Disentangling herself from his embrace, Fiona raised her hands, intending to fumble beneath her collar for the clasp of the locket. But her fingers were arrested in mid-air and held steady at her shoulders.

‘What are you doing?’ Luke asked quietly.

Fiona shook him off, attempting to step back, but he gripped her elbows, jerking her against him.

‘You mistake my character, sir. Thank you for your kind offer, but I still intend to keep a roof over my head by teaching children rather than sleeping with gentlemen,’ she said with faux sweetness.

‘Gentlemen? How many lovers do you anticipate having, Fiona?’ he rasped.

‘None …’ She flung back her head, her tawny gaze clashing with eyes that gleamed between lengthy jet-black lashes.

AUTHOR NOTE

It is a surprising truth, borne out by my own experience, that when a familiar door slams in one’s face another might unexpectedly open and eventually lead to a far happier place …

In my novel Tarnished, Tempted and Tamed, the first in a duet of Regency novels, Fiona Chapman’s refined existence is rudely curtailed when she’s forced to flee from her unpleasant stepfather. Undaunted, Fiona sets off to the West Country on an adventure. Only fate has far more in store for her than braving the horrors of being governess to a stranger’s children. Her reputation and her virtue … even her life … come under threat before she reaches her destination in Devon.

Luke Wolfson is devilishly handsome—the sort of fellow Fiona might once have dreamt of marrying when younger. But she is determined to keep the major at arm’s length, despite his acting as her knight errant at every turn. Fiona has no intention of succumbing to a rogue’s practised charm, even if danger and scandal leave her vulnerable to his offer of carte blanche.

It seems Wolfson has acquaintances and secrets that should shock a gently bred young lady to the core, making her avoid him at all cost. Besides, a future as a gentleman’s mistress is not for Fiona—especially as Wolfson’s paramour has made it clear she’s not about to give him up without a fight.

I hope you enjoy reading about Luke’s pursuit of Fiona, and the passionate and emotional battle they endure while falling in love and finding happiness.

Tarnished,

Tempted

and Tamed

Mary Brendan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MARY BRENDAN was born in North London, but now lives in rural Suffolk. She has always had a fascination with bygone days, and enjoys the research involved in writing historical fiction. When not at her word processor she can be found trying to bring order to a large overgrown garden, or browsing local fairs and junk shops for that elusive bargain.

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Contents

Cover

Introduction

AUTHOR NOTE

Title Page

About the Author

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

‘So, you are happy to be travelling all alone, then, Miss Chapman?’

‘I am, ma’am,’ the young lady answered through lightly gritted teeth. She had been asked the same question, in the same scandalised tone, about five minutes previously. Even before then two other women, and a gentleman, had made similar enquiries, couched in a slightly different way. Each interrogator had in turn professed a concern for her welfare rather than an interest in her business. In the close confines of the mail coach Fiona Chapman could not escape the ladies’ judgemental eyes or the fact that they were whispering about her behind their gloved fingers. Only the middle-aged farmer had not returned to the subject of her lack of a companion after his initial remark.

A triumphant blast of the driver’s horn proclaimed the rattling contraption to be approaching a watering hole. Miss Chapman’s fellow passengers stirred excitedly at the prospect of stretching their legs and having some refreshment. A few minutes later, from under the brim of her chip-straw bonnet, she watched them all alighting. The farmer, who had introduced himself and his wife as the Jacksons, had sat opposite Fiona, accidentally banging his tweedy knees against hers every time the coach leapt a rut. Now he kindly held out a hand, helping her to alight onto the cobbles of the Fallow Buck public house. Fiona gave him a rather wistful smile because he reminded her of her late papa with his wispy salt-and-pepper hair and rotund girth straining his waistcoat buttons. But Anthony Chapman had been older, Fiona guessed, than this fellow. Her father had died of a heart attack a few years ago at the age of fifty-two and the sad occasion had been the catalyst to Fiona making this journey.

‘Don’t be paying heed to my wife, miss.’ Mr Jackson patted Fiona’s hand before letting it go. ‘She’s a worrier and not only on her own account. We’ve two daughters, you see, so know a bit about what girls get up to.’ He slid Fiona a startled look. ‘Not that I think you’re up to anything, my dear Miss Chapman,’ he burst out. ‘Oh, no... I wasn’t suggesting...or prying...’

‘I understand.’ Fiona gave him a kind smile, taking pity on his blushing confusion. Of course he thought she was up to something...just as the ladies did. And they were right to be suspicious; well-bred young ladies did not as a rule travel unaccompanied on public transport.

‘Our two girls have settled down with their husbands. Good fellows, both of them, and Dora and Louise have each got a brood round their ankles.’ He gave Fiona an expectant smile, perhaps hoping to hear that such a blissful ending might be on the cards for her before it was too late.

Fiona knew that it was clear to all but a blind man that she was not in the first flush of youth and remaining on the shelf was thus a possibility. She’d no claim to beauty, either, and looked what she was: a spinster in her mid-twenties, with a pleasant rather than a pretty face and hair a disappointing shade of muddy blonde. She spoke in an educated way and that together with her neat attire proclaimed her to be not poor, but not rich, either, holding a status somewhere in between the two.

Mr Jackson poked an elbow in Fiona’s direction, offering to escort her into the tavern. While they had been conversing his wife and the Beresford sisters had gone ahead and disappeared inside the open doorway. ‘Mrs Jackson is alarmed in case any harm is done you, you see. And I have to admit I share my good lady’s worries.’

‘I’m sure I shall arrive in Dartmouth in one piece,’ Fiona returned with a smile that concealed the fact she wasn’t as confident as she sounded. She had left London in good spirits despite her mother begging her not to act so rashly. But the further west she journeyed the stronger grew her doubts over the wisdom of her impetuous decision to take up gainful employment in a strange and remote place.

She’d read about Devon and Cornwall in books and studied pictures of wild seas crashing against rugged coastlines. She’d seen images of country folk dressed in plain coarse clothes and shod in clogs. It was all a far cry from the sophistication of the capital city in which she’d been reared. But then Fiona had never really been part of that life, either, preferring to read or paint than attend society parties with her mother and sister. She’d been sure she was ready for a change, even before change had been forced upon her by her papa’s demise and Cecil Ratcliff’s arrival.

‘You’re an innocent, my dear, not used to country ways, I’ll warrant,’ Peter Jackson broke in on Fiona’s deep thoughts. ‘There are nasty individuals about these parts who’d rob blind a lady...or worse...’ he mumbled. ‘So you be on your guard every minute. Before we go our separate ways we’ll give you our direction just in case you might be in need of assistance. If your business doesn’t go the way you want you might need a friend...’

Fiona knew the man was keen to know what her business was, but she’d no intention of elaborating. She’d been reared to guard her tongue and her privacy in case the ton’s gossips concocted something out of an innocent remark. The fact that her destination was the home of a widower was sure to set tongues wagging; she’d thought carefully about it herself before accepting the post of governess to two motherless children at Herbert Lodge.

‘Thank you for you kind advice, sir, I will remember it,’ Fiona promised, while holding on to her bonnet as a stiff breeze lifted it away from her crown.

Mr Jackson had introduced himself and his wife to Fiona earlier, when they had set out from the staging post in Dawlish. He’d told the assembled company that he and his dear lady were returning home having attended the nuptials of a niece. Miss Beresford and her sister Ruth had also boarded the coach at Dawlish but were due to alight first. Fiona and the Jacksons were travelling further on into Devon.

On entering the tavern Fiona and Mr Jackson found the trio of ladies already ensconced in comfy chairs around the blazing logs and the landlord dancing attendance upon them.

‘Now you must come and sit with us close by the fire, Miss Chapman,’ Mrs Jackson called from her cosy position, waggling her fingers to draw Fiona’s attention.

‘The coffee is very good in here...or I could recommend a hot toddy to warm you up?’ Peter Jackson suggested, solicitously drawing closer an armchair for Fiona to sit in. ‘We stop here quite often, don’t we, Betty, and find the fare very acceptable. I had a beef and oyster pie on the last occasion and very tasty it was, too.’

Mrs Jackson sanctioned her husband’s review by nodding vigorously. ‘I’d take the rum, Miss Chapman,’ she gave her verdict on the beverages. ‘I’m having a nip. The way that wind is howling down the chimney the afternoon is sure to turn colder.’

The younger Miss Beresford slid forward on the worn hide of her armchair to whisper to Fiona, ‘Pardon me, but are you absconding to elope?’

‘No! Indeed, no...’ Fiona choked on a half-laugh, glancing urgently about to see if anybody had overheard. Only a serving girl was behind, clearing tables of used glasses, and she seemed more interested in gazing through the window and flirting with the stable hand out in the yard. ‘Do I give the impression that I might be a runaway bride?’ Fiona whispered.

‘I just thought it would be exciting if you were... What an adventure that would be.’ Ruth Beresford gave a giggle that sounded odd coming from a woman who seemed at least thirty years old.

‘The Duke of Thornley’s daughter is getting married.’ Mrs Jackson had caught the gist of the young ladies’ conversation and thought she’d take up the challenge of prising some information from Miss Chapman. ‘His Grace is rumoured to be generous and will doubtless treat his estate workers to a feast during the celebrations.’

‘Let’s hope he serves pheasant, then,’ Mr Jackson said drily. ‘The Thornley estate is overrun with the creatures—they’re a blasted nuisance, squawking and wandering on to the roads,’ he explained when Fiona looked mystified.

‘A society wedding!’ Ruth Beresford breathed, and gave Fiona a wink as though they shared a confidence.

