Chapter One

One

Northumberland, England 1791

P rudence plunged through the slick underbrush. The coil of hair at the nape of her neck unrolled and fell around her shoulders in sodden ropes. She paused in her mad flight to pluck out pearl-tipped hairpins with methodical fingers. She tucked them in her deep pocket with a tidy pat so none would be lost, though she suspected the caution was unwarranted. Although her aunt would never admit it, she would not waste genuine pearls on her homely niece.

Prudence wrung out her velvet skirts before pushing on. Wet leaves slapped at her face. Lightning flooded the night sky, and stark boughs whipped against that canvas of white. Prudence opened her mouth to yell again, but the sound was snatched by a gust of wind, then drowned by a jarring crack of thunder. Torrents of rain drenched the forest, rendering even the cone-laden pine trees an ineffectual umbrella against the wind-lashed deluge. Prudence wrapped her arm around a tree and cocked her head, straining to hear any hint of a desperate cry over the steady roar of the storm.

Turning her face up to the rain, she longed to give herself over to the exhilaration of the night—the pounding of thunder, the flash of lightning, the pelting of the summer rain against her skin. How different it was from being curled in the cozy cushions of her window seat, book in hand, watching raindrops stream down the leaded glass window. A primitive thirst opened her mouth wide to catch the rain on her tongue. This was no time for musing, though. Her hesitation could mean the death of one who was dear to her.

Her heavy skirts clung to her legs as she burst out of the thicket on the edge of a steep hill. Wind howled around her, whipping her gown away from her body. A heavy clap boomed through the forest. Prudence thought it was thunder, but a flash of lightning illuminated the road below, proving her wrong. The sky went dark again. She braced herself against the muddy hillside and squinted, her poor vision worsened by the gray curtain of rain.

A coach and four had come to a rocking halt in the road. Gilt outlined the elaborate crest on the door, a crest Prudence did not recognize. She sucked in a breath as she realized why the coach had halted so abruptly.

It was surrounded by the murky shapes of six men on horseback. Their shaggy mounts pawed the ground as one man, who was evidently their leader, barked a command at the coachman. Even in the feeble light, the coachman's face was ghastly pale. Thunder rumbled once more, farther away this time.

Prudence's nails dug into the exposed roots of a hickory tree as one of the bandits wrenched the door of the coach from its hinges. A woman's rhythmic shrieking split the night. The leader slowly raised his arm. Lightning glinted off the sleek barrel of his pistol. But it was not the pistol that caught Prudence's attention. It was the tiny ball of gray and white fluff that catapulted from an overhanging branch to cling to the roof of the coach.

"Sebastian!" she screamed.

All caution forgotten, Prudence flung herself down the hill, half careening, half sliding through the mud-slicked leaves.

The scream was Sebastian Kerr's undoing. He twisted on his mount, searching the hillside for the source of that unearthly cry—his Christian name in a place where he had no name. In a moment of madness, he half believed it was his mother's voice, hoarse with fear and longing.

The night exploded in a blur of sound and movement. Sebastian's horse pivoted with him, fighting against the sting of the bit. With hardly a blink to betray the motion, the coachman swung his heavy stave, catching Sebastian full in the abdomen. A weapon discharged with a flash of light, fouling the air with the acrid stench of fire and gunpowder, as Sebastian sailed off his horse. He landed hard on the road, his ankle folding beneath him with an ominous crack. The inane screaming of the woman within the coach went on and on. For a savage moment, Sebastian wished he had shot her.

The other horses reeled, churning the road into a sea of mud as they scattered into the night, their caped and masked riders bent low over sinewy necks. The coachman's gloved hand lifted. Sebastian froze, awaiting the killing blow from the knobby stave. Instead, the coachman brought his shiny whip down on his team, jolting the vehicle into motion. The coach thundered away, rocking wildly with the speed of its flight.

The night was still again, surrendered to the patter of the rain and the distant rumble of thunder as the storm tapered to a steady downfall.

Sebastian lay in a haze of mud and pain. Rain washed into his mouth. Had his mother called his name? He closed his eyes, hearing her melodic French, feeling the brush of her soothing hand against his brow. As the breath robbed by the stave returned, he became conscious of the pulsing throb of his ankle. What a fool he was! It must have been his father calling him. He squeezed-his eyes shut as a wave of pain rolled up his leg. His father's thick Highland burr rode on its crest. Sebastian! 'Tis a silly name for a silly lad . He flinched, awaiting the thud of a mud-caked boot against his ankle.

