moue of distaste.

‘Blonde curls and blue eyes! You know I do not rate my milk-and-water colouring.’

‘You are a fine actress, my dear, but your beauty—your milk-and-water colouring, as you call it—has contributed no small part to your success.’ He invited her to sit beside the fire and lowered himself into a chair opposite. ‘How did you like Scarborough?’

‘Very much.’ She sent him a twinkling look. ‘I was compared very favourably with Mrs Siddons.’

‘And now you will take Allingford by storm. I am very grateful that you have deigned to grace my little theatre with your presence.’

‘Nonsense, you know I owe everything to you. When you wrote to tell me you had lost your leading lady, how could I refuse to help you? After all, I owe you everything, for taking me in and looking after me all those years ago.’

‘I had my reward—you are a natural actress and your success reflected well upon my travelling players, so well that investors were persuaded to join me in building the theatre here.’

‘Yet still you encouraged me to try my luck in London.’

‘Your talent deserves a wider audience.’ He sat back, smiling. ‘I looked out for you in the newspapers—Agnes Bennet, darling of Drury Lane! How long ago was it, five years?’

‘About that, yes.’

‘But you quit London just as you were making a name for yourself. Why was that, my dear?’

Charity cradled her wine glass in her hands.

‘I fell in with a bad crowd. When I realised how bad I was disgusted, with myself as well as with them. I decided to leave that life, and Agnes Bennet, behind me.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘It was a miracle that I escaped with my virtue intact.’

‘So you are Charity Weston again.’

‘Yes, and I have spent the last few years touring the country, building a new career for myself.’

‘And doing very well, if the reports are to be believed.’ Hywel got up to fetch the decanter and refill their glasses. ‘So why did you come to Allingford, my dear?’

‘Why, because you asked me—your leading lady had contracted inflammation of the lungs and retired to Worthing with her husband.’

‘When I wrote I hardly expected you to accept.’

She spread her hands. ‘I wanted to come back to the north.’ Her eyes twinkled. ‘Being able to play in a theatre rather than an inn or a barn is very welcome, Hywel, and when you told me you were the owner and manager here I could not help myself!’

‘Away with your flattery, baggage! Please do not mistake me, my dear, I am delighted to have you rejoin my theatre. Many of your old friends are still working for me. But it is very close to your old home. And to your father.’

She shrugged. ‘Saltby is several miles away. I doubt Phineas ever comes to Allingford, and it is even more unlikely that he would visit the theatre.’

‘But he is no longer at Saltby, my dear. He lives in Beringham now.’

She sat up. ‘So close?’ She chewed her lip, frowning, then said slowly, ‘It matters not. I am no longer afraid of him. Besides, I am tired of my wandering life, Hywel. I am minded to settle down, and where better than Allingford, where I can continue to work in the theatre?’

‘But using your real name—is that not rather a risk? Weston is bound to take it amiss when he discovers you are here.’

‘I have hidden behind a stage name for too long. I have accepted the courtesy title of Mrs Weston, but I will go no further. I want to be myself now.’ She sipped her wine. ‘I have heard nothing of Phineas since I left.’ His brows lifted and she continued, ‘I stopped calling him “Father” years ago. He does not deserve the title. Is my stepmother still living?’

‘No. She died several years ago, before he moved to Beringham. He is a man of property now. It appears your stepmother left him a tidy sum.’

Charity looked up, surprised. ‘Really? I knew he had married her for her dowry, but I had thought it was all spent.’

‘Apparently not, since he came to Beringham a man of some means. He has married again and his wife brings with her a small fortune. He is now a magistrate, too.’

‘Is he indeed?’ She grimaced. ‘Poor Beringham.’

‘Very true. Thankfully we have a county border between us. He rules with a rod of iron and will allow no theatres or entertainments in his area.’ He grinned. ‘All the better for me, of course, since those who want to see a play must come to Allingford.’

‘It must irk him dreadfully to know people are free to enjoy themselves here. I wonder if he is aware that the theatre in Scarborough was built by a clergyman? He would certainly not approve of that! Phineas believes salvation can only come about through suffering.’

‘As long as it is not his own.’

She laughed and said bitterly, ‘Of course. He was always able to justify his own comfort.’

‘He and his wife live in very grand style now,’ Hywel told her. ‘He has a fine house in Beringham. It is stuffed full of works of art, I am told, some of quite dubious quality, but expensive nevertheless. And he has set up his own stable, with a fancy carriage to take him and his lady about the country.’

Charity gazed into the fire, wondering if this third wife was any happier than the first two. She had never forgotten her mama’s anxious careworn face, the way she would jump at shadows, always afraid of incurring her husband’s wrath. When she died, Phineas had immediately taken another wife, a kindly woman who had soon been broken by his cruelty and become a meek, silent figure in the house. Charity shuddered.

‘Thank goodness I am no longer part of that family.’

‘Yet the connection is sure to be made,’ said Hywel. ‘Some in Beringham will remember that Phineas once had a daughter.’

‘That was thirteen years ago, Hywel. I will never acknowledge the connection and I doubt Phineas would want it known. The past is dead to me.’

He looked unconvinced.

‘Do you still suffer the nightmares?’

She shrugged. ‘Rarely. Although, I did wonder, coming here—’

Hywel laid his hand on her arm.

‘You are safe enough here, Charity. Weston has no jurisdiction in Allingford. And you can rely upon my protection.’

She reached out and briefly took his hand.

‘I know that, Hywel. You have always been a good friend to me. But enough of this dull talk. Tell me how you go on here and what you have chosen for my first role!’

‘The theatre is doing very well—my players are good and reliable. I thought, for your first appearance, you should play Mr Sheridan’s sentimental heroine, Lydia Languish.’

‘And will you be Captain Absolute?’

He shook his head, laughing. ‘I am too long in the tooth now to play the lover. Will Stamp takes those roles now.’

