Chapter 10

CHAPTER 10

M yles kept his distance from Lora for several days, forgoing a picnic, and avoiding her when the ladies strolled about the gardens or passed the time in the estate's massive library. He rose before everyone else to break his fast. He hunted fowl until mid-morning, then handled business into the late afternoon, often meeting one of his men in the woods to receive updates on their activities. Ornate dinners and the occasional musicale arranged by Lora's aunt, Miss Percival, continued to delight guests, and billiards entertained gentlemen over drinks. Even then, however, he could not escape the young woman he'd come to admire and adore. Lora occupied his thoughts, refusing to let go.

Everywhere he went, Lora was there. He saw her face on the surface of the lake. He heard her singing at the pianoforte as the breeze drifted through the trees. She was in his blood, the very breath filling his lungs.

Restless and determined to clear the cobwebbing thoughts clouding his mind, he ordered a horse to be saddled and set out over the green. With everything going on at Darby, and his men being no closer to finding Stuart's killer, desiring Lora seemed wrong. He had a mystery to solve. And rather than school Lora on how to hold a bow, he should be searching for the expert archer—the highwaywoman—who'd shot Grimes. His original goal left no time for dancing or temptation, it required focus. He'd come to Winterbourne to interview the guests, to piece together the puzzle that would paint a broader picture of why the highwaywoman haunted Kingston and Stuart was murdered.

The two were connected. But how?

He revisited the day of the archery tournament in his mind, recalling that he'd only accepted Hawkesbury's challenge to warn off the lieutenant. Her cousin's penchant for gambling and desperation to win was cause for concern. Because of it, he'd been determined to keep Hawkesbury from earning Lora's kiss.

The thought of tasting her soft, dewy lips put him in need of a cold pond.

Who was he trying to fool? A dousing wouldn't cure what ailed him. His instincts about her the night of the Templetons' ball had been precise. Being around Lora and getting to know her only made him desire her more. Her brave spirit, unconquerable heart, and gamble-worthy lips tempted him more than any woman ever had.

If only he could tell her that.

Highly improper.

Wallowing in torment, he took the London Road and headed back to Kingston. His concentration had waned and he needed to recharge. It was Stuart he should be thinking of, plotting and planning to apprehend the ones responsible for his butler's death, not wooing the sensibilities of a good, upstanding woman.

Riding hard, he dismissed the heartache such a decision triggered, shelving away the losses that catalogued his life. The rakish frivolity in which he'd indulged himself in London prior to his father's death; the duties that he'd immediately thrown himself into and sworn to uphold. Heraldry, honor, and heart. More was the pity. It all paled compared to the spectacled beauty who'd somehow bewitched him, body and soul.

Someone ran out of the trees and dashed across the road in front of him.

To avoid trampling the poor soul, he quickly reined in his mount. The beast reared, and he lost his grip. Grappling for the reins, he fell back and hit the hard earth with a thud. Blinking away the sting to his pride, he slowly rose to his feet, confused.

The moon was full, the woods a mixture of path and shadow. Just as he'd got his wits about him, another figure cloaked in red darted across the road, giving chase to the first.

Gravel crackled beneath his feet as he abandoned his horse and impulsively ran after the two figures, the sound of his approach a stark warning to whoever lurked in the woods. He knew he might be walking into a trap, hemmed in by trees and underbrush with nowhere to run. And yet the desire to discover the identity of the highwaywoman and put an end to his own suffering and that of the inhabitants of Kingston drove him on.

An arrow whooshed through the trees, the whir of a distant warning.

A twig snapped. The resounding strum of the shaft missing its mark and impaling wood followed before the red-clad apparition finally took form. The figure, like that of an avenging huntsman in search of the damned, parted from the trunk of an old oak.

The highwaywoman!

His eyes hadn't deceived him.

The night Stuart died replayed in his head, compelling him to recall seeing her for the first time. Powers of reasoning led him to believe she had not been involved in his butler's death. But she had been there, whether taking part in Stuart's murder or pursuing the killer.

Did she know the killer's identity? Was that who she was after now? If he caught up to her, would she divulge that information willingly?

Burying Stuart had been hard, almost as hard as saying goodbye to his father. The man had been a confidant and friend, family—and Myles had few blood ties left to spare.