All that pelted him, though, was rain. He opened his eyes. Reality returned, as cold and substantial as the muddy goop cradling his elbows. He quenched a flare of resentment at his companions for deserting him. He could hardly curse them when he had taught them everything they knew. Never risk waiting on the wounded , he'd instructed. A fallen man is a noose for the next man . They had learned their lessons well. Sebastian winced at the thought of D'Artan's lifted eyebrow when his men returned to Edinburgh empty-handed.

A wave of weariness battered him. The night had started badly. There had been the unexpected storm, then the first coach they'd accosted had refused to stop. The next coach had to be cursed with a stubborn coachman and a plump, squealing matron. And finally, the mysterious creature charging down the hill…

Sebastian braced himself on one elbow and peered through the rain. A girl sat in the mud a few feet away, seemingly oblivious to the steady wash of rain, the stained velvet of her skirts, the heavy ropes of hair tangled around her face. And oblivious to him. Her head was bent and she was crooning his name to a sickly ball of fur nestled beneath her chin. He felt an odd catch in his throat to hear his name spoken in such adoring tones. Even his handsome English mistress did not cry out his name with such feeling during their liaisons. For a brief moment, he felt ridiculously and insanely jealous of the kitten cradled to the girl's bosom.

"What a naughty beast you are, Sebastian," she chided tenderly, smoothing the bedraggled fur of the trembling creature. "I've been searching for you everywhere. I thought Boris had gone and dragged you off again."

The kitten gave an insulted mew at the mere thought of such an indignity. His yawning pink mouth made him look large enough to swallow himself. Sebastian rather wished he would.

He cleared his throat meaningfully, shifting his glare from the irritating feline to the girl. Their gazes met. Her eyes immediately narrowed to a puzzled squint.

Clutching the kitten in one hand, she scrambled over to him, crawling heavily across his ankle. "You're hurt, aren't you?"

Sebastian gripped his leg, his knuckles white. "I am now."

She sank back on her knees. "Shall I fetch the sheriff? He is an acquaintance of mine."

Sebastian groaned, wondering if this night would ever end. "Naturally. He would be."

The kitten squirmed free of her grasp and trotted up Sebastian's leg, pausing to sheath needle-sharp claws into his kilt. Sebastian yelped.

The girl snatched at the beast, jerking Sebastian's kilt up to an alarming height. "There you go again, you wicked cat. How naughty you are. You must forgive him, sir. I fear he possesses an irrepressible spirit of mischief."

"I've been accused of the same failing myself," Sebastian murmured, distracted by a tantalizing glimpse of creamy skin as she leaned over him.

She finally succeeded in untangling kilt and cat. Her fingers smoothed the mud-splattered tartan, then she grew very still.

"I know who you are," she whispered. "You're the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick."

Her gaze shifted to the silk mask that covered the upper half of his face. She reached for it.

Sebastian caught her slender wrist. "Feel free to call me Dreadful."

She took the hint well. Her arm relaxed, and he released it. His reticence didn't stop her from leaning forward on hands and knees to peer into his face. To Sebastian's dismay, excitement, not fear, brightened her expression. He ought to send the silly lass away, he thought, but if he wasn't to perish in this cold, muddy road, he needed her help.

"I've read all about you." Her voice was touched with awe. "You are the scourge of the Northumberland border. The faceless terror of both Scotland and England. A blight on the justice system of all nations. A grim reminder of the savagery and greed that lurk in the heart of civilized man. No traveler is safe from you. No noble crest a protection against your wiles. You rob and kidnap and ravish—"

"—and cheat at whist," he interrupted, fearful her impassioned recital of his dastardly crimes would send her into a swoon of ecstasy. "While I cannot suppress a thrill of pride at your detailed and much exaggerated account of my debauchery, at this moment I am only an injured man lying in the rain with a throbbing head and a broken ankle. There is a crofter's hut nearby. Will you help me to it?"

She leaned even closer, eyes wide with hope. "Are you abducting me?"

"No."

Her face fell in disappointment.

"Very well then." He rescued his pistol from the muck and leveled the thick barrel at her chest. "Help me."

She helped him. She slipped the kitten into her pocket, where it set up a steady howling until she fished it out, murmuring something about hairpins. She tucked the creature in her other pocket before bracing her shoulder beneath Sebastian's and half-lifting him to his feet.