‘Young Will? I remember he had just joined you when I left.’

‘And proved himself a good actor,’ said Hywel. ‘I shall play his father, Sir Anthony.’

‘Do you have a script for me? It is a while since I played Lydia.’

‘Of course. I shall furnish you with one tomorrow when I take you to the theatre to meet my cast.’

‘And I must find myself somewhere to live.’

‘You are quite welcome to stay here for as long as you wish.’

‘Thank you, Hywel, but I thought to rent a little house for myself.’

‘You will need a manservant. I know just the fellow—’

‘No, no, at least, not yet. Betty can do all I need—Betty Harrup, my maid and dresser. She has been with me for several years and is upstairs even now unpacking for me. We have been used to fending for ourselves and I shall be quite content.’ A mischievous chuckle escaped her. ‘And I shall not be asking you to fund me, Hywel. I have invested well enough and have a comfortable income now.’

‘In that case, I shall find for you all the most suitable properties for a woman of substance. I shall puff off your fame quite shamelessly and Allingford’s landlords will be falling over themselves to provide a house for you. We have three weeks before we open again, so you have plenty of time to make yourself at home here. But enough of that. I had dinner put back and I am sure you must be hungry.’

‘Ravenous, my dear. Shall I go upstairs and see if Betty has unpacked for me, or will you allow me to dine with you in all my dirt?’

He laughed. ‘Let us dine now, by all means! A little dust on your skirts will do no harm.’

They passed the rest of the evening comfortably enough, catching up on all that had happened since they last met, and despite the nagging worry of knowing her father lived in the neighbouring town, when Charity retired to bed there were no nightmares to disturb her slumbers. Instead she dreamed of a masked man on a black horse.

* * *

Charity soon found a home of her own in Allingford. In less than a week she had moved into a snug little house in North Street. It took only a couple days to make it comfortable, and on the third evening Charity was able to sit down in the little sitting room to study her script of The Rivals, ready for the rehearsals, which were to start in earnest the following day.

‘I’ve brought in more coals for the fire, Miss Charity.’

‘Thank you, Betty. You need not wait up for me, I shall see myself to bed.’

The maid dropped the bucket on the hearth and straightened, bending a fond but frowning gaze upon her mistress.

‘Now, don’t you be sitting up ’til all hours straining your eyes, ma’am.’

‘I promise you I won’t,’ said Charity with a smile. ‘Goodnight, my dear.’

Betty went out again and soon she heard her stumping up the wooden stairs. Charity turned back to her script, but she could not give it her full attention, for she was aware of the creaks and sighs as the unfamiliar house settled down for the night. Once she heard a soft thud and she took her candle into the back room to check that the door into the yard was secure. Her candle flickered and she looked around a little nervously.

Everything was strange and new, but she comforted herself with the thought that soon she would know every nook and creaking floorboard of the little house. She went back to the sitting room, but the fire had died down and she decided she would not waste more coal on it.

‘I shall go to bed,’ she told the shadowy corners. ‘The Rivals must wait until tomorrow.’

She went upstairs and as she passed the first door she heard the rhythmic snores coming from her maid. There were two more rooms in the attic, but Charity had insisted Betty should sleep in one of the two chambers here on the first floor. Smiling, she made her way to her own chamber. It was at the back of the house, and she had chosen it because she thought it would be much quieter than the room overlooking the street. As she entered, her candle flickered and she saw that the window was not fully closed. She crossed the room, leaving her candle on the dressing table as she passed. She pushed down on the heavy sash and was just slipping the catch into place when she heard a soft chuckle behind her and a deep voice said, ‘Faith, me darlin’, but I’d forgotten how beautiful you are!’

Charity swung round, a startled cry catching in her throat. Behind the door was the shadowy figure of a man in riding dress, a tricorn pulled low over his face.

‘The Dark Rider!’

She saw the flash of white as he grinned.

‘The very same, me lady.’

‘Get out.’ She backed against the window. ‘Go now before I call my maid.’

‘Sure, now, I’m thinking you’d have screamed before now if you was going to.’

Charity was wondering why she had not done so. She said, ‘So are you a common housebreaker, too, or did you know this was my house?’

‘Oh, I knew, Mrs Weston. Word travels fast when a celebrated actress takes up residence in a small town like this. Are ye not going to ask me what I’m doing here?’

A trickle of fear ran down her back as she supplied her own answer to that question. She kept her eyes resolutely away from the bed as she stepped closer to the dressing table. ‘I want to know how you got in.’

He waved to the window. ‘Over the lean-to roof.’

She rested her hand on the silk-and-velvet bonnet thrown over one of the mirror supports.

‘Well, you may leave the same way.’

‘I will, when I’m ready.’

‘Now.’ She pulled a hatpin from the bonnet. Its steel shaft was some eight inches long and glinted wickedly in the dim light. ‘Do not think I will not use this to defend myself,’ she added, when he did not move. ‘It would not be the first time and I am quite adept, you know.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ he said, his voice rich with laughter as he strode over to the window. ‘But you mistake me, Mrs Weston.’ He put his hand in his pocket. ‘I came to return this.’ He held out her cameo brooch. ‘Well, take it, me darlin’, before I change my mind.’

Warily she reached out and plucked it from his open palm.

‘I thought to see it adorning some pretty young serving wench,’ she told him. ‘Why did you bring it back?’

‘Guilty conscience.’ He moved a little closer. ‘And the prospect of a reward.’

Suddenly she felt very breathless, gazing up into the masked face and seeing the glint of the candlelight in his eyes. There was only the length of the hatpin between them. She did not resist when he took her wrist and deflected the sharp blade away from his body.

What was she doing? Alarmed, she dropped the brooch and put her free hand against his chest, but even as she opened her mouth to scream he captured her mouth, kissing her so ruthlessly that her bones melted under the onslaught. It was over in an instant. She was still gathering herself to resist him when he released her.

