One

Early November, 1768

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Metal flashed.

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

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

A highwayman.

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

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

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

The man righted himself. “Who are ye?”

“Lord Marcus Bowles, at your service.”

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

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

“Me blunderbuss. I need it back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The women tittered behind him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

His vices.

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

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

Each breath came loud to his ears.

In. Out.

In. Out.

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

The mystery woman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least his dark craving had passed.

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

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

Flirtation was a patient man’s game.

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

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

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

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

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

Help the hostler? With the broken brace?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He reached for the heavy strap draped over her arm. “You were going to attach this?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

They turned together toward the coach. He hefted the stiff leather, glancing sidelong at her. Women of his acquaintance wouldn’t know a coach brace from a roller bolt. The strap in hand was shorter, a temporary solution until the conveyance reached the inn. Standard braces looped around the front axle to the rear axle, one on each side of the coach. Those wide straps absorbed bumps and jolts between the coach body and wheel frame.

What kind of woman knew about coaches and pistols?

Women fascinated him the way works of art mesmerized the beholder. Similar features painted the fair sex the same, but uniqueness and strength of mind captured his attention as much as silken skin and pretty eyes. Lavish black embroidery trimmed her cloak, but closer inspection of her gloves showed split seams. He’d wager those gloves hid callouses, and by the fullness of her cheek, she had to be young.

Marcus knelt by the front wheel and wrapped the new brace around the axle. “A woman of unusual skills, yet I don’t know your name. Considering the circumstances, I hope I don’t have to wait for a proper introduction.”

She stooped to the ground, frowning oddly at him. She set down the blunderbuss and ducked her head and shoulders to retrieve the larger, broken brace in the dirt.

“Oh, we’ve already met, milord.” Her voice floated from under the coach. “Two years past. At Golden Goose on Tavistock near Haymarket. It’s what I wanted to talk with you about.”

He froze. The Golden Goose?

“We’ve already met.” He glanced up at the coach windows, but noisy wind and their position on the ground saved them from being overheard.

“The way you looked at me a moment ago, I thought you’d recognized me,” she said, sitting upright, wiping dust off her hands.

He slid the brace for even placement on the axle. Their roadside conversation…it was a confidence she was about to share, not a kiss.

“You’re an actress, then.”

“Certainly not. I worked behind the scenes. Costumes and cleanup.” She handed over the torn leather. “And all-around fixer of broken things.”

Tetchy, wasn’t she? He took the proffered brace, grinning at her strong distinction between actress and laborer. His mystery woman assumed he believed her to be a light-skirt.

She’d be right.

The moon lit dark eyes and comely features. Her nose and cheeks were pretty, if noses could be counted as such. But her mouth snared him, a singular clue to her character. She sat back on her heels, close-lipped and quiet. The flat line of her mouth told him she was sparing with her smiles. Her seriousness intrigued him, and seeing her now, he’d put his mystery woman at nineteen or twenty years old.

He looped the shorter leather around the axle. “How did you come to know about coaches?”

“We traveled, summer fairs and such, before settling at the Golden Goose.”

Punishing wind stung his cheeks, a reminder to move fast and find his bed. Sitting this close, her visage skimmed the edge of recall, among other images of nights on Tavistock Street—none of them pretty.

There was no use putting a fine veneer on the Goose. The tavern-cum-theater offered coarse entertainment. Men jostled for seats on benches lining the straw-covered floor. Soldiers, sailors, and wharfmen with coin to spare guzzled weak ale alongside London’s highborn sons. Bawdy plays like The Wench from Wales fed their appetites for near-naked women. Most men tarried afterward in hopes of meeting an actress.

Once or twice, Marcus had done the same. Or three or four times. He never counted.

He knotted the brace, dust kicking up around them. She did say she’d worked behind the scenes. Now she was traveling north with proper-looking middle-class matrons. He doubled the knot and yanked hard, at a loss for words, yet his mysterious traveler sat calmly in the dirt, her legs folded under her skirts.