Fury seized his good sense, propelling him forward. Tracking was a dangerous sport, especially if you didn't know what or who you were hunting. Nevertheless, he continued to stalk his prey, a rash decision, surely. He was unarmed, but he kept to the trees, aware that her swift and steady aim might instantly seal his doom.

Folklore taught that a wild hunt forebode catastrophe, abduction by fairies or death to the one witnessing it. And like the king of the underworld in Arthurian legend, he meant to make sure that devils—including a certain highwaywoman—did not destroy human souls.

Even if it meant preventing her from capturing and killing the man responsible for Stuart's death?

Justice must prevail. The court passed judgment on a man, no matter the cost to pride or prejudice.

There! A darting to the left.

Her cloak fanned out in dramatic fashion. He moved to outflank his quarry as the figure stretched a bowstring and let another arrow fly. She stilled, her gloved hand hovering over her quiver as she peered through the trees.

Hoping she was distracted by the man's distant cry, he crept behind her, then stopped dead in his tracks when she said, "Stay where you are." In a split second, he was staring at a nocked bow. "Do not come any closer."

The highwaywoman's voice was husky, strained, as if she altered it to keep from being recognized. "You wouldn't shoot an unarmed man, would you?"

"That depends on the man."

Curious about her identity and who would be revealed beneath the hood, he took a step closer. "I mean you no harm."

"I'm warning you," she said, her voice deepening to a threatening croak. "You shouldn't have followed me. This is none of your concern."

"Everything happening in Kingston concerns me."

"Stay where you are, Your Grace."

The opening Myles waited for had arrived. She knew him, or rather, who he was. Being a duke made that part easy. Raising his hands in mock surrender, he continued to advance slowly, struck by a nagging suspicion that he knew her too. Something about her drew him in, and he sensed that she would not harm him.

She'd allowed Grimes to live, and no one liked a solicitor.

Tightening her bowstring, she eased the arrow back along her cheek. "This arrow isn't meant for you."

"Then don't shoot it," he said matter-of-factly, taking another step.

He didn't get far. Faster than he could blink, the arrow strummed between his feet.

She withdrew another and nocked it, but before she could let loose, he snatched her arm. "Caught you."

Her instincts were sharp. She spun out of reach, outfoxing him. Undeterred, he caught her again. This time, he seized the edge of her cloak, which she quickly shrugged off, moving this way and that through the trees, to evade him. But he was larger, his stride wider and faster. Recapturing the she-devil, he twirled the vixen around in his arms until they came face-to-face.

The shocking collision forced them both to the ground.

"Get off me, you oaf!" she demanded, kicking and squirming and trying to dislodge him. "Let. Me. Go!"

"Hold still," he ordered, trying to process the now familiar voice—

"I can't . . . breathe."

"Lady Lora?" Impossible! "Is that you?"

"You big oaf!" She pummeled his arm. "I . . . cannot . . . breathe."

He raised up on his elbows, one eye trained on the direction her arrows loosed, to make sure the wounded man wasn't circling back around to ambush them. "What are you doing here? This is no place for a lady. And why were you wearing a red cloak?"

The questions mounted, but nothing numbed the truth.

Lady Lora is the highwaywoman!

But how could that be? She was a simple wallflower, a modest woman who needed glasses to . . . see.

Stunned by this unbelievable revelation, he glared down at her in annoyance. Farcical! The glasses were gone, and she didn't need archery lessons. With deadly precision, she shot her arrows exactly where she wanted them to go.

Anger and frustration radiated off her in waves. Her nostrils flared. "Let. Me. Go," she repeated.

Wild, reckless, irresistible woman. Devil take him, but he couldn't help but admire her derring-do. And when she writhed in his arms, a fiery heat ignited in his loins, making him ache to know her intimately, to feel their bodies glide together in the throes of passion, limbs intertwined. This Lora—this lady—was an aphrodisiac, and he was her pitiful fool. She wasn't a wallflower. She wasn't a female prone to foibles and flaws. She was a tantalizing temptation, a paradox, her complexity sending a shot of desire straight to his loins. The very idea of her intrigued him, making him yearn to sample her charms.

Who would know out in these woods?

He would.

How cleverly she had played him false.

"You are ruining everything!" she shrieked.

Me? "You have done that yourself." Shaking his head in disbelief, he got up, hauling the struggling vixen to his side. "What are you up to? And who are you chasing in the woods?"