‘I shall see if our host has a pie kept warm,’ Mr Jackson said, changing the subject. He could tell that Miss Chapman was becoming increasingly embarrassed at Ruth’s hints she might be eloping. A similar thought about Fiona’s lone journey had run through Peter Jackson’s mind, but he would never have aired it. ‘Would you like to eat something?’ Peter asked his wife while traversing the room to the bar.

‘Oh, yes, indeed,’ Mrs Jackson said.

‘I fancy a beef sandwich if the landlord can rustle up such a thing,’ Ruth Beresford told her elder sister. ‘Might I have my coins?’ Valerie Beresford delved into a pocket and drew forth a little pouch she’d been keeping safe.

Fiona was also feeling hungry. She put her reticule on her lap and opened the strings to find some money. The thought of a beef sandwich, with horseradish, was making her mouth water. She decided to add her order to her companions and take up Mrs Jackson’s idea of a rum toddy to wash it down and keep the chill at bay. Now out of the coach and relaxing with her travelling companions, she felt her misgivings about her new life fading away. Everything would be fine as long as she kept her mettle...

* * *

‘What in damnation are you doing here?’ The gentleman’s harsh demand suggested an imminent display of anger, but he remained lounging at ease in his chair. A slight hardening in his handsome features was all that attested to his annoyance.

Oh, but he was furious... Becky Peake knew that very well. He hadn’t shouted at her, although she knew she deserved it. His voice had been stone cold and so were those eyes that resembled chips of charcoal.

‘Don’t be cross with me, Luke,’ she begged. The landlord of the tavern had shown her to the back room and Becky now skipped over the threshold, closing the door behind her. ‘I don’t want to be left behind in town when you’re so far away.’ Approaching his chair, she attempted to perch provocatively on his lap.

But he got up from the table with a muttered oath and walked away.

Becky, always pragmatic, looked at the appetising plate of food he’d abandoned. ‘I’m famished...might I tuck in if you’ve finished?’

He flicked a hand. ‘Help yourself.’

Becky untied her bonnet strings, allowing her dark curls to bounce to her shoulders. Loosening the cloak fastened at her throat, she settled down to enjoy the cold meats, springy aromatic bread and cheese piled on to the plate. Suddenly aware that her lover was gazing thoughtfully at her, Becky used the snowy napkin to dab her pout. ‘What is it?’ She dimpled. ‘Do you forgive me? You look as though you do...’

‘Well, that depends,’ he said with a fractional smile.

‘You always overlook my peccadilloes when I’m attentive to you.’ Becky sounded confident and got up to sashay towards him, then coil her arms about his strong neck.

‘Your impertinence is not a peccadillo and I won’t forget it, sweet, but now you’re here perhaps there’s a way you could make up for it.’

Becky unhooked a few more of her cloak fastenings and shrugged out of the garment. Beneath it she wore a flimsy lemon gown that clung to her curvaceous figure. ‘I’ll do whatever you say...’ she purred suggestively.

‘Good...’ he growled, removing her arms from about his neck. ‘Let me put a proposition to you...’

Chapter Two

‘I’m not set against your plan, Your Grace. I simply think that it is too soon to implement it.’

‘Pray, why is that?’ Alfred Morland, Duke of Thornley, was not used to being gainsaid, especially by persons of vastly inferior rank. But this was no ordinary man. Major Wolfson was a veteran of the Peninsular Wars and had a catalogue of commendations attesting to his military expertise and bravery. The Duke of Wellington, a mutual acquaintance, had recommended the major’s services when Thornley outlined his predicament. Since His Grace was in great need of somebody possessing Wolfson’s qualities, he was repressing his temper as best he could while glaring at the tall figure standing opposite. He was a fine figure of a man, Thornley inwardly sniffed, and he could believe Wellington’s boast that no sane fellow would cross his former aide-de-camp without good cause and serious consideration. But having invested much time and thought in this intrigue the Duke of Thornley very badly wanted to see action as soon as possible.

Since Napoleon had been defeated, Major Wolfson had been hiring out his talents; not that he needed the money—Wellington had let on that the fellow had banked an inheritance from his late grandfather that would make Croesus envious. Apparently, Luke Wolfson liked the life of a soldier and had no interest in settling down as a country squire in Essex. Such a thrill seeker had seemed a prime candidate to carry out the mission, but Thornley could see that the fellow was not at all impressed with his brainchild to outwit a local villain.

Luke took a hearty swallow of the brandy the duke had given him when feeling affable, then placed the glass on the mantel. ‘There is a risk to a young woman’s life which surely makes rigorous checks imperative before the point of no return.’

‘I have engaged you, sir, in the hope that you will deal with any dangers facing the doxy. If you find the task onerous or beyond your capabilities, you have only to say and I will employ another mercenary.’

‘In which case you will certainly need to delay while you find someone willing to take on the job and infiltrate the Collins gang.’ Luke’s lips slanted in a subtle smile as the older man brooded on those salient points, like a bulldog chewing a wasp.

‘The woman is being paid handsomely for her trouble...as are you,’ His Grace sourly reminded.

‘Indeed, and I have promised Miss Peake she will be back in town by next week spending her earnings. I would not want to be arranging her funeral instead.’

‘Well, tell the chit she might have a bonus if she agrees to expeditiously get this over with.’ Thornley gave the major a dour glance. ‘No doubt you expect a similar favour even though you have already negotiated a princely sum for yourself.’

Luke gave an easy shrug. ‘If you want to offer an inducement to accelerate matters, I will, of course, accept it. But the risks remain the same and I would urge you to think carefully before pelting headlong into this. If Collins smells a rat, you might gain nothing and tempt the gang to persecute you and your daughter. Her welfare is paramount, is it not?’

‘It is!’ Wolfson’s last remark had touched a nerve. The Duke of Thornley adored his daughter. He knew she got bored in Devon confined to the house. But Thornley was loath to let her out much, even with her maid, to enjoy the local markets and emporiums because of the gang of ruffians infesting the area. ‘If the blackguard smells a rat it will be because Wellington has overdone your praises. I’m paying you to ensure that Collins suspects nothing.’ His Grace thumped down his brandy glass on the desktop, shoving himself to his feet. ‘You forget yourself, sirrah, to be lecturing me!’

‘I was under the impression you would welcome such advice,’ Luke said mildly. ‘In fact, I thought you summoned me here for that very reason.’ Their combatant gazes tangled, but Luke could see the duke was not going to back down and admit his mistake. ‘Jeremiah Collins kidnapped, then returned a young dandy to his family on payment of a hefty ransom some six months ago.’ Luke shot the duke a glance and saw him redden. ‘You knew about that...got your inspiration from it, I take it.’

‘Of course I knew,’ His Grace blustered, smarting under the mild accusation of stealing an idea from the very person he wanted to see strung up. ‘My friend, Squire Smalley, sits at Devizes. The matter had been hushed up to prevent local folk panicking, but obviously not well enough if you managed to find out about it.’

A half-smile tilted Luke’s moulded mouth. ‘Like you, sir, I have friends in high places,’ he said quietly.

‘Around these parts...and in London, too, for that matter... I am high places.’ The arrogant statement had barely quit the Duke of Thornley’s lips before he regretted it, but Wolfson had too much to say for himself and needed slapping down. ‘You are either with me, Major, or against me. Let me know which.’

‘My apologies—it seems we are at odds over this. I couldn’t in all conscience proceed knowing I’ve no faith in the scheme as it stands. I’ve not gathered enough intelligence to safeguard Miss Peake. And in truth I’d sooner not get any woman involved in such peril.’ Luke gave a small bow. ‘I will have my lawyer return to you the deposit you’ve paid and deem the contract void. I’ll bid you good evening.’

Luke cursed beneath his breath as he strode for the door without a backward glance. He was willing to forgo his fee; he’d not liked the sound of the job from the start and had only agreed to travel to Devon and discuss it with Thornley as a favour to the Iron Duke.

A mission where a knife might be slipped between one’s ribs was par for the course in Luke’s line of work, but Becky was unlikely to have encountered anything more perilous than an admirer lying in wait for her on an unlit path at Vauxhall Gardens. Luke preferred working alone. He’d discovered a woman accomplice was needed only after he’d turned up in Devon and Thornley had described explicit details of his plan. Still Luke had bitten back a refusal to get involved out of deference to his old army commander. Over many years the Duke of Wellington had not only been a colleague, but a good friend to Luke, despite the disparity in their ages and status.

Within an hour of concluding his first meeting with Alfred Morland, Luke had contemplated returning to Thornley Heights to express his regrets to the duke and bow out. Then his mistress had unexpectedly shown up, having pursued him to Devon. He’d been both enraged and astonished at Becky’s audacity, but had realised that with her love of money and excitement Becky would jump at the chance to get involved in an intrigue. The complication of finding a woman to employ, willing to risk abduction by a gang of smugglers, had been removed; Luke had realised he’d find no better candidate.

Becky was a competent actress; in fact, had she stayed in London rather than tracking him a hundred miles, she would have been treading the boards in Haymarket as Desdemona. Thankfully, Luke had no further need to be anxious whether his mistress would measure up to the job of impersonating a duke’s daughter. He wished he’d never mentioned anything about it to her as she’d boasted from the start that she’d make him a fine accomplice. She’d be disappointed to be sent back to town earlier than expected. But sent back she certainly would be now, because her following him had been the final straw as far as Luke was concerned.