“I can tell you have some recollection…of the Golden Goose at least,” she said above the wind. “But you don’t remember me, do you?”

He leaned closer, all the better to hear her. “I beg pardon, miss. I can’t recall your name.”

“Genevieve Turner, milord.” She brushed unbound hair off her face, offering him a better view. “Ours was a hasty introduction before you went off with an actress.”

He flinched. Off with an actress. The bald words described his escapades. Working the brace, his boot-covered knees pushed on unforgiving ground. Anyone who stepped inside the Golden Goose was no stranger to London’s midnight antics, especially Miss Turner, who lived them.

Yet, he couldn’t look her in the eye.

One red-gloved hand flattened on the coach near his head. “I’m…I’m coming north for a housekeeper’s post in Cornhill-on-Tweed. For a better life.”

He looked up from the brace. Standing moments ago off the road, her features weren’t clear when the wind pushed back her hood. Nightfall had made sure of that. Sitting by the coach, she faced the moonlight. Faint freckles dotted her small nose. Thick, blunt lashes fringed dark, imploring eyes. Secrets hid in those depths.

Flirtation aside, he liked talking with her, and there was the very male impulse to offer protection to a young woman alone.

He grabbed the axle and tested the first knot. “I’m wintering near Cornhill-on-Tweed. My cottage needs a housekeeper.”

She laughed without humor. “Oh no. A post in your household wouldn’t be good for the likes of me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I already have a position with a Mr. Beckworth and family. A family, milord.”

She was going to work for Samuel Beckworth? His friend’s proximity to Pallinsburn had been the single reason this northern exile was palatable. Resting his forearm on his knees, he absorbed another fact, the telling brightness in Miss Turner’s voice when she said family.

He let go of the axle. “You’re taking a position with my good fr—”

“Ah, looks like yer about done.” The coachman’s lamplight intruded. The old man bent low, his weathered features scrunching with inspection. “Good enough to get us to Lowick. These tired bones of mine need a rest. Been a long night, but my thanks for your help, milord.”

The coachman hooked his lantern on the front panel, the light catching Miss Turner’s golden tresses flying free. Marcus pushed off the ground, about to offer his hand, but she scrambled to her feet and grabbed the blunderbuss before he could help her. He wiped road dust from his hands, following her under the brim of his hat. This accidental interlude was coming to a close. Less than an hour ago, he didn’t want to stop. Now, he didn’t want this stop to end.

“You’ll want this.” Miss Turner handed the pistol to the driver.

The coachman set it on his footboard. “If ye’d be so kind, milord, to see Miss Abbott finds her seat, we can be on our way.”

Marcus’s swiping hands stilled. Miss Abbott?

Miss Turner spun around and set one finger to her lips, her eyes saucer big.

“Of course,” he called back. “I’d be happy to help Miss Abbott.”

The driver hoisted himself up to his seat. Miss Turner darted for the coach door, but Marcus took quick steps backward, his hand covering the latch. He had no hold on her. Why the deception?

“Miss Abbott, is it?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“For now.” She averted her eyes. “I wanted to explain, but I wasn’t sure if…if…”

“If you could trust me.”

Her solemn stare pinned him. “Yes.”

Fresh gusts brushed the bottom of his redingote against her. Miss Turner’s mouth flattened, and a need surged, the want to soften those lips with smiles and laughter.

Giving a light flourish, he laid his hand over his heart. “You wound me. ‘Honor’ is my middle name.”

“Honor?” Doubt threaded her quiet voice.

“Lord Marcus Honor Bowles. Trustworthy as a vicar.”

A single feminine brow rose. “A vicar?”

He chuckled, the sound a dry rasp. “Vicar’s a bit of a stretch for me. Would you accept choirboy? I was one for a short time until I got the boot.”

A tiny spark lit her eyes. “I shall remember that if I need a song or comfort and wisdom, milord.”

Resting a shoulder against the coach, he grimaced good-naturedly. “I’m short on song and wisdom these days.”

