The highwayman's eyes were amber, edged in a deeper hue—bronze, Kendra decided—that now spread in toward the center as his expression hardened. "Your luggage
and
your cloak, then—seeing as you won't cooperate."
He swung his pistol in the coachman's direction. The driver scrambled down and fumbled with the ropes securing the passengers' belongings. A shove sent the Puritan's trunk to the rutted road with a decisive
thunk
.
"Your cloak." The highwayman held out his free hand, almost as though he were bored, while his victim struggled out of his plain mantle.
"What about
them
?" he sputtered, handing it over. His gaze swung toward the Chases.
The highwayman glanced inside and flashed Kendra's brothers a conspiratorial smile before answering. "They're friends. Good day."
"Good day?
Good day?
" The poor man was as red as a squalling newborn, and Kendra almost felt sorry for him—until she reminded herself that it was his ilk who had killed her parents during the Civil War.
Her brothers indeed carried pistols—and swords and knives and God knew what else—and had the man not been a Puritan, she was sure one or both of them would have jumped to his defense. But because of men like this one, Jason had been left to raise his orphaned siblings, all of them forced to spend the Commonwealth years in poverty and exile.
She turned to watch the amber man remount and make his way down the road and up the hill toward his cohorts. He'd been superb. Magnificent.
Romantic, she thought on a sigh.
Amber. His clean-shaven, suntanned complexion. His eyes, a deep gold the color of the finest liquor. The black plume on his cavalier's hat fluttered as he rode, and beneath it he wore a long, crimped brown periwig that rather reminded her of her twin Ford's hair. But she was certain the highwayman's real hair wasn't brown. Though many men had shaven heads under their periwigs, he wouldn't. His own hair would be cut short, but not
off
, certainly—she shuddered at the thought—and it would be golden. Amber.
"Are thee going to let him get away with this?" the Puritan demanded, clambering up and glaring at her brothers with their rapiers at their sides.
One of Jason's black brows rose, and he spoke for them both. "I expect so."
The coach lurched and they continued on, but the atmosphere was decidedly strained, and the Puritan got off at the next stop.
Kendra moved to sit in the now-vacant spot beside Ford. "A highwayman," she breathed as soon as the carriage resumed moving.
"Why didn't he rob us?" Caithren asked. "How is it you know him? He called you a friend."
"He uses the term lightly." Jason's smile was enigmatic. "We've run into him before. But he's never robbed us."
"He didn't look like he needed to rob anybody," Kendra pointed out. "His suit was nicer than yours."
He'd looked nicer than Jason all around, she mused. Not that Jason wasn't handsome, but he had the general look of her family, a look she was inured to, to say the least. This man, on the other hand, had looked...exotic. All golden and dressed in black—black suit, black shirt, black boots, black mask—not the look of your typical scruffy felon, that was for sure.
Jason shrugged, absently running a hand through his wife's straight, dark-blond hair. "Almost anyone can afford one nice suit of clothes, if he makes it his priority. You cannot judge a man by his looks, Kendra."
But of course she had. Judged him, and liked what she saw.
Jason raised Cait's hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles, earning a soft smile in return. "Perhaps we should turn him in," he suggested playfully. "This is getting to be somewhat of a nuisance."
"You wouldn't dare!" Kendra burst out. "He's...well...he'd fit in at court. And he robbed only the Puritan. I'd wager he's a Royalist."
"There could be a reward for him. And Lakefield House is in sad shape," Viscount Lakefield, otherwise known as Ford, lamented half-seriously. "I cannot live with Jason forever."
"Oh, yes, you can," Kendra said heatedly.
Jason turned to her. "Is it that important to you, then? I didn't realize your Royalist loyalty ran so deep."
"Well...it does," she declared, thinking about the highwayman's broad shoulders.
"Well, then." Ford's deep-blue eyes gleamed with mischief. "I suppose we'll have to leave him be. At least it provides him with a stake for the card games."
Jason glared at their brother.
"What?" Kendra asked. "What card games?"
"All highwaymen play cards," Jason said firmly. He picked up their own deck and shuffled it expertly, then dealt out new hands.
Kendra arranged her cards slowly, her mind not on the game.