As Luke proceeded rapidly towards the huge oaken doors set at the end of a quiet marble hallway the butler materialised to hand him his coat. Before he could quit the house a young woman called his name, causing him to pivot about.

Lady Joan Morland hastened down the last few stairs, causing the ancient manservant to raise a disapproving eyebrow at his master’s eldest child.

‘Has Papa persuaded you to get our scheme quickly over with?’ Joan whispered once at Luke’s side. Joan knew her father would be annoyed to find her apprehending his business associate to grill him for information. But as the business concerned her Joan was of the opinion she was entitled to know about it.

‘No...he has not,’ Luke replied after a moment’s consideration. ‘We’ve failed to agree on some matters so somebody else will take over my role if your father decides to carry on with the plan.’ He bowed and proceeded to the door.

Joan looked crestfallen to hear the news and trotted after Luke. ‘That’s a shame—that odious man is becoming a terrible nuisance. He has beaten up two of our estate workers because they informed against him supplying a dreadful batch of brandy that was so strong it killed people. Now everybody is too scared to even mention his name in the village. But we are not! He’ll not browbeat us into putting up with his rampage.’

‘Has Collins ever seen you?’ Luke asked.

Joan shook her head. ‘Not as far as I’m aware. I don’t go out much... Papa doesn’t like it. But I’m not frightened of such as Collins! I’ve told Papa he won’t keep me indoors, hiding away.’ Joan sighed. ‘Really I’d like to move back to London where it’s gay and there’s lots to do.’

Luke allowed a slight smile. She might be young—still a teenager, her father had told him—but she had pluck.

‘Collins’s luck will run out. I imagine the authorities must be closing in on him and will apprehend him quite soon.’

‘People in these parts have been saying that for over a year and still he carries on as he pleases.’ Joan dismissed the notion of an early arrest. ‘A Lieutenant Brown of the coast blockade was found clubbed in a lane, close to death,’ Joan said. ‘I think we all know who is responsible for that! And even more kegs of brandy have washed ashore this week...so my maid told me...’

Luke gave an answering grimace that conveyed he wasn’t happy to hear the news, but wasn’t surprised by it. ‘I have to be going now,’ he said, bowing politely and giving the young woman a smile.

Lady Joan was trying to prick his conscience and tempt him to again become embroiled in her father’s harebrained plot to lure Collins into the open so he might be caught. But in Luke’s opinion the duke, being self-opinionated and arrogant, was underestimating the wily intelligence of his foe. Collins was no fool and Luke knew he and the Duke of Thornley would never see eye to eye on how to go about things. Without full control, but with the responsibility of the mission’s outcome squarely on his shoulders, Luke couldn’t carry on. Besides he had pressing matters elsewhere to deal with.

He wasn’t looking forward to his meeting with Drew Rockleigh. But the matter that was threatening their friendship had to be dealt with before he returned to the metropolis.

Chapter Three

‘Are we travelling back to London later today?’

‘You are...’ Luke said with a smile. Turning to the mirror above the fireplace in the inn’s private parlour, he began deftly folding his neckcloth while meeting Becky’s gaze in the glass.

‘It’s too bad of the duke to cancel this escapade.’ Becky bit into her toast with an irritated little sigh. ‘He should allow me my fee. I want a new hat.’ Becky watched Luke’s broad back as he shrugged into his tailcoat.

‘He didn’t cancel it. I did. And I’ll give you some spending cash, sweet, don’t worry.’ He wasn’t the only mercenary in the room, Luke realised, suppressing laughter in his throat. But he preferred mistresses who were content with sensual satisfaction plus a generous allowance that allowed them to shop freely, without demanding more of his time and freedom than he was prepared to give. Unfortunately, Becky had been pushing the boundaries of her role. Their last few visits to the opera had seen her becoming tediously jealous, watching his movements around other women. He knew it was time to end their relationship and would do so when he returned to town. He blamed himself, in part, for her stalking him. He’d told her his destination, if nothing else about what business was taking him to the West Country. But he’d never imagined that she’d have the outrageous cheek to come and check up on him.

‘Will you return to Eaton Square soon?’ Becky knew Luke was still reining in his anger over her unexpected appearance, so sounded quite meek.

She had never set foot inside Luke’s Mayfair mansion. As his mistress she’d never be invited to do so and to pay an impromptu visit would be tantamount to professional suicide. No distinguished fellow would pursue a liaison with a courtesan who proved to be an embarrassment to him and his family. Of course, Becky was aware that Luke had few living relatives to upset. He was an only child and his paternal grandfather had outlived both of his parents, but that was the extent of Becky’s knowledge of her lover’s history. And she knew better than to chivvy for more details of his past.

Becky liked a challenge and had boasted to her friends that she could hook the ‘soldier of fortune’ as he was nicknamed. And she had. He’d taken her under his protection and set her up in Marylebone almost five months ago. She’d no wish to see their affair come to an end. Luke Wolfson’s rakish reputation and his gypsy-dark good looks were irresistible to Becky. But she was a seasoned paramour and recognised the signs of a man preparing to bed hop. She’d noticed him responding to a flirtatious redhead at Vauxhall in that quietly amused way of his. But Becky wasn’t too bothered about her, or any demi-rep who had a yen for Luke Wolfson. It was another, serious, rival who had her rattled.

‘The London Season will soon be underway...’ Becky tried another tack to discover Luke’s plans as he’d grimaced his indecision in answer to her earlier question.

‘What of it?’ Luke asked, turning from the mirror.

‘Will you stay permanently in town for the Season?’ Luke had a vast acreage in Essex. Becky guessed he had a chère amie in the countryside to keep him company on his long absences from her bed. But a fat-ankled milkmaid didn’t bother her, either.

‘Perhaps... Why do you ask?’

‘Harriet Ponting has arrived in town with her mother.’

‘And?’ Luke’s expression remained impassive as he straightened his shirt cuffs.

‘Oh, you know what’s expected of you!’ Becky cried, covering her pretty features with her palms. ‘Her mama has been spreading rumours for ages that you are ready to pay court again to her eldest daughter.’

‘Is that right?’ Luke murmured distantly, with an expression that Becky, peeking behind her fingers at him, recognised. He was letting her know that any marriage plans he had were none of her concern and he was displeased that she’d raised the topic.

‘I’m going to settle the shot... Pack your things, sweet, we’re leaving...’

Becky watched him exit the room, a sulky twist to her lips. In her opinion it was her concern. She might not be genteel, like Harriet, but she had plenty to offer a gentleman as his wife. Becky wanted to join the number of other ambitious courtesans who had dragged themselves up by their bootstraps to marry rich and influential men and bear them legitimate heirs. Harriet Ponting had already turned Luke down once and didn’t deserve another chance at being Luke’s wife, Becky thought.

* * *

‘Oh, it’s too much to bear!’

‘Now, now, calm yourself, my dear,’ Peter Jackson soothed his wife. He drew her closer to him beneath the tree so they might get some better shelter from the driving rain.

Fiona had huddled with the Beresford sisters beneath the dripping skeleton of another oak, but as a loud clap of thunder sounded she glanced up warily, through rain-clumped lashes, at groaning overhead branches.

‘Perhaps we might be safer out in the open,’ Fiona said, pulling the hood of her cloak further forward to protect her face.

‘But we will look like drowned rats,’ Ruth and Valerie Beresford chorused, shrinking back to the bole of the tree.

‘Better that than get struck by lightning,’ Fiona pointed out.

She suddenly made a dash towards the coach, which was tilting precariously to one side. The driver and groom were making a valiant attempt to repair the broken front axle, while hampered by the violent elements. The storm had seemed to spring up from nowhere just as they hit a particularly isolated stretch of road. Toby Williams put down his hammer as Fiona stopped by his side. Wearily the coach driver pushed to his feet and patted at the nearest horse, murmuring comfortingly to the sodden beast. The team had bowed their heads beneath an onslaught that was sending rivulets of water dripping down their flanks and manes.

‘It’s no use, miss, I’ll have to return to the Fallow Buck and get help. It’s beyond my skill to get this accursed thing again up and running.’ The driver indicated his young apprentice. ‘Bert here will stay by you all. He can take my blunderbuss for protection. I think you will all be safe enough in the coach—it’s stuck firm in the mud so shouldn’t tip over. You can’t remain out in the open or you’ll catch your deaths—’

‘Do you think Bert might need the blunderbuss?’ Fiona interrupted, suppressing her alarm. The lad had not looked too happy on hearing he was about to be abandoned by his senior and put in charge of protecting the coach’s drenched, vexed passengers. Never had Fiona felt quite so out of her depth amongst these country folk and the eerie alien environment they inhabited. She’d only rarely in her life travelled outside London and its bustling, clamorous streets. Then it had been to stay with friends who lived in a quaint cottage in a Hertfordshire village. She wondered if in these parts ferocious animals living in the woods might prey on them, so asked the driver though fearful of his answer.

‘Well...you never know, better to be safe than sorry,’ Toby Williams prevaricated. He knew very well that any predatory vermin were human, not animal. The Collins gang infested the area from Kent to Cornwall, all along the coast. That group of marauding criminals would think it their lucky day if they stumbled across a party of defenceless people. Jeremiah Collins would relieve them all of their valuables, and the ladies of their virtue, if what Toby had heard about the vile blackguard was accurate.

What really worried Toby though was that his apprentice, Bert, might be relieved of his life. The lad was only eighteen, but already had a wife and child relying on him. Collins was suspected of murdering a Revenue Man in Rye, but he was a wily individual and had been on the run, keeping one step ahead of the law for more than a year.