‘Yes,’ he said, his breathing a little ragged. ‘I was not wrong.’

‘A-about what?’

Her eyes were fixed on his mouth, fascinated by the sculpted lips and the laughter lines engraved on each side that deepened now as he gave her a slow smile.

‘You kiss like an angel.’

In one swift, fluid movement he turned away from her, threw up the sash and slipped out into the darkness.

Charity ran to the window, but there was no sign of anyone, only the soft drumming of hoofbeats fading into the night.

* * *

Hywel clapped his hands. ‘Very well, everyone, let us begin by reading through the first act. Mrs Weston—are you with us?’

Charity started. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Jenkin. I am ready to rehearse, of course.’

He looked closely at her. ‘Did you not sleep well last night?’

‘No, as a matter of fact.’ She paused and said casually, ‘You told me you could recommend a manservant for me. Someone to be trusted.’

‘Aye. There is a fellow called Thomas who is presently doing odd jobs for me, but he would prefer regular work, I know.’

‘How soon can he start?’

‘Today, if you wish. Shall I send him to you when we have finished rehearsals?’

Charity nodded.

‘If you please, Hywel.’ She touched the little cameo pinned to her gown. ‘I shall feel happier with another servant in the house.’

Chapter Two

It was opening night and the theatre was packed for the new production of The Rivals. The playbill pasted up at the entrance announced boldly that the role of Lydia Languish was to be played by the celebrated actress Mrs Charity Weston, fresh from her successful season in Scarborough. Ross Durden took his seat on one of the benches in the pit and soon found himself squashed by bodies as the pit filled up.

‘Should be a good night,’ remarked the man in the brown bagwig who was sitting beside him. ‘I read that this new leading lady’s being compared to Mrs Siddons.’ He pulled a nut from his pocket and cracked it expertly between his fingers. ‘We shall soon find out.’

‘Have you ever seen Mrs Siddons?’ asked Ross, mildly intrigued.

‘Once.’ The man cracked another nut and munched meditatively. ‘In York, in the role of Lady Macbeth. Excellent, she was. Never seen the like. Just hope this lass is as good as they say.’

‘But this is a comedy,’ Ross pointed out, recalling that the great Sarah Siddons was renowned for her tragedies.

His neighbour shrugged. ‘A play’s a play and if the lady’s no good then we shall soon let her know!’

Ross said no more. He had come into Allingford on business today, and had bought himself a ticket because he had wanted a diversion before returning home. The Rivals was one of his favourite plays and the fact that Charity Weston was making her debut in Allingford had not influenced him at all.

At least that was what he told himself, yet somehow this evening the familiar prologue and first scene did not captivate him, although the rest of the audience seemed to be enjoying it. He realised he was waiting for Mrs Weston’s appearance in Scene Two.

Then she was there. Powdered and bewigged, but there could be no mistaking that wonderful figure nor the brilliance of her blue eyes, visible even from his seat halfway back in the pit. Her voice, too, held him spellbound. It had a mellow, smoky quality, redolent of sexual allure. It should not have been right for her character—Lydia Languish was meant to be a sweet young heiress—but there was an innocence about Charity’s playing that rang true.

Ross glanced about him, relieved to see the audience was captivated by her performance. Smiling, he turned back to the stage and settled down to enjoy the play.

* * *

The first performance in a new theatre was always exciting, but nerve-racking too, and Charity breathed a sigh of relief when it was over, knowing it had gone well. The audience was on its feet, clapping and cheering. She dropped into a low curtsy, smiling. The applause never failed to surprise her. When she reached the wings, Hywel caught her hand and led her back to the stage.

‘They will not settle down if you do not grant them one last bow,’ he murmured, smiling broadly.

She sank into another deep curtsy. Someone had thrown a posy of primroses onto the stage. She picked it up and touched it to her lips before holding it out to the audience, acknowledging their applause. The crowd went wild, and they were still stamping and clapping and cheering when she accompanied Hywel into the wings.

‘Well, that is the first night over. I only hope they continue to enjoy my performances.’

‘Oh, they will,’ replied Hywel confidently. ‘Now, I must go and get ready for the farce and you must prepare yourself to be besieged by admirers when the show is over!’

* * *

Charity exchanged praise and compliments with the rest of the players, then went back to the dressing room to find Betty waiting for her. Her handmaid’s austere countenance had softened slightly, a sign that she was pleased with her mistress’s reception.

‘Help me out of this headdress, if you please, Betty. Heavens, it is such a weight!’

‘If you’d been born twenty years earlier, Miss Charity, you’d have had your own hair piled up like this for weeks on end.’

‘I cannot believe this monstrous, pomaded style was once the fashion.’ Charity gave an exaggerated sigh of relief as Betty carefully pulled away the wig, which was curled, powdered and decorated with a confection of feathers and silk flowers. ‘Put it aside, Betty, and help me out of my gown, if you please. Mr Jenkin thinks there may be a crowd in the green room once the farce is ended.’

‘Not a doubt of it, madam, the way they was cheering you. Now, I brought the rose silk and your embroidered muslin. Which will you wear to meet your admirers?’

‘The muslin, I think, Betty. And they are not my admirers. Mr Jenkin tells me that it is the custom here at Allingford for all the cast to gather for a reception in the green room.’

‘Aye,’ muttered Betty, ‘but there’s no doubt who will be most in demand!’

Charity was exhausted and longed to go home to bed, but she knew Hywel would expect her to join the other members of the cast and ‘do the pretty’, as he phrased it, talking to those wealthy patrons who were invited backstage to meet the players. She was grateful for the supper that was laid on and managed to eat a little cold chicken and one of the delicious pastries before Hywel carried her off to introduce her to the great and the good of Allingford. He began with Lady Malton, who looked down her highbred nose at Charity and afforded her the merest nod.