She remembered the highwayman's voice. He'd spoken cautiously, as though he were considering each word. Not like her family. The Chases, as a rule, blurted everything that came into their heads, generally at the tops of their lungs.
"What was his accent?" she asked. "Did you hear it?"
"Scots, aye?" Cait said, exaggerating the burr she was born to. "Though I'd guess he hasn't been home for many a year. I'm surprised you even noticed."
When Jason looked up sharply, Kendra pretended to study her fan of cards. He frowned back down at his own hand. "Why do you want to know?"
Why?
She could scarcely comprehend such a stupid question. She wanted to know everything about the mysterious highwayman.
"Just curious," she said lightly, leading with a jack of hearts. "Your turn."
The Duke of Lechmere turned out to be everything Kendra had feared and then some. He was the epitome of what she did
not
want in a husband.
His skin appeared to have never seen the sun. Only God knew what color his hair was, since it was hidden beneath a periwig dusted with enough powder to choke a horse. She suspected he was bald underneath, anyway. His eyes were a pale, lifeless gray.
Not that looks were paramount, but his suit was peacock satin, adorned with so much dangling ribbon and lace that it seemed to quiver when he breathed. No matter the current fashion, Kendra wasn't drawn to men who wore prettier clothes than she did. A simple, dark velvet suit—like those her brothers favored—was far more to her taste. Not to mention the expense of Lechmere's apparel could probably fund an orphanage for a month.
Having been orphaned herself at the age of seven, she would much rather have seen the money spent there.
And he was a
duke
.
"Kendra plays the harpsichord like an angel," Jason said, sending her into a coughing fit. While it was true she was a competent musician, she couldn't remember ever hearing her name and the word
angel
in the same sentence. At least not from her oldest brother, who had seen her through more than a few rebellious stages.
"An admirable accomplishment." The duke waved a hand bedecked with gaudy rings. "I should like to hear her play later."
"And she's a brilliant conversationalist," Ford added, focusing on the drawing room's carved wooden ceiling.
Interesting description,
brilliant conversationalist
, given that her brothers spent much of their time telling her to hush up. She would have to call Ford on that later.
After she figured out how to get rid of this mullipuff.
"Though she seems rather tongue-tied now," Jason put in dryly. "First time in my memory."
Sitting beside Jason in a salmon velvet armchair, Kendra could barely resist kicking him. Maybe she should. Perhaps bad manners would send the duke running.
But no, she needed something more drastic. Failproof.
"In circumstances such as this, a bout of speechlessness is only to be expected," Lechmere quipped in a haughty tone. "Though I assure you, my dear, I'm not looking for conversation." His cold gray gaze seemed to heat as it swept her from head to toe. "I admire a quiet, biddable woman."
Dear God. She'd better think of something quick. When Jason asked her to pour the wine, she rose quickly, deliberately tripping on the edge of the patterned black-and-salmon carpet.
"Watch yourself," Jason warned under his breath. He smiled at the duke, who held out his goblet in one limp-wristed hand.
"Oh, I'm so clumsy," she lied. At her brother's glare, she only giggled, prompting a frown.
Kendra never giggled.
With exaggerated force, she pulled the stopper from the decanter, then giggled again when it went flying across the room and hit a portrait of one of her solemn ancestors square on his painted forehead.
Her great-great grandfather. She looked to his image for help, but no advice was forthcoming.
"Quite all right, my dear." Lechmere raised his chin. "It's natural to be nervous when meeting a man of my stature. When you're a duchess—"
"When I'm a duchess, I shall open lots of orphanages," she babbled. "There are so many disadvantaged children who would blossom with a proper education in a caring environment. And speaking of blossoms, have you extensive gardens, your grace? Because I've theories on crossbreeding flowers—"
"I told you she's a good conversationalist," Ford interrupted.
"Here, your grace, let me just take this goblet." She grabbed it from his hand, cringing when her fingers met his cold, clammy ones. "My, what a lovely ruby." Unbelievably, the ring she was speaking of was lodged on his thumb. Evidently his fingers weren't numerous enough to properly display his wealth. "Amy would adore seeing it, I'm sure."
"Amy?"
"My sister-in-law. My brother Colin's wife. She's a jeweler." Kendra set the goblet on the table with a bang that made everyone jump.