It was said that Jem Collins felt he had nothing to lose. He knew the noose awaited him and so was on a spree to create havoc and rake in as much profit as he could before judgement day came, as it must in the end.

‘I’ll tell the others to return to the coach,’ Fiona spluttered through the icy rain pounding her face. As she bolted back towards the copse it ran through her mind that the little group would be bitterly disappointed—as was she—to hear the vehicle couldn’t be repaired so they could get quickly under way.

* * *

‘Shall we keep our spirits up by playing a game? We could sing a song?’ Fiona suggested in desperation as the weather outside continued to batter and shake the coach. Despite the drumming of the rain on the roof Fiona could hear Valerie Beresford snuffling in one corner of the vehicle. In the other, Mrs Jackson was crying with more abandon while her husband patted alternately at her hands and her shoulders to try to quieten her.

‘Well...this is an adventure...’ Ruth Beresford said and gave Fiona a nervous grin.

‘Indeed...and one I’d sooner not have experienced.’ Fiona sighed wryly. She was determined to keep buoyant. She was the youngest woman in the party so should be the strongest, mentally and physically, she’d reasoned. She lifted a corner of the leather blind at the window and peered at poor Bert marching forlornly to and fro, the blunderbuss up in readiness to be aimed. It was getting dark and Fiona feared that before too long nightfall would overcome them, hampering their rescue team and also throwing her companions further into the doldrums.

‘How much longer will that wretched man be?’ Mrs Jackson wailed. ‘I’m frozen stiff and will catch my death of a cold.’

‘Hush, my dear, I’m sure Toby is doing his best. He will be back before you know it.’ Mr Jackson again rubbed his wife’s sleeve in comfort. When he turned a glance on Fiona his expression showed his deep concern. His wife was likely to take a chill from the soaking, as she regularly suffered from such ailments, but it was the vulnerability of their predicament that was frightening the life out of the farmer.

Beneath his breath he was castigating himself for not bringing along a weapon of his own. But he’d taken this route in the past and was aware that Toby Williams always kept a couple of loaded guns on the vehicle as protection for himself and his passengers. An hour or more ago, Toby had unharnessed the youngest horse and taken his pistol with him as his own protection on his gallop back to the Fallow Buck. So now they had just a young apprentice and a single weapon to protect them all.

‘A rider is coming!’ Bert had whipped open the coach door to yell that news over the cacophony of wind and rain.

‘Close it before we are awash in here, you stupid boy,’ Mrs Jackson screeched, beating away a torrent of raindrops with her hands.

Mr Jackson had grown pale at the news of a stranger approaching, but said manfully, ‘Let me sit at the front, by the door.’ He surged forward, pushing his wife’s quivering figure behind him. ‘Hold up that gun, young man,’ he ordered Bert. ‘I take it you’re familiar with how to use it and reload it if the need arises?’

Bert wobbled his head in agreement, looking terrified.

‘How many riders?’ Mr Jackson croaked. He realised it might be Toby Williams returning, but doubted it was; insufficient time had passed for their driver to have reached the Fallow Buck, let alone return with help.

‘Just the one, I think, and I only glimpsed him in the distance, through the trees.’ Bert swung about at the unmistakable thud of hooves. The lad had sensed that the farmer shared his fears about what might be about to happen: with a whistle, the approaching stranger might bring the rest of his gang swarming out of the undergrowth once he realised how vulnerable they were. Or it could be a lone highwayman, who’d chanced upon them...

* * *

Luke slowed to a trot and cursed beneath his breath on seeing the calamity before him. He was only a short distance from his destination and for a split second felt tempted to ride on towards it. He was cold, wet and hungry, but he knew he could not leave the wretches stranded. The least he could do was offer to fetch help, while hoping to hear that it was already being summoned. A horse was missing from the harness and he guessed one of the coachmen had ridden off on it. The young fellow with the blunderbuss looked trigger happy so Luke supposed he ought to quickly declare himself friend rather than foe. But he understood why these folk would be nervous of strangers; since Thornley’s daughter had told him of smuggled spirits coming ashore, he’d heard from other sources, too, that the Collins gang were busy.

At the window of the coach he could see a round male face and a woman’s pop-eyed stare beaming cross the fellow’s shoulder. Dismounting, Luke gave a friendly salute, then tethered his stallion to a low branch and squelched through mud to the far side of the lopsided carriage to assess its damage.

As soon as the rain had started hammering down, he’d rued his decision to travel, but he’d set out in fine weather that afternoon, travelling west, with the intention of visiting Drew Rockleigh who had a hunting lodge in the neighbourhood. He’d visited the place before, then under far more pleasant circumstances than drew him there now. But if a fight between the two men were unavoidable, then Luke would as soon get it over with than it hung over them both like the sword of Damocles.

He squatted, saw the axle was in two pieces and stood up almost immediately. It would be quicker and simpler to get another coach out to rescue these unfortunates than try to repair the sorry contraption. He sensed he was under close scrutiny and through a blur of water dripping off the brim of his hat saw a woman’s indistinct features.

‘Where were you heading?’ A hand swiped the worst of the wet from his face as he walked closer and got a better view of her. She was younger than he was by some years, although not as youthful as Becky, and her severe expression made her look plainer than she probably was.

‘Dartmouth...’ Fiona knew to be careful with her answers. They didn’t yet know anything about this fellow to be able to trust him. Mr Jackson’s instinctive alarm at knowing a stranger was in their midst had made Fiona suspect the area was populated with criminals. ‘Where were you heading?’ she countered, blinking to get a better look at him. When she did focus properly on his lean, rain-sleek visage her breath caught in her throat. He was the most disturbingly handsome man she’d ever seen.

‘Lowerton...a village a few miles distant,’ Luke explained hoping to put her at ease. One of her hands was holding the open window ledge and he could see the tension in her grip.

‘Has somebody gone to fetch help?’ Luke angled his head and included the others in the coach in his request for information.

‘Our driver has and is expected back at any moment. Would you introduce yourself, please, sir?’ Mr Jackson insisted, peering across Fiona’s shoulder at him.

‘My apologies... Luke Wolfson...at your service...’

‘I am Peter Jackson, and this is my wife and these two ladies are the Misses Beresford, and the lady nearest to you is...’

‘Miss Fiona Chapman,’ Fiona quietly introduced herself as Mrs Jackson’s coughing drowned out her husband’s voice.

Fiona was feeling more relaxed than she had moments ago. Mr Wolfson had spoken just a few sentences, yet there was something about his tall, imposing presence that now seemed reassuring rather than threatening. He spoke in a calm, cultured way and was dressed in expensive clothes, so would indeed be an odd highwayman—although she’d heard that wily miscreants sometimes garbed themselves in stolen finery to mislead their victims as to their true characters.

She sensed that her fellow travellers were becoming equally glad that Mr Wolfson had happened by. Another man—especially one of Luke Wolfson’s age and muscular stature—could only be of help, if he stayed around. Fiona wondered if he might soon bid them farewell now he knew help was on its way.

Bert had trotted around the coach to stand by the newcomer’s side and gaze at him deferentially, the blunderbuss pointing at the ground.

‘Are you cold?’ Luke had seen Fiona huddle into her cloak and pull the hood forward over a bonnet.

‘Very cold, sir. We all left the coach earlier so the driver might better attempt to mend it...alas, to no avail.’ She gave a small shake of the head. ‘Toby Williams has given up on it and returned to the Fallow Buck for a wright with better tools. The trees gave us little shelter from the storm and we all got drenched through.’

‘I’d say this one’s beyond quick repair and out of action for a while. Your driver should bring out a fresh vehicle.’

A groan of dismay from Mrs Jackson met Luke’s bad news about their transport. Fiona nodded acceptance of his verdict, she’d come to a similar conclusion herself.

‘I hope that Toby will return very soon.’ She glanced in concern at Mrs Jackson as the woman again started to cough.

‘I’ll light a fire—you could gather around it and dry your clothes while you wait for your man to show up.’ Luke frowned at the nearby copse as though assessing its suitability as a shelter.

‘Fire?’ Peter Jackson left off thumping his wife’s back to bark an incredulous laugh. ‘I’d like to think he might manage it, but I doubt it somehow.’ He gazed at Luke’s retreating figure. ‘He’ll not find a stick of dry kindling about anywhere.’

‘It’s good of him to try,’ Fiona murmured, also watching Mr Wolfson’s impressively broad back.

* * *

Twenty minutes later the farmer was eating his words. The driving rain had slowed to a drizzle and meekly Mr Jackson followed the ladies towards the trees where a welcoming blaze could be seen. In a clearing, further into the wood than the little party had previously ventured, a fire was steadily taking hold, protected by a tent of evergreen branches that Luke had propped over the flames. Intermittently there was a hissing sound as raindrops slithered through ivy on to glowing embers.

‘I should get out of these wet things—I will be laid up for weeks, I know I will,’ Betty Jackson grumbled through chattering teeth.

‘Stand close to the fire, my dear, to keep warm.’ Mr Jackson took off his greatcoat and used it to shield his wife from view as she shed her sodden outer layers. The Beresford sisters took up position on the opposite side and performed similar tasks for one another, Ruth giggling the while.

Fiona moved away to allow them some privacy while they juggled their coats and shawls and attempted to pat dry their damp bodices. She held out her hands to the flames, but now being a distance from the fire she gained scant benefit from it.

‘You’re soaked, too—take off your cloak and wear my coat while it dries.’