“But you excel at giving comfort.” Her lips twitched. “Especially to women.”

The small victory warmed him. He’d won a partial smile, but the glimmer quickly faded.

“Before I left London, friends mentioned your upset at the Cocoa Tree…that you were coming north for the winter to spare your family any more scandal.” Her shoulders slumped. “When I saw you come riding, I feared you’d recognize me. You’re the only person in Cornhill who could connect me to the Golden Goose.”

He stiffened at the mention of the Cocoa Tree. The broadsheets had trumpeted news of his debacle at the gambling establishment. He’d lost badly at a game of cards, upending the table after too much to drink. Most of London knew about his embarrassing exit from the Cocoa Tree. Few knew the family turmoil that followed. He’d return to London in due time, but he didn’t want trouble camping at Samuel’s door.

“How did you get your housekeeper’s position?”

“The Sauveterre sisters helped me.” Miss Turner paused, giving him a pointed look. “I believe you’re acquainted with them.”

He ignored her arch tone, another concern coming to light. Miss Turner had sought the Birchin Lane mantua-makers known for helping women in need.

“Then we have mutual friends in the Sauveterres.” He leaned close. “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

She grabbed his arm. “That doesn’t matter. Promise me—”

“Are ye ready there?” the driver bellowed from his perch.

“Another moment, Mr. McGreevy,” she yelled before lowering her voice. “Do I have your word? You’ll keep quiet about my name and the Golden Goose?”

One of the matrons knocked thrice on the window near their heads. The older woman glared through the glass, her brows a stern slash.

“What are you running away from?” Marcus asked.

“Lord Bowles. Please.”

Her hand twisted his sleeve. The desperate plea, her anguish…both added up to a woman in a bad place. Conceding to her request would make him complicit, but now was not the time to dig for whatever hardship chased Miss Turner. She needed assurances more than he needed information.

“Of course. You have my word.”

She let go of him and turned to the door. From the side of her hood, she whispered, “Thank you, milord. Your concern is…kind, but it’s better to say I’m running to someone.”

With those enigmatic words, she put her hand over his and pulled the latch. He released his hold, and Miss Turner hurried into the unlit interior. Her firm step bespoke a woman used to fending for herself. To survive the Golden Goose, she had to possess a multitude of skills, the likes of which someone born to comfort couldn’t understand.

Through the windows, he spied her red-cloaked form settling in. She faced forward as if she wouldn’t give him another thought.

Walking backward, he shouted, “Drive on.”

Mr. McGreevy snapped the reins, and the coach rumbled onward, leaving a dirty nimbus in its wake. Feet planted wide on uneven terrain, Marcus waited until the tottering coach disappeared.

He was alone again.

Bone-tired, he reached inside his redingote for his flask. A gentleman could lose himself at midnight, the velvet hour teasing the best and worst from a man. Just one nip was all he needed, a splash to cure the dryness in his throat. He gripped the metal ready to give in, but Khan nudged his elbow. The four-legged creature could be a chiding friend.

His hand slipped free to scratch behind the horse’s ear. “You know me too well, old boy.”

Petting his horse, he breathed easier, and the craving slipped away. He put one booted foot in the stirrup and mounted the gray. The half-moon’s light washed over Devil’s Causeway, yet the road sign for Lowick village called to him. No, she called to him. Their brief midnight meeting had given him a taste of something better, and he wished for more. He wanted to help pretty Miss Turner. Smiling at the empty road, he was certain she didn’t want help from him.

Was curiosity about the red-cloaked woman more alluring than her comeliness?

Women were a pleasant diversion, stirred parts as nature intended, but of late none interested him. Not until tonight. He welcomed the renewed spark Miss Turner lit. Cornhill-on-Tweed could hold amusements after all.

“Looks like you and I have a social call to make,” he said, patting Khan’s neck. “Very soon.”

By Miss Turner’s vague telling, he wasn’t sure what puzzled him more.

What she ran from. Or who she ran to.