Her strength surprised him. She was a head shorter than he, but her slender frame was imbued with a steely grace that enabled her to keep her footing even when he stumbled. When his ankle struck a jagged stump, he would have crumpled in agony were it not for the bracing arms she slipped around his waist. As they forded a shallow stream, he halted abruptly, knowing he could not take another step. They clung to each other like lovers, her arms tight around his waist, his brow pressed to her cheek. Rain washed over them, melding them together.

"I can't go on," he breathed into her hair. His burr thickened as exhaustion and pain stripped away his cultured tones. "Leave me now and get back to your home, lass, before I kill the both of us."

"Nonsense." The sharp practicality in her voice roused him. "You said the hut was right over that hill and over that hill is where we shall go. What sort of Christian would I be to leave you here to die?"

"A bonny smart one."

The slope was a nightmare of slick leaves. More than once, the girl's hand closed over his, guiding it to a gnarled root he could use to claw himself upward. He had almost reached the crest of the hill when his bad ankle gave out and he slid halfway back down. He felt his mask tear away, but did not care. He lay with his cheek pressed to the black silt, welcoming the fog of stupor that reached for him.

The girl caught his sash, rousing him anew. Pain shifted to fury. He lifted his head and roared, "Damn it, girl, leave me be, or as God is my witness, I'll shoot you."

"That might present a problem as I have your pistol."

The fog cleared from Sebastian's eyes as he stared into the gaping muzzle of his own gun. The girl knelt in front of him, looking more like an impish wood nymph than an English lady. Her dress clung to her in tatters and mud streaked every exposed inch of flesh.

She stretched out a grimy arm. "Give me your hand."

His lips twisted in a wry smile. "Are you abducting me, lass?"

"Aye, laddie, that I am," she said, mocking his burr. "Haul yer bloody arse up this hill before I'm forced to shoot ye."

Sebastian's head fell. He did not know it could hurt so much to laugh. Without raising his head, he lifted his arm. Their muddy fingers linked. He gave her hand a brief squeeze before resuming his torturous crawl to the top of the hill.

The crofter's hut nestled at the end of a lonely hollow. A silvery burn gurgled beside it, overflowing its own twisting banks to lap at the rubbled walls. The hut looked as if it had been dropped from a windy sky, and the roof slapped on as an afterthought. The windows were crooked, the door askew. Prudence resisted the urge to tilt her head to see if the hut would straighten. Her heartbeat quickened at the thought of entering a bandit's lair.

A sheet of wind and rain buffeted them as she shoved at the door. It did not budge.

"Kick it," the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick commanded.

She looked at him doubtfully, then gave the door a dainty kick.

"Not like that. Put all your weight into it."

Prudence drew back her leg. Not only did she put all of her weight into it, she put all of his weight into it as well. The door burst open and they crashed inside and to the floor. Prudence's pocket squirmed in protest.

The bandit groaned. "You're killing me. I should have let you fetch the sheriff. He might have shot me and put an end to my misery."

She sniffed. "Don't be ungrateful. Sarcasm doesn't become you." She wiggled out from beneath his weight. "Rescuing robbers is a relatively new pursuit for me."

"They didn't teach it during your London season?"

"I never had a London season."

Kneeling, Prudence peered into the shadowy corners of the hut. A distant flicker of lightning showed her a rusty lantern and tinderbox hanging on a wooden peg. She crawled to it and waited for the next flash to strike a flint and touch a match to the tattered wick. A halo of golden light illuminated the dusty corner. She stood, waving the lantern in a sweeping arc.

The hut was dirty, abandoned long ago to skittering creatures and cobwebs. The only furniture was a rough-hewn table and chair set before a stone hearth. Heaps of ashes and chunks of half-burnt wood littered the grate. A pile of sticks huddled beside the hearth. There was no bed, but a stack of blankets made a rumpled pallet in the far corner. The two windows were covered not with glass, but with heavy black sacking, tattered and worn bare in spots. Prudence shivered. The air felt damp and cool against her wet skin. She hurried back across the hut and shoved the door closed, muffling the rain to a cozy drumbeat on the thatched roof.

The bandit still lay by the door. He had not spoken for several minutes, and she thought he might be unconscious. Her breath quickened as she knelt beside him, bringing the gentle glow of the lantern toward his face.