Startled by the mild command, Fiona stuttered, ‘Thank you...umm...for the...kind offer, sir. But it would hardly be fair—it is still drizzling and your shirt will get wet.’ She gave Luke a fleeting smile, averting her gaze as his dark eyes bored into her. She turned up her face to the heavens, shivering as a chill mist bathed her complexion. ‘I will take this off, though,’ she added lightly, removing her bonnet and giving it a thorough shake by the brim to remove rain that had settled in the straw.

Her heart had begun to pound at an alarming rate and confusingly she was uncertain whether she wished he would go away. Yet he’d been unfailingly polite and helpful. Without turning to check if it was so, she was sure their Good Samaritan was still watching her while he removed the long leather riding coat he wore.

‘Here...take it... I’m used to braving the elements,’ Luke said firmly, settling the garment around Fiona’s shoulders before walking off.

With no time to properly protest Fiona pressed together her lips and held on to the garment by its lapels. It trailed on the ground, so long was it, and she tried to hoist it up a bit to prevent the hem collecting mud. The leather held a scent redolent of her dear papa’s study. Once the room had been crammed with cracked hide sofas and cigar smoke, but all had been removed and sold since Cecil Ratcliff had married her mother.

Jerking her mind to the present, Fiona quickly slipped out of her soaked cloak and, with Mr Wolfson’s replacement garment about her narrow shoulders, she gave her own a good shake to dislodge water from the woollen surface.

The two gentlemen and young Bert were hanging the ladies’ outerwear on sticks they’d rammed into the ground about the perimeter of the fire, creating a humid atmosphere as steam rose from the clothes.

Luke returned to Fiona and took her cloak to hang it up.

‘I’m famished,’ Valerie Beresford moaned, fiddling with the pins in her straggling hair. ‘I hope that Mr Williams will bring us back some food.’

‘He will,’ the absent fellow’s nephew assured the company. ‘He’ll turn up with every possible thing to make you comfortable.’

‘A refund on the fare would make me easy,’ Mr Jackson snorted. ‘The contraption could not have been roadworthy to sustain such damage. I took a look at that pothole that overset us. It was not so great an impediment for a vehicle in good order. Highway robbery indeed! These coach companies charge a ransom for inferior transport.’

Mrs Jackson joined her husband in carping about the cost of their tickets and Valerie Beresford added to the debate, making poor Bert sidle off into the shadows, looking chagrined.

Having found a low tree stump that might serve as a seat, Fiona dusted a pool of moisture from it with a gloved palm, then sat down with a sigh to wait for Toby to return.

Chapter Four

‘Whereabouts in Dartmouth are you headed, Miss Chapman?’

Having stretched Fiona’s cloak over two staves to aid its drying, Luke had strolled closer to her to ask his question.

After a slight hesitation Fiona told him. She realised there was no reason not to. Mr Wolfson didn’t seem a person given to gossiping. Besides, they would never meet one another again after today so it was unlikely that any confidence she bestowed would be of note to him. Even were it to be repeated, who would care—apart from a few people dear to her—that Fiona Chapman, spinster, had left home, so unpleasant had her life become, to take up employment as a governess.

She had heard her chosen profession could be quite wretched and lonely. A governess was not quite a servant, yet neither was she a member of her charges’ family. Her position fell somewhere in between, and she risked being resented by her inferiors and despised by an employer who’d deem her presence an irritating necessity. And the children might be horrors, too...but Fiona was confident she was a capable, resilient sort, content with her own company if no other were to be had.

‘Are you travelling on business or pleasure?’ Luke asked, turning Mrs Jackson’s coat so the lining faced towards the fire.

‘Business...’ Realising she was staring, Fiona dragged her gaze from where his linen shirt, dampened by drizzle, clung to the muscled contours of his ribs. The buttons at the throat were undone and his swarthy skin gave him a dangerously foreign air. Yet he was a refined Englishman, of that she was sure, although he’d disclosed nothing about himself.

Luke turned to glance at her with an elevated eyebrow, wordlessly requesting more information about her plans.

Again Fiona was tempted to tell him and that was odd for she was normally an extremely private person. In one way she found this gentleman’s virility daunting, yet his confident, capable manner was soothing too. The dark, romantic atmosphere of flame-daubed shrubbery and the sound and scent of spitting kindling was having a peculiar effect on her, she realised. She felt enchanted, bound to this good-looking stranger’s side, and willing to confess her life’s secrets until he chose to draw a halt to their conversation.

‘I’m on my way to take up a position as a children’s governess,’ Fiona said.

‘You’re brave, then, as well as...foolish...’ At the last moment Luke had substituted something truthful yet unflattering for the compliment that had almost rolled off his tongue. He’d astonished himself by being uncharacteristically familiar with a genteel woman he barely knew. Fiona Chapman wasn’t beautiful... She wasn’t even conventionally pretty despite the sweet halo of fawn curls fluffing about her heart-shaped face as the glow of the fire dried her off. Earlier, when her hair had been sleek with rain Luke had thought her a brunette and her features, though small and regular, were nothing much out of the ordinary. Yet something about her was undeniably attractive to him...and he’d almost told her so.

The spell had been broken; Fiona shot to her feet from her makeshift stool, wondering if he was being sarcastic. She was sure he’d been on the point of calling her beautiful and she knew she was nothing of the sort. Fiona came to the depressing conclusion that Mr Wolfson, despite his worthy practical skills, had a shallow side and it was hardly the time or place for insincere flattery.

‘Foolish?’ she echoed coolly, hoping to convey she wasn’t impressed and wasn’t playing his game. ‘Pray, why do you think that of me, sir, when we barely know one another?’ No doubt he believed she’d be better served seeking a husband to care for than children to tutor.

‘You’re travelling alone, aren’t you?’

‘I am,’ Fiona crisply owned up.

‘Then I’ll amend what I said and call you extremely foolish. These are dangerous roads stalked by violent criminals, as I’m sure your coachman or Mr Jackson must have told you by now.’

‘Even could I afford her, how might a lady’s maid protect me from such as highwaymen?’ Fiona snapped. ‘A female dependant would be a burden, not a comfort, to me for I would fret constantly for her safety as well as my own.’ Fiona spun away, ready to march off after her parting shot. She’d taken just two steps when hard fingers clamped on her wrist, arresting her.

‘And who will you burden with your safety, Miss Chapman? A middle-aged coachman, or a youth unable to handle a gun correctly? A farmer who has his wife to attend to? Me...?’

Fiona twisted her arm free, glaring at him with tawny eyes that held a feral spark. ‘I expect no one to look after me, sir. Least of all you. I can care for myself.’

‘Can you indeed?’

The murmured words held a soft mockery that brought high spots of angry colour to Fiona’s cheekbones. ‘Yes...I can,’ she vowed sturdily.

He gave a slow nod, accepting what she’d said, but Fiona knew he was still laughing at her even if he had dipped his head to prevent her seeing the expression beneath his long black lashes.

‘Are you going to castigate the Beresford ladies for travelling without a servant?’ Fiona demanded. ‘Or is it just me you wish to condemn as a nuisance for having the temerity to do so?’

‘Just you...’

‘And why is that?’

‘You are younger and more comely than the other ladies, as I’m sure you’re aware. If your coach were held up, you would draw the attention of felons who might want to take more than just material valuables from the women they rob.’

That took the wind out of Fiona’s sails and put a deeper blush in her cheeks. She swallowed, said hoarsely, ‘You seem to know a worrying amount about it, Mr Wolfson.’

Luke’s mouth quirked. ‘Over the years I’ve learned lots of things.’

‘I’m sure...and have you now learned not to stop and help stranded travellers, lest they irritate you?’

‘I confess I was tempted to keep going.’

Fiona found that admission rather shocking, given that he’d helped enormously, keeping them safe and sound by lighting a fire and drying their clothes. ‘It’s good to know that your conscience got the better of you in the end, sir,’ she said faintly.

Fiona backed off a step, then swung about. A moment later she realised she still had on his coat. Whipping it from her shoulders, she handed it over with a stilted ‘Thank you, I’ve no further need of it.’

This time he let her go and Fiona walked swiftly to where the others were congregated, discussing animatedly how long Toby had been away and when they might expect his return. It was obvious to Fiona that Mr and Mrs Jackson had worked themselves up into quite a tizzy about the calamity, blaming the coachman for all their ills.

As though in answer to Mrs Jackson’s prayer—chanted between coughing fits—the sound of hooves and rattling wheels was heard.

Bert leapt up from where he’d been squatting by the fireside. He picked up the blunderbuss and looked fearfully in Luke’s direction for a signal as to how to proceed.

Luke had already removed a pair of duck-foot pistols from his saddlebag and his fists were curled about the weapons in the pockets of the leather coat he’d donned.

A moment later Bert was grinning and rushing towards the road as he recognised his uncle’s voice booming out his name.

‘I’ll bid you farewell now your driver is back,’ Luke interjected when there was a break in the frantic conversation batting between Toby Williams and an irate Peter Jackson.

‘Our gratitude goes with you, sir,’ Peter announced. ‘You’ve done us all a great service.’ He held out his hand and vigorously pumped Luke’s fingers. ‘This fellow has been a godsend in your absence,’ he told Toby Williams accusingly.

‘I take it you’ll overnight at the Fallow Buck?’ Luke addressed the remark to the driver.

Toby Williams gave a nod, ignoring the glare he got from Mr Jackson. ‘I must thank you, too, for your assistance, Mr Wolfson.’ He held out his hand.

Having shaken it Luke bowed to the Beresford sisters, who fluttered about him and offered him their fingers to hold. Mrs Jackson went so far as to give him a motherly pat on the cheek to display her appreciation.