"Your brother's wife is a
jeweler
?"
The duke looked positively scandalized. Since Kendra could hardly control a grin, she giggled again to cover it. "Oh, yes. Colin found her on the streets of London." Which was true, in a sense—since he'd rescued her from the Great Fire two years earlier—but more than a tad misleading. Though her family had been commoners, Amy was educated and wealthy in her own right. "Of course, she's a countess now as well, but a jeweler all the same."
"Hmmph," the duke sniffed.
"Yes, your grace. It's an admirable thing for a woman to be more than just a lady, don't you think? Well, let me just pour, then."
And she did—right into his lap.
He jumped up, watching in horror as a red stain spread on the turquoise satin in a very embarrassing place. "I think I've had enough, my lady, of both the wine and yourself. If you'll excuse me." With his pointy nose in the air, he strode awkwardly from the room.
"Crossbreeding flowers?" When her twin's eyes met her own, they both burst out laughing.
But Jason wasn't amused. "Very charming, Kendra." Deliberately he placed his elbows on the arms of his chair, then steepled his fingers, pinning her with exasperated green eyes. "That's one prospect off your list. Need I remind you who is left? I'll expect a decision after the weekend, and you'll be wed by the end of the summer."
Kendra awoke the next morning with a massive headache.
Jason couldn't be serious.
He and Ford and Colin were off to a monthly house party they attended—no females allowed—and, as usual, she and Caithren would be joined by their sister-in-law, Amy, and her baby daughter, Jewel, for the weekend. Usually they had something of a house party of their own, playing with the babe and gossiping until the men returned.
But when the men returned this time, they'd be expecting to hear whom she'd decided to marry.
She stared up at the underside of the mint-green canopy she'd begged for in her youth. Although their parents had depleted the family fortune financing the king in the Civil War, Jason had always seen to it that she'd never wanted for anything. To the best of his abilities, he'd indulged her every whim. He wouldn't force her to marry now.
Would he?
With a huff, she rose and pulled on her new hunter-green riding habit. She ran a comb through her hair, not bothering to call her maid in to curl and pin it. Amy would be here within the hour, but she needed to think. Alone.
In no time at all, she was mounted on Pandora, her mare, galloping across the Sussex Downs. Her brothers would be mightily vexed if they knew she was riding unescorted, but the three of them could go hang for all she cared right now.
Besides, they were away all weekend and would never know.
The fresh country air eased her aching head, but just thinking about that weasel Lechmere made her shiver. And the rest of her prospects weren't much better.
The Earl of Shrewsbury came complete with a meddling mother—the "shrew" in her title was all too fitting. The Marquess of Rochford was a widower and kind enough, but his hair was completely gray—doubtless from dealing with his seven unruly children. Viscount Davenport didn't talk, he whined. The Duke of Lancashire lived in, well, Lancashire—which was entirely too far from her family. The Earl of Morely was wealthy and wise, but nearing fifty. Lord Rosslyn was young, handsome, and fun loving, but lacking somewhat in brains. She wondered if he could read.
Jason couldn't be serious.
Coming out of her thoughts, she slowed to a stop. She hadn't realized how far she'd ridden. In fact, she noticed with a start, she was at the same spot where they'd seen the highwayman yesterday.
His friends had been atop that hill, lying on their stomachs, their hats pulled down to conceal their faces, training an impressive assortment of pistols on the hapless Puritan.
This morning, the hill was deserted and the highwayman nowhere in sight. In an attempt to judge the time, Kendra glanced at the sky, but it was all clouded over. The day was turning beastly. Not cold, but muggy, with a definite threat of rain. With no sun to confirm it, she guessed the time to be about ten o'clock. Perhaps highwaymen slept in.
Plainly, highway robbery wasn't a full-time occupation. Not that she had any idea of what she'd have done if the highwayman
had
been here. Run for her life, in all probability. But she drifted into a vague fantasy of herself riding down the road at breakneck speed, her long, dark red hair floating on the breeze, impressing the hell out of him with her horsemanship and her grace. In her fantasy he stared after her, openmouthed with surprise and appreciation, struck temporarily dumb by a bolt of...love at first sight.