She gasped as the lantern was snatched out of her hand and thrust in her own face. Recoiling, she shielded her eyes from the blinding glare. From behind that awful light came a voice stripped of all humor by violence and desperation.

"Get back! If you see my face, your life will be worth naught. Neither to me or my men."

Prudence blinked, suddenly afraid. She spoke calmly, with great effort. "If you don't get out of those wet garments, your life will be worth naught. How am I to tend you if I cannot see you?"

There was a long silence. Then he said, his voice still edgy, but thin with pain, "Put the lantern in the corner. The light should suffice."

She obeyed. This time when she approached him, he did not protest. She could see little but the gleam of his eyes and the shadowy outline of his features.

"I'm not sure I can rise again," he said.

While she dragged the blankets nearer, the kitten climbed out of her pocket and jumped to the floor. He teetered around on unsteady paws, exploring the hut. Prudence caught the man under his arms and tugged. He shoved with his good leg until they'd worked him onto the pallet. She propped his ankle on a folded blanket, then knelt beside him again. Even in the dim light, she could sense him studying her face. She hid her discomfort by busying herself with the task of unwrapping his plaid and unhooking the drooping ruffles of his jabot.

"What do they call you?" he asked.

"Prudence."

He gave a short laugh. "Surely not. Faith, Hope, Charity, or even Rash Impetuosity, but not Prudence."

"I'm afraid I lose all rational thought when it comes to cats. I'm normally a very prudent girl." She reached across him to peel his wet linen shirt from his muscular shoulders.

His hand cupped her arm. His grip was disarmingly gentle. "A prudent girl wouldn't be alone in an isolated hut with the Dreadful Scot Bandit Kirkpatrick, would she?"

His knuckles brushed her arm, and her skin tingled at the brief contact. She could not decide if she had been threatened or warned.

With a brisk motion to hide her sudden trembling, she spread a blanket over his lap and held out her hand. "Your kilt, please?" She was thankful she could not see his expression.

To muffle his pained grunts as he unwound the garment, she asked, "Is it romantic being a bandit? Do you rob from the rich and give to the poor like Robin Hood?"

His voice hardened. "Aye, I give to the poor. Myself. I am the poor."

"That's an uncharitable attitude, don't you think?"

"Have you ever been poor?" He held out his arm, the kilt dangling from one finger.

She took the wet garment and shook it out. "Actually, I'm penniless."

"Penniless?" He snorted. "Only the rich say ‘penniless.' I'd be willing to wager you've never gone hungry for it, have you?" Anger thickened his brogue. His r's began to roll like a storm-pitched sea. "There's a powerful difference between being poor in velvet and poor with no food in your belly. Have you ever stolen food from a dog for your dinner? Have you ever been beaten senseless because you hunted all day and couldn't catch more than a stringy squirrel?"

She laid a soothing hand against his bare chest. "Forgive me. I always manage to say the wrong thing." The skin beneath her palm was lightly furred. She had never touched a man's chest before, and its muscular warmth surprised her. "I have no right to judge you."

He grunted a response as if embarrassed by his impassioned outburst. Her hand slid downward to gently probe his abdomen.

He jerked in a breath. His flesh contracted violently.

Prudence snatched her hand back. "I didn't mean to hurt you. I saw the man hit you there. You're going to have a terrible bruise tomorrow."

"I'll worry about that tomorrow," he said brusquely.

He closed his eyes and turned his face away. She watched him for a few minutes, and when he didn't move, she thought he must be sleeping. She pulled a dusty blanket over him and tucked it tenderly around his shoulders.

Prudence was wrong. Sebastian wasn't sleeping. As soon as she slipped away from him, he opened his eyes, following her every move with avid curiosity. She stood before the fireplace, peering around the hut. He wished she would stop squinting. He had an absurd desire to see the color of her eyes.

Equally absurd was the way he'd felt when she'd touched him. Pain had not prompted his stomach to leap at her light caress, but the startling tenderness of her fingertips. He could not remember the last time a woman's touch had elicited such a wrenching response.

She knelt before the hearth and built a small fire with the sticks that had been left there. Her movements were economical, but graceful. He wondered at her age. She seemed nearer to being a woman than a girl. She had demonstrated no maidenly shrinking while helping him undress. Her hands had been soothing and practical. She had done what needed to be done without blushing or stammering. The girl was an enigma, and Sebastian intended to figure her out.