Then he turned to Fiona. ‘Miss Chapman...’ He gave a slight bow and received a dip of the head in return.

‘I hope you reach your destination safely,’ he said quietly.

‘And I return you that wish, sir,’ Fiona replied.

‘The name of the family who has employed you is...?’

Fiona no longer felt swayed to tell him anything about herself. She answered him with a concise farewell and a frosty smile before following her fellow travellers towards their replacement vehicle.

But she was acutely aware of every sound behind as a horse snickered on being mounted. When the slow clop of hooves told her he was negotiating a path away from them through the woods she felt a peculiar lump form in her throat. It was nothing more than anxiety over the loss of him guarding them, she told herself crossly.

Once the luggage and the spare horses had been transferred to the new coach, a confab began with the driver.

‘In my opinion it’s best that we return to the Fallow Buck,’ Toby Williams argued with Peter Jackson, who’d said he wanted none of it. ‘It’s a treacherous night. After all that rain the road will have washed away and it’s not a good idea to travel in the dark in any case, what with villains about.’ He’d lowered his voice for the last bit so as not to alarm the ladies.

‘And I say we carry on,’ Peter Jackson declared. ‘We have lost enough time already and my wife needs to be home in her own bed. She’s caught a devil of a cold and might need a physician.’

‘Yes... I...might...’ Mrs Jackson stressed.

‘I want to get home, too!’ Valerie Beresford wailed. ‘I wish Mr Wolfson had stayed and ridden alongside us. I felt safe in his company. Will you not fetch him back, sir?’ She tugged on Toby’s sleeve.

‘I think he turned south,’ Bert piped up helpfully.

‘Never mind him. He’s gone,’ Toby said shortly, miffed that a passing stranger had thrown his own role as saviour into the shade. ‘We should rest the night at the inn and leave the horses we’ve no need of. Then start off fresh in the morning in good light and better weather.’

‘Mr Williams has a valid point,’ Fiona ventured an opinion. ‘We do not want to end up sliding into a ditch in the dark and again be stranded out in the open.’

‘We will not be so lucky next time to be saved by such as Mr Wolfson,’ Ruth interjected, wringing her hands. She seemed to have given up on craving an adventure and looked as heartsick as her older sister following their misfortune.

‘I say we hurry up in getting home!’ Mr Jackson loudly insisted as his wife obligingly started to hack and slap herself on the chest. ‘The Pig and Whistle is not so far in front of us and we can leave there the nags we don’t need.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘At a strong pace we might reach the inn by half past midnight and will lose no time at all in ending this infernal journey.’

‘Very well...be it on your own heads.’ With no more ado Toby climbed angrily on to his perch, signalling for his nephew to join him.

* * *

Fiona awoke about a mile into their renewed journey, feeling unrefreshed and rubbing her gritty eyes. Although she’d been wretchedly uncomfortable, squashed in the corner of the seat, she’d managed to doze fitfully. Ruth Beresford was snoring beside her, her head drooping on Fiona’s shoulder. Rather than wake her and ask her to shift along a bit to give her more room, Fiona chose to put up with her cramped position. The mood in the coach as they’d set off had not been happy and Fiona would sooner suffer sore muscles than more moaning.

At first, her companions had agitatedly watched passing scenery to spot lurking dangers until, one by one, they’d settled back into the squabs. Mr Jackson had been last to succumb to the rocking of the coach and to close his eyes. They were making steady progress towards the Pig and Whistle. Fiona was glad, even if none of the others seemed to have been, that Toby Williams was sensibly taking a slow and easy pace along the perilous road, slick with mud.

When they’d started out Peter had loudly commented that Toby Williams was deliberately dawdling to annoy them all. He had hammered on the roof of the coach in protest. Thankfully, the driver had ignored the command to increase speed and they continued to go along at a sedate pace.

Pinned against the window as she was, Fiona had little choice but to gaze into the darkness dappled by the flickering coach lamps. Patches of vegetation loomed into shape, adopting a yellow gloss before returning to an inky outline as the vehicle lumbered past. Fiona shivered, unable to stop imagining that behind the dense bushes unfriendly eyes were watching them.

For all her proud boast to Luke Wolfson that she could look after herself, Fiona knew she couldn’t. She was a fish out of water in this rural environment and wished as dearly as did the others that Mr Wolfson had accompanied them on this dark and lonely road. For some reason that she refused to attribute to simple conceit, she sensed that had she asked him to stay with them, he would have agreed to do so. But they’d parted coolly and now he would be miles distant and close to his destination if not already arrived at it.

He’d said he was going to Lowerton, but she doubted he was a local and lived permanently in a Devon village. Fiona imagined he was, like her, from London and wondered if she’d ever passed Luke Wolfson on a city street. Perhaps, without realising it, she might have bumped into him while out shopping, or when socialising with her sister and their friends at the pleasure gardens. She pondered for a moment on the likelihood, but doubted a meeting had occurred; she would have noticed him even if he’d overlooked her.

And he would have done so. Her younger sister Verity had always drawn the gentlemen’s attention and their friends, Elise and Beatrice Dewey, were both blonde beauties, now married to eminent millionaires.

Fiona had been the oldest of their group, but when all the others settled down she had never felt miffed that, being plain-faced, she’d been passed over. Until now. The thought of Luke Wolfson flirting with her sister or her friends irked her and she knew it was ridiculous to feel that way. How could she possibly be jealous of something that hadn’t occurred and concerned a gentleman she scarcely knew?

Irritated with the direction of her thoughts, Fiona sighed beneath her breath. She squeezed shut her eyes, hoping to block Mr Wolfson’s rugged features and husky baritone from her mind. On opening them again a gasp of shock abraded her throat. She quickly blinked and craned her neck, but the shadowy silhouette she’d glimpsed was lost to her as the coach rumbled on. She tensed, wondering whether to alert Mr Jackson or the driver to what she thought she’d seen, but then if she were mistaken, and there was nothing out there but a deer, she’d just cause more bad feeling. But...it might have been Luke Wolfson who’d felt conscience bound, as he had once before, to help them on their way, her inner voice argued.

Before Fiona could find a solution to her dilemma the coach juddered as the driver reined in and the silence of a moment ago was shattered by shouts from within and without the vehicle.

Peter Jackson fell almost into Ruth Beresford’s lap while his wife, who’d been resting on his shoulder, rolled sideways on to the empty seat. Only Fiona, primed to something afoot, had not tipped from her perch at the abrupt halt.

The sound of a gunshot brought in its wake an eerie silence. Then there was another bang and Mr Jackson flung open the coach door and leapt out, flailing his arms for balance.

The sight that met their eyes was shocking enough to make Valerie Beresford swoon against her sister’s breast and Mrs Jackson squeak in fright before shouting for her husband.

Only Fiona and Ruth remained quiet, although Fiona imagined that Ruth Beresford was as terrified as she was at the sight of the grinning felon pointing a weapon at them.

She knew he was smiling from the crinkling about his eyes; the lower half of his face was concealed behind a neckerchief.

‘Out you come, then, ladies, let’s take a look at you,’ the ruffian jovially ordered in a voice muffled by cotton.

‘You will not lay a finger on these ladies!’ Peter Jackson roared, shaking a fist at the fellow, although visibly perspiring in fear.

Once disembarked, Fiona could see that the highwayman was not alone; his associate was astride a horse a yard or two away. His features were also partially concealed, nevertheless he seemed vaguely familiar to her. And then her eyes fell on a sight that made her groan in dismay. Toby Williams had been unusually quiet following the hold up because he was occupied tending his wounded nephew. Young Bert was lying on the ground and his uncle was crouching beside his still figure, trying to staunch his bleeding.

Ignoring the highwayman’s demand that she stay where she was, Fiona spontaneously rushed to help the invalid if she could.

‘Is he badly hurt?’ she breathed, watching as Toby tried to dry Bert’s wound with a handkerchief. But as fast as the fellow turned the wad to find a clean spot, it again became scarlet with blood.

Crouching close to the floor to protect her modesty, Fiona lifted her skirt a few inches and ripped a length of lawn from her petticoat hem. She handed it to Toby who gave her a grateful smile and proceeded to fold it into a thick compress.

‘I told Bert to lay down the blunderbuss as soon as I saw ’em flanking us.’ Toby shot a baleful glance over a shoulder at the robbers. ‘I knew we was done for and no use making it worse than need be,’ he added plaintively. ‘But the dunderhead loosed off a shot in a panic. Bert never could hit a barn door—now what am I to tell his mother about all this?’

‘He will be all right...I’m sure.’ Fiona whispered, hoping that Bert, if conscious, would not be depressed by a doubtful inflection in her voice. The boy had his eyes closed and his deathly pale complexion was dreadfully worrying. As his uncle stuffed the linen inside Bert’s bloodstained shirt, binding his injury, Fiona tore again at her petticoat to provide a fresh bandage should it be needed.

‘You...come here!’ the older highwayman barked at Fiona.

Fiona glanced over a shoulder to see that the younger man had dismounted and joined his comrade on foot. They were both levelling pistols, swinging them threateningly between their victims.

The youth suddenly whispered something in his senior’s ear and Fiona had an uneasy suspicion that what was said concerned her as two pairs of eyes narrowed on her.

‘Come here, you defiant wench!’

The felon strode to Fiona, jerking her upright by the elbow. He propelled her towards the youth who stared at her over the top of his mask.

‘That’s her, right enough,’ the lad said. He turned to whisper in his cohort’s ear, ‘Running off to be wed.’