‘In a small town like this we cannot rely upon one rich patron like Lady Malton to support the theatre,’ Hywel explained as he led her away from the viscountess. ‘We depend upon the goodwill of a large number of gentlemen—and ladies—of more moderate means. People like the Beverleys. They are a delightful couple and the backbone of Allingford life. Sir Mark is the local magistrate and his lady is very good-natured and likes to fill her house with actors and artists.’

Having presented Charity to Sir Mark and Lady Beverley and spent a few minutes in conversation, he led her away to meet a bluff, rosy-cheeked gentleman in a powdered wig, whom he introduced as Mr John Hutton.

‘Mr Hutton has travelled from Beringham to be here,’ said Hywel.

Conscious of her duty, she gave the man her most charming smile.

‘I am sure we are very grateful to you for coming so far.’

‘And I am glad to see you here,’ replied Mr Hutton, taking her hand and pressing a whiskery kiss upon her fingers. ‘Especially glad to know that you did not take any hurt getting here.’ He laughed at her look of confusion and squeezed her hand. ‘Why, ma’am, it’s all over Beringham that the Scarborough coach was held up.’

‘Ah, yes.’ So that was where she had heard his name before. Her excellent memory recalled the coachman mentioning that a Mr Hutton had been robbed by the same highwayman.

‘There is no doubt that this “Dark Rider” is having an effect on business,’ Hutton continued. ‘Many are afraid to make the journey between Beringham and Allingford.’ The whiskery jowls quivered with indignation. ‘The sooner the fellow is caught and strung up, the better it will be for all of us.’

Such serious talk was not what was needed, so Charity summoned up her brightest smile.

‘I am very glad you were not discouraged from coming tonight, sir. I hope you enjoyed the performance and will come again.’

‘Aye, I did enjoy it, ma’am, very much, and very pleased I am that Mr Jenkin here has seen fit to open his theatre in Allingford.’ He made a little bow towards the actor/manager. ‘By Gad, sir, we need something to distract us from this dashed war.’

‘And there is nothing like a good play to do that, Mr Hutton,’ agreed Hywel. ‘Let me tell you what else we have planned....’

With a word and a smile Charity left the gentlemen to their conversation. She worked her way through the crowd, smiling and charming them all in the hope that they would return to the theatre for another evening. There were a couple baronets and one knight, but the rest were landowners or wealthy tradesmen from the town, many with their wives who were prepared to be jealous of a beautiful actress, but a few minutes in Charity’s company persuaded these matrons that there was no danger of the celebrated Mrs Weston stealing their husbands away from them.

As an actress in London, she had grown accustomed to fighting off the admirers who wanted to make her their mistress. It had not been easy, but with skill and quick thinking Charity had managed to maintain her virtue, generally without offending her admirers, and in the past few years while she had been touring under her own name, she had perfected her role. To the married men and their wives she was charmingly modest and at pains to make them understand that she was interested only in her profession and would take compliments upon her performance, but not her person. She succeeded very well and all the ladies agreed that she was a very prettily behaved young woman, although not, of course, the sort one could invite into one’s home.

However, the single young men who clustered about her were treated to a very different performance. She gave each one her attention for a short time, laughed off their effusive compliments and returned their friendly banter, refusing to be drawn into anything more than the mildest flirtation. Yet each one went away to spend the night in pleasurable dreams of the unattainable golden goddess.

The crowd in the green room showed no sign of dispersing. Charity smothered a yawn and was wondering how soon she could slip away when she was aware of someone at her shoulder. Summoning up her smile, she turned to find herself staring at the snowy folds of a white neckcloth. She stepped back a little to take in the whole man. He was soberly dressed in buckled shoes and white stockings with the cream knee breeches that were the norm for evening wear, but his plain dark coat carried no fobs or seals and he wore no quizzing glass. Yet he carried himself with an air of assurance and she guessed he was one of the wealthier inhabitants of Allingford.

His athletic figure and deeply tanned skin made her think he had spent a great deal of time abroad. His face was not exactly handsome, but it was arresting, with its strong jaw, hawkish nose and those dark eyes fringed with long black lashes that any woman would envy. When he bowed to her she noticed that his black hair was cut fashionably short and curled naturally about his head and down over his collar.

‘May I congratulate you on an excellent performance, Mrs Weston?’ The words were slow and measured, very much in keeping with his sober appearance, but there was something in his voice that was very attractive and strangely familiar. A memory fluttered, but was gone before she could grasp it.

‘Thank you. I am glad you enjoyed it.... Have we met before?’

‘How could that be, when you have only just arrived in Allingford?’ There was an elusive twinkle lurking in his dark eyes that was at odds with his grave tone. ‘Besides, if we had been introduced before, I would surely not have forgotten it.’

She wanted him to speak again, just so she could enjoy that deep, velvet-smooth voice.

‘You live in the town, sir?’

‘Close by. At Wheelston.’

‘Ah, I see. Is that very far from here?’

‘A few miles.’

His answers were annoyingly short. She looked up into his face and felt again that disturbing flutter of recognition.

‘I beg your pardon, sir, but are you sure we haven’t—?’

He took out his watch and broke in upon her.

‘You must excuse me, Mrs Weston, it is getting late and I must cut and run. I wanted only to compliment you upon your performance. Goodnight to you.’

With a bow he was gone, leaving her dissatisfied with the brevity of their conversation. Sir Mark and Lady Beverley claimed her attention, but although she responded civilly to their praise and conversation, her eyes followed the tall stranger as he made his way across the room.

‘Tell me, Sir Mark,’ she interrupted the magistrate’s flow of small talk. ‘Who is that gentleman?’

‘Who?’ Sir Mark glanced up.

‘The one by the door.’ Charity felt a slight ripple of disappointment. The man had sought her out, but had obviously not been enamoured, since he was leaving so soon.