Prudence soon had a cheerful fire crackling on the hearth. She stood and stretched with the lazy grace of a woman who believes she is alone and un watched. Sebastian's breath quickened as she lifted her arms and began struggling with the tiny row of buttons down the front of her bodice. Her garments were soaked. It was only natural that she would want to get out of them. What was not natural was the mischievous stirring of Sebastian's body as she eased the gown over her head. In other circumstances, he might have understood it, but not while lying beaten, broken, and half-dead on a chilly dirt floor.

He saw her shiver in her thin petticoat and chemise. As she bent to pry off her muddy shoes, the wet fabric clung to her body in all the wrong places. The firelight shining behind her illuminated the supple curves of her long legs and the soft swell of her breasts. Sebastian groaned.

She whirled to look at him, her hands flying up to cover her breasts. He slammed his eyes shut and thrashed a bit as if in pain. He was in pain, but not as she thought.

As soon as he judged it safe, he snuck one eye open. The girl was sitting on the edge of the hearth, combing the tangles from her hair with her fingers. Her hair was a deep velvety brown and hung almost to her waist.

Warmth from the fire billowed toward Sebastian's pallet. His eyelids grew heavy. He nestled deeper into the blankets, caught in the hypnotic allure of Prudence's fingers stroking through the rich cascade of her hair. He wished it were his own fingers.

As if by magic, he felt the feathery warmth of hair beneath his fingertips. Prudence's kitten butted its head against his palm, demanding attention. Sebastian stroked beneath its furry chin with one thumb, feeling the deep vibration of a purr that would have been more deserving of a lion. The kitten curled contentedly into the crook of his elbow.

"Sebastian," he whispered. "A silly name."

Like Prudence.

He was already drifting into sleep when he remembered the girl still had his pistol.

Prudence waited for as long as she could bear. Her petticoat and chemise were warm and dry, her hair only damp. She had chewed off three of her fingernails. As she hooked the lantern on her finger and crept toward the pallet, she remembered her aunt's chiding refrain. Curiosity is most unbecoming in a lady . Prudence's papa had not called it curiosity, though. He had called it a sharp mind for deduction. What Papa had failed to tell her was that a deductive mind was not an asset suitors desired. Prudence seriously doubted if a desperate criminal would be any more appreciative of it.

She knelt beside the pallet, her petticoat cushioning her knees as she held the lantern aloft.

The highwayman had shrugged aside most of the covers. Only a single blanket rode dangerously low on his hips. One serious sigh might dislodge it. Downy hair the color of honey covered his chest. Prudence's wide-eyed gaze traced it to where it tapered to a thin line, then disappeared beneath the blanket. Moving the lantern, she shifted her gaze back up his body. He was of average height, but the wide breadth of his shoulders made him look bigger than he was.

A smile touched her lips when she saw the ball of gray fluff tucked into his elbow. The sleepy kitten lifted his head and gave her a disgruntled look. Prudence touched her finger to her lips in a plea for silence. With a faint squeak, the kitten stretched and rested his chin on his paws.

Prudence's mouth went as dry as cotton as the lantern flame shed a halo of light over the highwayman's face. His tawny hair was badly in need of a trim. She reached to brush it back from his brow before she realized what she was doing. Snatching her hand back, she inadvertently touched the hot tin of the lantern. She stifled a gasp of pain, telling herself one burn was better than another.

Lifting the lantern higher, she hungrily studied his features. The sun had burnished his skin to a warm, sandy color that nearly matched his hair. His low-set brows were a shade darker. A thick fringe of charcoal lashes rested on his cheeks. Aunt Tricia would do murder for such lashes, Prudence thought. Not even copious amounts of lamp black could duplicate them. His nose was slightly crooked, as if it had been broken once, but its menace was softened by the faintest smattering of freckles across its bridge. A pale crescent of a scar marred the underside of his chin. Shallow lines bracketed his mouth and creased his forehead. Prudence suspected they had been cut not by time, but by wind and weather. She judged his age to be near thirty.

The lamplight played over his mouth like a lover, and Prudence felt her chest tighten. It was a wonderful mouth, firm and well formed, the bottom lip fuller than the top. Even in sleep, the slant of his jaw tightened it to a sulky pout that would have challenged any woman. Prudence wanted to touch it, to make it curve in laughter or soften in tenderness.

She leaned forward as if hypnotized.

"Amethyst."

The word came from nowhere. Her gaze leaped guiltily from the bandit's lips to his wide-open eyes.