‘Leave her be, or you’ll have me to answer to,’ Peter Jackson bellowed. He beckoned frantically to Fiona to come to him, but his efforts to protect her were rewarded with a clubbing from the villainous youth’s pistol butt.

Mrs Jackson dropped to her knees beside her prone husband, her wail rending the night air, while the two Beresford ladies began whimpering behind their fingers.

‘Let me go!’ Fiona wrenched her arm to and fro, attempting to liberate it from a painful grip. ‘What is it you want? Money? Here, take it.’ With her free hand she pulled from her pocket a pouch containing her coins.

That gesture brought a chortling sound from behind a neckerchief. ‘Why, thank you...’ the older highwayman said sarcastically, jingling the little bag of money in front of his colleague’s face. ‘Not enough in there, I’ll warrant, to keep us happy.’ But despite his contempt for Fiona’s worldly goods, he pocketed it before making a lunge for her. ‘Whereas you, my dear, are treasure to somebody I know.’ Grabbing her behind the knees, he swung her up and over his shoulder.

Chapter Five

If he’d not been a military man Luke might have mistaken the muffled boom of the blunderbuss for the bark of a deer. As it was he reined in sharp with an oath exploding between his teeth. Another bullet was let loose far in the distance and this time he recognised the retort of a pistol.

The stallion had also heard the sounds and, attuned to his master’s need for speed at such signals, required little prodding in turning and flying back the way they’d come over black, muddy fields.

When thirty minutes later Luke reined in his mount its flanks were foamy with sweat. He approached the road cautiously, then, slipping from the saddle, covered the last hundred yards on foot, guided by the stationary coach lamps. Immediately he feared the worst as he heard the sound of groaning and women weeping being carried on the still night air.

His fingers tightened on the duck-foot pistols and his jaw clenched as he glimpsed through the undergrowth the spectacle before him. Having ascertained that the thieves had left the vicinity, he loped onwards, calling out to announce his presence in case a bullet was fired at him.

The Misses Beresford were the first to spot Luke. They scrambled from the coach where they’d been sheltering and rushed to cling to his arms, garbling a version of events.

Peter Jackson was sitting on the ground, a hand pressed to a crust of blood on the back of his head. His wife continued dabbing frantically at his throbbing brow with a rain-dampened hanky and howled curses at the vile cowards who’d caused this mayhem.

But it was the unmoving boy sprawled on the mud with his uncle fussing over him who drew Luke’s concerned gaze, but only momentarily. He suddenly realised that the person he most wanted to see was absent. Freeing himself from the spinsters’ clutches, he strode to the coach and looked inside.

‘Where’s Miss Chapman?’ Luke demanded, a surge of furious emotion suddenly overtaking him.

‘They’ve taken her.’ Peter Jackson shook his head, tears rolling down his face. ‘I couldn’t stop them, sir—they knocked me down when I tried to...’

‘Who was it?’ Luke snapped, coming closer, restraining an urge to grab the man’s lapels to hurry his answer.

Peter raised his eyes to a flinty black stare. ‘There were two of them. They wore masks, but I’m sure that Collins is behind it. The evil blackguard!’

Luke spun towards the driver; Williams was, after all, in charge of his customers’ safety, yet he’d offered no explanation or apology for Miss Chapman’s kidnap. But the man was distraught and Luke bit back the ferocious accusation he’d been about to let fly.

‘I think he’s dying,’ Toby gurgled, patting Bert’s face with increasing strength in an attempt to bring the youth round.

‘Get in the coach...all of you...apart from you!’ he ordered Toby. ‘Help me lift the lad—we’ll lay him on a seat and the others will have to squash together on the opposite side. Come, quickly now!’ he snapped at Toby in the hope of penetrating the man’s shock and galvanising him into action. ‘The Pig and Whistle is a few miles away and you can get help for your nephew there. Pray to God we’re in time for him...’

The ladies tottered aboard the coach once more, followed by Mr Jackson. Luke and Toby gently lifted the invalid, then settled Bert on the worn upholstery. Although Toby winced on hearing the lad moaning, Luke was gladdened by the sound.

‘He has not fallen too far into unconsciousness,’ he reassured the driver. Pulling Toby away from fussing over the boy, he slammed shut the door. Once up on the driver’s perch Luke took the reins firmly; he didn’t want Toby Williams turning them over in a ditch in his agitated state.

‘Should you not tie your horse to the back of the coach, Mr Wolfson?’ Toby attempted to calm himself and be of assistance.

‘No need to worry about him—Star will follow.’ Following his concise reply about his finely trained stallion, Luke set the team to a trot. They’d soon cleared the woods and he put the horses to a faster pace, his eyes narrowed and straining to see through the darkness for hazardous obstacles littering the terrain in order to avoid them in good time.

But as much as he was occupied by the job at hand an image of a woman with fawn hair and golden eyes was in his mind, too. Luke knew that if Collins had harmed a hair on Fiona Chapman’s head the dragoons on the smuggler’s trail wouldn’t be needed after today; Luke would find the lawless bastard and kill him himself.

* * *

Fiona felt scarcely able to breathe with a silencing gag wedged between her lips. As she’d been carried off she’d kicked, scratched and yelled so much that the two men had reined in after a short gallop to secure her hands and ankles together. They’d called her foul names while roughly curbing her thrashing. Then, when satisfied they’d quietened her, they’d carelessly flung her across the horse’s back in a way that knocked the breath from her body and made her feel faint.

Now her head was hanging low, banging against the animal’s belly and she could feel a heavy hand pressing down into the centre of her back to keep her from sliding off the beast. A hammering at her temples was making them ache abominably, but instead of feeling frightened she felt enraged, and instead of self-pity she inwardly berated herself for not putting up a greater fight and making good her escape.

She was incensed to be suffering such treatment. No man had ever raised a punishing hand to her, not even her father when she deserved chastisement. When Cecil Ratcliff’s attempts to manhandle her had grown beyond bearing she’d hit him across the face with her silver-backed brush, then packed her belongings shortly afterwards.

But she realised others had suffered, too, at the hands of these ruffians. Young Bert might have perished and Mr Jackson was certain to have sustained concussion at the very least. Fiona felt tears prickle her eyes, not just because of her own uncertain fate, but because of that of her fellow travellers.

The junior highwayman had stolen the spare horses, tethering them behind his own mount, and the drumming of a dozen or more hooves was increasing the pounding in Fiona’s skull. Just as she thought she could stand no more of the interminable journey, and of struggling for breath while blocking out her aches and pains, the horse was slowed to a trot.

Moments later they were at a standstill and her captor dismounted, pulling her down so she collapsed to her knees at his feet. Her hair, wound neatly at her nape that morning, had escaped all its pins and Fiona could feel its heavy weight on her shoulders and straggling around her face. She remained still, listening, sensing that others were around. She heard muffled male voices, then boots on gravel. A moment later she was hoisted up by an arm and the blindfold and gag were removed.

By a filtering moonlight Fiona saw that a rather thin, nondescript fellow was gazing at her and that they were standing within the grounds of a graveyard. The bulky outline of a church, its spire soaring against a navy-blue sky, was outlined on a mound some yards away. Closer to her were scattered headstones and box-like tombs topped with eerie sculptures. She suppressed a shiver, not wanting these vile rogues to know that they, or her surroundings, intimidated her.

‘Jeremiah Collins, at your service, my lady.’ He raised a hand, taking a thick fawn tress between calloused thumb and forefinger. ‘Would I be right in thinking you are the Duke of Thornley’s daughter?’ He cocked his head, inspecting her.

‘No, you would not, you buffoon,’ Fiona snapped, slapping his hand away from her hair.

Jeremiah chuckled. ‘She’s the spirit of a highborn lass right enough, Fred...but I’m not sure. The major said the jaunt had been cancelled.’ He turned to the senior of the two felons who he’d addressed as Fred. ‘She’s plain as a pikestaff and older than I expected. I think you’ve brought me a pig in a poke, not a ransom.’

Fred Ruff was embarrassed by his boss’s criticism. He ripped down his neckerchief so he might speak more clearly, uncaring of Fiona seeing his face now. If Collins were right and he’d taken a worthless woman, then she’d need to be disposed of. In that case it would be immaterial whether his victim could recognise him again. ‘Mayhap the major’s been playing with us so he might keep all the money in his own pocket,’ Fred blustered, but shot his youthful accomplice a baleful look. Sam Dickens had convinced him they were on to something big and that Jem Collins would praise them to the skies for using their initiative and abducting the chit.

‘That’s her!’ Sam also removed his disguise while wagging a finger in emphasis. He knew he was in trouble if he’d led Fred up the garden path. ‘Megan told me they was talking about the estate and the old duke’s pheasants and a society wedding feast. They said about this one eloping...whispering they was like it was a big secret, Megan said.’

‘We were! But the Thornley wedding plans are nothing to do with me personally!’ Fiona interjected in exasperation. She glowered at the youth. Now she knew where she’d seen him before: he was the stable hand who’d been flirting with the serving girl at the Fallow Buck. ‘My name is Miss Chapman and I’ve journeyed from London.’ She realised that the dolts had confused her with a duke’s daughter, living locally, and abducted the wrong person. She felt like shouting a laugh. Sooner or later they’d realise their mistake and if her stepfather were approached to pay up for her release the miser would pay them not a penny piece. And her mother had nothing left now of value to offer.