‘Oh, that’s Durden, not the most popular man in Allingford.’ Sir Mark turned back to her, his whiskers bristling. ‘He wasn’t rude to you, was he, ma’am?’

‘No, not at all. I was merely...curious.’

‘You are intrigued by his blackamoor appearance,’ suggested Lady Beverley. ‘That comes from his years in the navy, I believe. He was a sea captain, you know, but he came home two years ago, when his mother died.’

‘He is certainly not popular,’ Charity remarked, watching his progress towards the door. People avoided his eye, or even turned their backs as he passed. ‘Why should that be?’

Sir Mark hesitated before replying, ‘His taciturn manner, I shouldn’t wonder.’

‘Poor man,’ murmured Lady Beverley. ‘I am surprised, though, that Mr Jenkin should invite him—he has no money to invest in the theatre.’

‘Jenkin invited him for the same reason I make sure you send him a card to each of your parties,’ replied Sir Mark. ‘The property may be run down and its owner may not have a feather to fly with, but Wheelston is still one of the principal properties in the area. Unusual for Durden to turn up, though. He keeps to himself as a rule.’

‘Is that any wonder, given what happened?’ said Lady Beverley, shaking her head. ‘But I am not surprised that he should come this evening when we have such a celebrated actress in our midst! Ah, Mr Jenkin—let me congratulate you on your new leading lady. I was just telling Mrs Weston that I have never laughed so heartily at one of Mr Sheridan’s comedies...’

Charity wondered exactly what had happened to make Mr Ross Durden so unsociable, but the conversation had moved on and the moment was lost. Stoically, she put him from her mind and returned to charming the theatre’s patrons.

* * *

By heaven, what a damned uncomfortable evening! Why did I put myself through it?

Ross strode back to the livery stable to collect his horse, still smarting from the slights and outright snubs he had received from the worthy people of Allingford. Apart from the actor/manager, who knew nothing about him, and Sir Mark and his good-natured wife, no one else had made any effort to speak to him. He knew his neighbours thought he deserved their censure, and that was partly his own fault, for he had never done anything to explain the situation, but damn it all, why should he do so?

He turned his mind to the much more pleasant thought of Mrs Charity Weston, and a reluctant grin tugged at his mouth. If he had talked to her much longer it was very likely she would have recognised him. Perhaps it was because she was an actress and used to playing parts herself that she noticed the similarities between the quiet, respectable gentleman farmer and the boisterous, lawless Dark Rider. Hell and confound it, he thought the way he disguised his voice and changed his whole manner would fool anyone, but apparently not. He had seen her fine brows draw together, noted the puzzled look in those large blue eyes—by God, but she was beautiful! Aye, that had almost been his undoing. Kissing her when he held up the Scarborough coach should have been enough for him. Why in heaven’s name had he gone to her house? Madness. He put up his hand to rub the white blaze that ran down the great horse’s face.

‘Well, Robin, no harm done this time, my old friend, but we will need to be more careful. We’d best give Mrs Weston a wide berth in future, I think.’

Ross rode back to the farm, the familiar cluster of stone buildings rearing up blackly against the night sky as he approached. A solitary lamp glowed in the yard and he found Jed dozing in a chair in the stables. Leaving the groom to take care of Robin, he went into the house.

Silence greeted him when he entered through the kitchen door, but a cold wet nose pressed against his hand.

‘Back in your box, Samson, good boy.’ He scratched at the dog’s head before the animal padded off into the shadows.

Mrs Cummings, his housekeeper, had gone to bed without leaving a light burning, but the sullen glow in the range showed him that she had banked up the fire against the winter chill. Lighting a lamp, he also noted with a burst of gratitude that she had left a jug of ale on the table and on a plate, under an upturned bowl, was a slice of meat pie.

The woman was a treasure. He must increase her wages—when he could afford it. He poured himself a mug of ale and threw himself down in the chair beside the fire. As he devoured the pie he thought about his situation. That it had come to this—a captain in his Majesty’s navy, decorated for bravery under fire, now struggling to pay his way. He picked up the poker and stirred the coals with rough, angry movements while a quiet, insidious voice murmured in his ear.

What about those coaches you hold up? You could take more than enough to live comfortably.

He shook his head to rid it of the tempting thought. He was no thief; he wanted justice and would take only what had been stolen from him. Why, even the mailbags he searched through were always left at the roadside, where they would be found intact the next day.

Then you’re a fool, said that insistent voice. If you’re caught, you’ll hang for highway robbery—no one will care about your justice.

‘I will,’ he said aloud to the empty room. ‘I’ll care.’

He drained his mug to wash down the last of the pie, then took up his bedroom candle to light his way up the stairs. The echo of his boots on the bare boards whispered around him.

Fool, fool.

* * *

Charity liked living in Allingford. Her fellow players were friendly, as were the townsfolk. Of the more noble families, only Sir Mark and Lady Beverley afforded her more than a distant nod if they saw her in the street, but she was accustomed to that. Actresses were not quite respectable. Her first appearance at the theatre was followed by equally successful performances in the tragedy Jane Shore and another comedy, The Busy Body. Charity knew both plays very well and they did not overtax her at all, so when she was not rehearsing and the weather was clement she enjoyed hiring a gig and driving herself around the lanes. She had grown up not fifteen miles from here, in Saltby, and although she determined not to visit the village, nor to go anywhere within her father’s jurisdiction as magistrate, the countryside around Allingford was familiar and welcoming. Her maid did not approve of these solitary outings and tried to dissuade her, but Charity only laughed at her.

‘What harm can come to me if I stay close to Allingford?’

‘There’s highwaymen, for a start,’ retorted Betty. ‘They still haven’t caught the rogue who held us up on the Scarborough Road.’

‘The Dark Rider.’ The rogue who kissed me in this very house.

Charity had neither seen nor heard anything of him since. She had scoured the newspapers for reports of the mysterious highwayman and had spoken to her fellow players about him, but there was no information. However, she had no intention of explaining any of that to her maid.

‘Surely a highwayman will be patrolling the coaching road and I mean to explore the byways. I shall not see him again.’

Charity was not sure she really believed that and even less sure that she wanted it to be true. Betty tried again.

‘You might meet your father.’

That thought was much more alarming. Charity wondered if she had been wise to confide so much about her past to Betty, but the maid had proven herself a good friend over the years. However, Charity would not be dissuaded.

‘I doubt it. And as long as I stay this side of the county line he cannot hurt me.’

Betty frowned, her usually dour countenance becoming positively forbidding.

‘He must know by now that you are in Allingford. Someone will have told him that Charity Weston is appearing at the theatre.’

‘Mayhap he will think it a mere coincidence that an actress has the same name as his daughter.’

‘And mayhap he is planning some mischief.’

‘Nonsense, Betty. It is more than a dozen years since I left Saltby. Phineas has probably forgotten all about me.’

‘Not he, mistress. From all you have told me of the man, he will not rest while you are in Allingford. Your success will be like a thorn in his flesh.’

‘Well, that is a pain he will have to bear,’ said Charity stoutly, ‘because I am not going away.’

Nevertheless, she made sure that when she travelled north or east she kept within the bounds of Allingford, although she felt confident enough to venture farther afield on the other side of the town, and one sunny March day she set out to explore the land to the west. The air was bracing and a covering of snow on the distant hills told her that winter had not yet gone for good, but the blue sky lifted the spirits and Charity was glad to be out of the town. At a crossroads she stopped, debating whether to explore further or to go back to Allingford. After all, it was the first night of a new play tonight and she would need to prepare.

While she was making up her mind, a pedlar came round the corner, leading his donkey laden with leather packs. The gig’s pony snorted and shifted nervously. Charity quieted the animal and pulled a little to the side to allow the pedlar to pass.

He tipped his hat, his bright, beady eyes alight with curiosity.

‘Good day, missus. Hast thou lost tha’ way?’

‘No,’ she replied cheerfully. ‘I am exploring and cannot decide which route to take.’

‘Ah, well, then. I tek it tha’s just come from Allingford.’ He stopped and pushed up his hat to scratch his head. ‘If tha’ teks that road to yer right, you’ll reach Kirby Misperton. The way to the left leads to Great Habton. And that track there—’ he pointed to a wide lane bounded on either side by ditches ‘—it looks best o’ the lot, but leads to nobbut Wheelston Hall.’

‘Thank you, that is most enlightening.’

With a toothless grin the pedlar touched his hat again and went on his way. Charity looked at the three lanes before her. She had an hour yet before she needed to turn back. Kirby Misperton, Great Habton—the names were intriguing, but Wheelston.... She frowned slightly, wondering where she had heard the name before.

Then she remembered the quiet stranger who had attended the opening night reception only to leave after the briefest of words with her. Ross Durden. He had said he lived at Wheelston. Of the three lanes before her, the track to the hall was by far the widest and had been well made, but showed signs of neglect with the ditches overgrown and hedges straggling untidily on either side. A prosperous property, perhaps fallen on hard times? She remembered Lady Beverley’s words. There was clearly some sort of mystery about Mr Durden. She set off again.

You cannot drive slap up to someone’s house just because you are curious!

Charity ignored the shocked voice of her conscience and turned the pony. She had set out to explore, so why should she not go this way? The crossroads had no signposts, so it was not unreasonable for her to take the most interesting route.

After what felt like a good half mile she was beginning to wish she had listened to her conscience. An accumulation of cloud had covered the sun, making the air very chill, and a sneaking wind cut through her fur-lined pelisse. The unkempt hedges hid her view and had overgrown the road so much that it was too narrow for her to turn the gig.

‘I shall turn round in the next gateway,’ she said aloud, causing the pony’s ears to prick. ‘Yes, I know,’ she addressed the animal. ‘You want to go back to your warm stable. And I confess that I, too, am beginning to think longingly of my fireside and a hot drink.’

No convenient gateway presented itself and she was obliged to drive on around the bend, only to find herself at the entrance to a substantial property: Wheelston Hall.

It was a rambling, many-gabled house built of grey stone, with a simple portico over the wide door. A curving drive swept around the front of the building, but it was heavily rutted and covered in weeds. Without waiting for Charity to guide him, the pony turned onto a narrower path leading around the side of the house. It was in much better condition and Charity made no effort to restrain the animal as it trotted towards the numerous outbuildings.

Charity found herself in a large cobbled yard; in the far corner someone was chopping wood, but he had his back to her and was unaware of her presence. She guessed from the man’s size and the curling black hair that it was Ross Durden. Despite the icy wind, he wore only his shirt, buckskins and boots, the shirtsleeves rolled up high to display his muscled arms.

He picked up a large log and placed it on the chopping block, then raised the long-handled axe and brought it down on the log in one smooth, powerful arc. She was struck by the fluid grace of the movement, the slight shift of legs and hips, the flutter of his billowing white shirt as his arms circled, the flash of the blade as it cleaved through the air and the satisfying crack as the wood was split asunder and the pieces fell onto the cobbles. One of the logs had rolled behind him, and as he reached around to pick it up, he spotted the gig. He straightened slowly and turned. Tossing the wood into the basket, he began to walk towards her.

For a brief moment Charity wanted to flee, but she fought down her panic. Not only would that be very cowardly behaviour, she doubted she could turn the gig and whip the little pony to a canter in time to get away. The man looked so much larger, so much less civilised than he had done at the theatre. Untamed and rakish was her impression of the man, but that was curiously at odds with his appearance in the green room.

Another memory nagged at her brain, but it was elusive; she could not quite catch it. She forced herself to sit still and watch as this large gentleman with his wild hair and dark, dangerous eyes approached the gig.