Collins turned towards Fiona, rubbing his chin thoughtfully with thumb and forefinger. ‘You might be right, Fred, about the major trying to cut us out of the deal. He might want to pin the deed on us, but keep all the spoils. If that’s what he’s about, then the fellow will be close by and mad as hell that we’ve got to this little lady before him.’ He circled Fiona, looking her up and down. ‘Perhaps you aren’t as bad looking as I first thought.’ He cocked his head. ‘You’re Quality, no disguising that, even dressed in these plain things.’ He fingered her woollen cloak. ‘But then you’d want to look unexceptional, wouldn’t you, my dear? Drawing attention to yourself would be a mistake till you’d got your lover’s protection.’

‘Perhaps her swain would stump up a ransom for her, too,’ Sam suggested brightly. ‘We could play ’em one off against t’other.’

‘He’s poor as a church mouse, according to the major’s report, that’s why she’s eloping—because her father won’t hear of the match.’

‘But maybe we can’t trust his word!’ Sam exclaimed.

‘You’re all talking rot!’ Fiona shouted in frustration. ‘And you might as well let me on my way, for I’m expected elsewhere to take up a position in service. The authorities will be on your tails by now. My travelling companions will have reported this outrage.’

‘She’s no domestic, I’ll stake my life on it! She’s lying!’ Sam triumphantly declared.

‘I’m a governess and I’ll be missed by my employer. He’ll send a search party if I don’t turn up,’ Fiona warned.

Jeremiah Collins again raised a hand to touch her, but Fiona stepped out of his reach, glaring at him. He looked quite inoffensive with his wispy fair hair and wiry frame. But she sensed that behind his pale eyes lurked a vicious and devious mind and she wanted to be quickly out of his clutches.

‘I think you’re a crafty wench, accustomed to lying,’ Collins said slowly. ‘If you’re Thornley’s spawn, you’ll have been deceiving your papa for some time, gallivanting with a ne’er-do-well to escape being married off to an old roué.’ He clucked his tongue. ‘His Grace won’t be popular if he tries to pass off spoiled goods to his new son-in-law, even though the fellow can match him for years. Thornley will pay handsomely to get you back and keep quiet this escapade.’

A glimmer of revulsion flitted across Fiona’s features at the idea of a young woman being forcibly married off to an aged lecher. As for the poor young lady being compromised following her abduction by highwaymen... Fiona realised that fate now applied to her. If it ever got out that she’d been in the company of three brutes—and of course it would because many people knew of it—then she would be thoroughly ruined.

Collins had noticed her distressed reaction and smiled with nasty satisfaction. ‘Come...come... I have sympathy for your plight, my lady, but I’ve money to make and pleasure to take before I swing on Gallows Hill.’ He strode to his comrades to mutter beneath his breath, ‘I think she could be Thornley’s brat, but if she’s speaking the truth, and is Miss Chapman, we’ve got ourselves a millstone round our necks. There’s only one thing to do with such: cut ’em loose and cast ’em in the sea so they sink.’

‘Shall we scout around the local hostelries for the major? If he’s still in the neighbourhood, that’ll tell us what we need to know,’ Fred Ruff hissed.

‘If Wolfson’s still in the vicinity then we won’t need to go looking for him, he’ll find us,’ Collins answered with a sly grin. From the two meetings he’d had with Major Wolfson, Collins had gauged he was not a man to cross. But then Jem Collins could match any man alive for ruthlessness. Nevertheless, he was regretting agreeing to do business with him.

By straining her ears Fiona could just catch snippets of their conversation. She heard the name Wolfson and a hand squeezed at her heart. ‘Are you talking about Luke Wolfson?’ she burst out.

Three pairs of eyes were swung in her direction.

‘What do you know of the major?’ Collins demanded.

‘Nothing... I’ve just heard his name before,’ Fiona murmured, feeling as though she’d taken a blow to the stomach.

So, the major they were talking about and Luke Wolfson were one and the same. He was the fellow these thugs thought had crossed them in a deal they’d struck to kidnap the Duke of Thornley’s daughter. But when Wolfson had come across their broken coach he’d had the intelligence to deduce that Fiona Chapman was who she said she was. No doubt he’d gone after the real prize...wherever the poor wretch might be.

Now she realised why he’d paid her such attention: Luke Wolfson hadn’t been flirting with her, he’d been assessing her and, unlike these fools, had come up with the correct answer. She supposed it had been rather good of him to warn her about the hazards for a young woman travelling alone! He was preparing her for villains such as himself who preyed on female victims.

Suddenly Fiona felt very alone and frightened. From the moment these thugs had hauled her away from her travelling party she’d harboured a tiny hope that Mr Wolfson would somehow discover what had happened to her and ride to save her from these savages. But he was no better than them and he’d provide no service she’d welcome! Of that, Fiona was certain.

* * *

From the age of sixteen, when she’d left her home in the countryside to make her fortune, Becky Peake had regularly used payment in kind for things she wanted but couldn’t afford. But rolling in hay with a yokel for a ride on his cart was a new low for her. She felt ashamed of herself and wished she’d not spent all the cash Luke had given her on a fancy hat and a night of gambling at the Red Lion at Exeter. Then she might have had the wherewithal to hire a tired nag, or a two-wheeled gig, to follow her lover without resorting to soliciting.

Luke had paid for Becky’s coach fare back to London but, on impulse, she’d disembarked before the vehicle had travelled east far enough to cross the county line. Her need to stay close to her lover, lest he replace her with somebody else, was lately always on her mind.

Becky doubted that she would ever love Luke Wolfson in that selfless way her mother had adored her father, but she did know that she craved his company. Major Wolfson was the most attractive and exciting man Becky had ever known; she wanted to be permanently in his life, sharing his adventures and his riches. She fantasised that they would have a brood of beautiful children and then, if the fire in her blood was quenched by the passing of the years, she’d settle into a comfortable life in Essex as lady of the manor with five handsome sons about her silk skirts, and her husband providing her with every little luxury that her heart desired.

‘Take you on a foo more miles if yer like.’ A gap-toothed fellow shattered Becky’s delightful daydream with his coarse country brogue.

‘Here will do very well, thank you,’ Becky replied in her crispest tone. She continued tying her garters and ignored the farmer grinning at her while he buttoned his trousers. She brushed down her dress and stood up, picking bits of straw from her bonnet.

A moment later Becky was at the barn door and peeking through a crack. Nobody seemed to be around so she slipped out and sashayed off towards the village square, tying her new hat in place as she went. She was hoping that Luke would still be lodging at the same inn; she knew he’d planned to see a chum before heading home. He’d not told her any more about it, no doubt chary of her turning up unannounced at the fellow’s home. Becky knew she might have been tempted to do so, too, in her obsession with Luke. But she was sure he’d again put up at the King and Tinker on his way back so she headed in that direction to wait for his return.

* * *

‘How is he, sir?’

Luke had been saddling up in the stable yard of the Pig and Whistle when he spied the doctor exiting the hostelry. He had quickly intercepted the physician, keen to know how young Bert fared now he’d been ensconced in one of the inn’s bedrooms.

‘I’ve dosed the patient with a sleeping draught to aid his recovery.’ The doctor gave a grim shake of the head. ‘His wound is clean now and luckily the bullet passed through. Bert Williams is young and strong, but he’s bled a lot.’ He sighed pessimistically in conclusion, then climbed aboard his trap and flicked the reins over the pony’s back.

Luke was about to swing into the saddle when he saw Mr Jackson and Toby Williams coming towards him at quite a pace. He hesitated and patted the flanks of the replacement beast he’d hired. Star was limping a little after his punishing ride and Luke didn’t want to risk a lame horse hampering him in his search for Fiona Chapman.

‘What are we to do about...you know...?’ Mr Jackson blurted in a whispering hiss. ‘My lady wife and I cannot in all conscience proceed on our way and just ignore the fact that Miss Chapman has been kidnapped by those beasts.’

‘I know, sir, but I’ve asked you to give me a day or so to find her,’ Luke replied in an equally muted tone. ‘You and I both know that an unmarried young woman’s future would be blighted for ever by such a tale becoming common knowledge. And it will, if the authorities are alerted to her abduction. Better I try to get her back and help her to reach her destination. Then she might pick up her life where it left off before this disaster befell her.’

‘But the poor lass is bound to be in hysterics and will give the game away herself,’ Peter Jackson argued.

‘She put up quite a fight, as I recall,’ Toby Williams pointed out, sounding in awe of the young woman’s pluck.

Luke gave a wry smile; he recalled very well his chat with Fiona Chapman and he sided with Toby’s opinion: she was no pushover and he doubted that any lasting harm would be done...as long as he reached her in time. He knew how Collins’s mind worked: he was a businessman above all else and if he thought he could turn a profit from Fiona Chapman he’d try to sell her back to her family. To do that successfully, he’d need to return her intact. What was puzzling Luke was the reason he’d taken her in the first place. The other travellers hadn’t had any valuables stolen and he found it hard to believe that Collins would think Fiona’s ransom might turn a tidy sum. From her appearance, and her need to seek employment, her family connections were modest, Luke reckoned. And if Collins sought simply to use her for his own amusement... Luke’s jaw clenched and he suddenly mounted the horse.

‘Blight the poor lass’s life, good ’n’ proper, it would,’ Toby stated bluntly. He was feeling better now his nephew was abed and sleeping soundly. ‘My young niece was led astray by an older fellow...married her, though, he did...albeit with a gun at his back.’

‘I don’t think it’s seduction or a wife Collins is after,’ Luke said drily. ‘Give me a day or two and I will return with Miss Chapman, God willing.’

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