‘Mrs Weston.’

The words, uttered deep and slow, sent a quiver running down her spine. There was neither welcome nor enquiry in his tone. It was a mere statement of fact that she was here.

‘Mr Durden. I, um...I was exploring and took this lane quite by chance.’ She gave him a bright smile, but nothing in that harsh, dark face changed.

Foolish girl. You should have stayed away.

She gathered up the reins. ‘I am very sorry. I did not mean to intrude—’

He put out his hand and gripped the pony’s head collar.

‘It is no intrusion, but you are a long way from Allingford.’

Again the quiver ran down her spine. He was pointing out to her how vulnerable she was.

‘You are cold,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would like to come in and warm yourself by the fire?’

No! It was not to be thought of. May as well enter a tiger’s cage.

He turned and called to someone in the stable, his voice echoing around the yard, then he stepped up beside the gig and held out his hand.

‘Jed will take care of the pony until you are ready to leave. He will lead it into one of the empty barns, where it may wait for you out of the cold.’

Her conscience clamoured with warnings, but they went unheeded. With his eyes upon her and his hand held out so imperiously, she felt obliged to let him help her down and escort her into the house. The old wooden door opened onto a short corridor and from there into a large kitchen, at one end of which a fire slumbered in the range. A large shaggy dog jumped up and came to greet them, wagging its tail and sniffing at Charity’s skirts.

‘Easy, Samson, don’t frighten our guest.’

Charity leaned down to scratch the animal behind its ears.

‘I am not frightened. Is he a gun dog?’

‘Gun dog, sheepdog, companion. Whatever is needed.’

He snapped his fingers and sent the dog back to its box in the corner.

‘How useful,’ murmured Charity, stripping off her gloves. After the chilly air outside, the kitchen was blessedly warm. He waved towards an armchair beside the fire.

‘Sit there while I make you tea.’ He stirred up the coals and swung the trivet holding a large kettle over the fire. ‘I presume you would prefer tea to ale? I’m afraid there is nothing else here suitable for a lady.’

His voice was perfectly serious, but she noticed the disturbing glint in his dark eyes when he looked at her. Again she had a flash of memory, but he was expecting an answer and she must concentrate on that—and the fact that she was alone with him.

‘Yes, tea, if you please. I confess I am a little cold now.’

‘I, on the other hand, am quite warm from my exertions. I hope you won’t object if I take a mug of ale?’

Without waiting for her reply, he turned away and picked up the blackjack sitting on the table. Charity heard the kettle singing merrily and was a little reassured by the familiar sound. She knew she should keep her eyes averted, but could not resist glancing up under her lashes as her host filled a mug with ale and drank deeply. She watched, fascinated, as he swallowed, watching the muscles of his throat working, noting the strong lines of his neck, the hard, straight jaw and lean cheek. There was power in every line of his body and it seemed to call to her, an attraction so strong she found it difficult to keep still.

As he lowered the mug and wiped his hand across his mouth he met her eyes, holding her gaze with his own near-black eyes. Charity’s heart began to pound and her hands gripped the arms of the chair. The space between them seemed charged, like the heavy air that preceded a thunderstorm. Surely he must hear the thud of her heart, or even see it, since it battered mercilessly against her ribs.

She should say something, but her breath caught in her throat. She was in thrall to that dark predatory gaze, unable to look away. Unwilling to look away. She had to acknowledge that the perilous attraction was all on her side, the man before had not moved or spoken, so how could she blame him for the danger she felt now?

Was it the rattle of the kettle lid and sudden hiss of steam that broke the spell? Or was it the fact that she was no longer subject to that dark stare? He turned to the fire and proceeded to make the tea. With a conscious effort Charity made herself release her grip on the chair arms. She watched as he lifted a rosewood tea caddy from the shelf and spooned leaves into a silver teapot before pouring in the boiling water. She was desperate to break the silence, but when she spoke she almost winced at the inanity of her words.

‘Tea making is more commonly a woman’s role, Mr Durden.’

‘Since my housekeeper is not here it falls to me,’ he said shortly. ‘I could ask you to do it, but I am not in the habit of making my guests work.’

Charity thought his manner suggested he was not in the habit of entertaining visitors at all, but she did not say so. Instead she watched him fetch out of the cupboard a beautiful teacup and saucer.

‘I do not have much call to use these,’ he remarked, as if reading her thoughts. ‘There is sugar, if you want it?’

‘Just a little milk, if you please.’

His strong hands were remarkably gentle with the fine porcelain.

As if he was caressing a beautiful woman.

A hot blush raced through Charity at the thought and she sat back in her chair, away from the direct heat of the fire. She took the cup from him with a murmur of thanks, but did not look up, conscious of an unfamiliar ache pooling deep inside her.

He refilled his tankard and drew up a stool for himself. It was a little lower than her chair, she noted, and thought she would be grateful that he was not towering over her, but when he sat down his face was level with her own, which was somehow even more disturbing. Desperate to avoid his gaze, she looked about the kitchen. The room was large and high ceilinged, big enough to accommodate a cook and at least half a dozen servants. She recalled Lady Beverley’s comment that Mr Durden had no money at all. However, even with a lack of staff, the long table was spotless and on the dresser the copper pans gleamed.

‘I beg your pardon, madam, for bringing you into the kitchen, but it is the only room in the house with a fire.’

‘Oh, no, no, I am very comfortable, I assure you.’ She smiled, forgetting her unease in her eagerness not to be thought critical of his hospitality. ‘I was merely thinking how much work there must be, maintaining a house like this.’

‘It would take an army of servants to do so,’ he replied frankly. ‘Most of it is closed up until I have the funds to restore it. I have an excellent housekeeper in Mrs Cummings, but she can only do so much. She insists on keeping one parlour tidy for me, and my study, but I spend very little time indoors so there is no point in having a fire anywhere but here during the day.’

‘Very sensible.’

Charity sipped her tea. It was good. However poor he might be, her host did not buy inferior bohea. Sitting by the fire, with a hot drink to revive her, she began to relax a little.

‘I enjoyed your performance in The Rivals.’

‘Thank you. It was very well received.’ She gently replaced her cup in its saucer and would have got up to put it on the table, but he forestalled her, reaching out to take the saucer, his fingers brushing hers as he did so.

It was as much as she could do not to snatch her hand away. She was so aware of him that her skin burned at his touch and little arrows of excitement skimmed through her blood. It was like the heady excitement of a first night, only worse, because she had no idea how to deal with this. Nervously she began to chatter.

‘We open in a new play tonight, The Provok’d Husband. Do you know it? I am very much looking forward to it, because I play Lady Townly. Hywel—Mr Jenkin—is to play my long-suffering husband. We have played it together before, but not for many a year. Perhaps you will come and see it.’

‘No, I won’t.’

His response was so blunt she blinked at him, but it also made her laugh.

‘Fie upon you, Mr Durden, I did not expect quite such a strong rebuttal.’

‘I beg your pardon. What I meant was that I rarely go into Allingford, save when there is business to attend to.’

‘Of course, and pray do not think that I shall be offended if you do not come. I am not so conceited as to think people cannot go on quite well without attending my performances.’ Smiling, she rose to her feet. ‘I have taken quite enough of your time and must be getting back. Thank you, Mr Durden, for your hospitality.’

He grimaced. ‘Such as it was.’

Sympathy clenched at her heart. She did not think him embarrassed by his straitened circumstances, but he was most clearly aware of how it might look to others. Impulsively she put her hand on his arm.

‘A warm fire and a warming dish of bohea—I would ask for nothing finer, sir.’

He was staring at her fingers as they rested upon his bare forearm and Charity wondered if he, too, felt the shock of attraction. She could almost see it, a dangerous current rippling around them. Carefully, she removed her hand and began to pull on her gloves. The dog had left his box and was looking up at them, ears pricked expectantly. Glad of the distraction, Charity smiled down at him.

‘Goodbye, Samson.’

Embarrassed by the nervousness that had her addressing a mere animal, she hurried to the door, biting down on her lip as Mr Durden reached past her to open it. He was so close that if she leaned towards him, just a little, their bodies would meet. Stifling the thought and the heady excitement that came with it, she swept past him along the corridor and opened the outer door herself.

Charity was almost surprised to step out into the cobbled yard. Some part of her—the part that remembered her upbringing, she thought bitterly—had almost expected to find the door opened directly into the fiery jaws of hell. She welcomed the chill air; it gave her something to think of other than the presence of the man beside her. She buttoned her pelisse and smoothed her gloves over her hands while he called for Jed to bring out the gig. Anything to fill the awkward silence. Her eyes fell upon the basket and the large pile of unsplit logs by the chopping block.

‘I interrupted your work, sir, I—’

‘It is no matter, the break was very welcome.’ The words were polite, his tone less so. He handed her into the waiting gig and shook out the rug before placing it over her knees. She held her breath, not moving lest he think she objected to his ministrations when in fact it was quite the opposite. A strange, unfamiliar awareness tingled through her body as he tucked the rug about her. She did not want him to stop.

‘It looks like rain.’ He glanced up at the sky before fixing her with his dark, sober gaze. ‘Go directly to Allingford, Mrs Weston. No more exploring today!’

She tried to smile, but her mouth would not quite obey her, not while he was subjecting her to such an intense stare. With a slight nod and a deft flick of the reins she set off out of the yard. The track was straight and the pony needed little guidance. She could easily look back, to see if he was watching her.... No! She sank her teeth into her lip again and concentrated on the road ahead. It was a chance encounter, nothing more. To turn and look back would give Mr Durden completely the wrong idea.

But her spine tingled all the way to the gate of Wheelston Hall and she longed to know if he had watched her drive away.

* * *

Ross stared at the distant entrance long after the little gig had disappeared. He heard Jed come up beside him and give a cough.

‘Who were that lass, Cap’n? I’ve not seen her hereabouts.’

Ross kept his eyes on the gates.

‘That,’ he said, a smile tugging at his mouth, ‘was the celebrated actress Mrs Charity Weston.’

‘Actress, is she?’ Jed hawked and spat on the ground. ‘And were she really explorin’, think ’ee?’

Ross turned and walked back towards the woodpile.

‘She said it was so.’

‘And you invited ’er indoors.’ Ross looked up to find Jed regarding him with a rheumy eye. ‘Never known you to do that afore, Cap’n. Never known you to show any kindness to a woman, not since—’

‘Enough, Jed.’ He beat his arms across his chest, suddenly aware of the cold. ‘If you’ve nothing to do, you can carry that basket of logs indoors and bring me an empty one.’

‘Oh, I’ve plenty to do, master, don’t you fret.’

The old man shuffled away, muttering under his breath. Ross returned to the woodpile and began to split more logs, soon getting into the rhythm of placing a log on the chopping block and swinging the axe. He tried not to think of the woman who had interrupted his work, but she kept creeping into his mind. He found himself recalling the dainty way she held her teacup, the soft, low resonance of her voice, the bolt of attraction that had shot through him when she met his eyes. He had felt himself drowning in those blue, blue eyes.... Ross tore his thoughts away from her only to find himself thinking that the gleaming white-gold centres of the freshly split ash boughs were the exact colour of her hair.

‘Oh, for pity’s sake, get over her!’

‘Did ye call, Cap’n?’ Jed poked his head out of the stable again. ‘Did ye want me to get Robin ready for ye tonight? There’s a moon and a clear sky, which’ll suit ye well...’

‘No. That is—’ Ross hesitated ‘—you may saddle Robin up for me this evening, Jed, but no blacking. I’m going to Allingford!’

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