"I can explain," she rushed to say.

"I'm listening."

"I know you saw me at your estate. I wanted to tell you then that I didn't kill your man, that I didn't arrive until after someone attacked your butler. But if you want to find the real murderer, the man responsible is getting away."

"Who?"

She stomped her foot with outrage. "The man in the orange neckerchief."

He blinked. "The man—"

"The man who killed my brother!" Her admission pierced his soul. She was chasing the man who murdered the young earl? What kind of foolish fortitude did she possess? "You let him get away!"

Her accusation hit home. Staggering back, he realized he hadn't been there when his father died. He hadn't been in residence when Stuart was murdered. Each time, he hadn't been able to stop Fate, no matter how long he'd fought in the House of Lords to forge his destiny. And by intercepting Lora, he'd hindered the hunt, permitting the true slayer to escape.

Their gazes locked, hers vengeful, his self-loathing and suspicious. In the seconds they stood face-to-face, he recognized her, the real Lady Lora Putney, for the first time. She embodied vengeance, a Fury born from blood and death, the one who could not be escaped. Her previous timidity had hidden mad rage and frenzy, and like Nemesis, she sought retribution for the evil deeds of men, serving portion for due portion to what each man deserved.

How did she do it? What source offered the kind of courage required to do what she'd done? And how long did she expect to keep up pretenses without succumbing to the same sins as the outlaws she hunted?

"You are after your brother's killer?" he asked, dumbfounded.

"Killers," she said coldly, the ice in her tone chilling him to the bone. "One provided the death blow, the other the order. And now, the man I saw kill my brother with my own eyes is gone because you allowed him to get away!"

She moved to leave, but he stopped her. "You are going to get yourself killed."

"It doesn't matter. I died one year ago. Now, let me go," she pleaded. "He's getting away."

Her daring brown eyes reflected moonlight, the glittering orbs reeling him in like the siren who lured Odysseus. He'd misjudged her. She was not plain and unaccomplished. She was anything but.

"I will explain, but not now." A healthy blush colored her cheeks. "You have my word. Only, let me go."

She expected him to believe her? "You have done nothing but lie to me from the moment we met."

"I can say the same about you, Your Grace."

She was right. She'd used him, he suspected, to get back at her cousin, and he'd used her to gain access to her father. Checkmate.

"We have much to discuss."

"We do." She bit her lower lip, a devious and delicious temptation, reminding him of the kiss he'd won and had yet to collect. He was at a crossroads. While he yearned to crush her in his arms and kiss away her crazed ambitions, he also needed to stop her fool's errand. They couldn't accomplish anything in the dark. Didn't she know that? "Another time, however."

What if she dashes off and gets herself killed?

He retrieved her cloak and handed it to her, watching closely as she fastened the clasp at the hollow below her chin. "I cannot let you chase after a murderer alone. Surely, you cannot expect that of me? I am a gentleman and, therefore, must offer my protection. Allow me to accompany you."

"That is . . . a fine suggestion, but you will only—"

"Slow you down." He comprehended her meaning and her limited belief in his abilities cut him to the quick. But, he conceded, the man she'd wounded had a head start, and the odds were against either of them catching him now. There was no reason to hamstring her with his presence. He'd seen her in action and knew exactly what she could do. "Meet me privately, then."

She hesitantly agreed. "There is a bothy near the old farmhouse located behind the folly on my estate."

"I will find it."

She raised her hood. "Meet me there in two hours."

Their gazes locked and then she slipped away, disappearing into the woods like a wraith melting into shadow.

Myles stood still for several moments, listening to the night and trying to process what he'd just learned.

An owl hooted a warning, and something scurried off in the trees, making him wonder if the legends of hell-hounds were true. Reality was strange. Never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined that Lady Lora was the avenging highwaywoman.

Who then was targeting Kingston? And what was this hold Lora had on him whenever she was near?

Maddened by these unanswered questions, he strode out of the woods and located his horse without too much difficulty. It had been trained to stay close and not wander far. Unfortunately, he couldn't say the same thing about his thoughts. He'd always believed that a man could do anything with the right information. And what better way to assess the quicksand before him than to ride back to Winterbourne and locate that farmhouse.

Lady Lora is no wallflower. But her quest for vengeance might do more than wilt her resolve.

What was a man supposed to do with that information?

Questioning his own motives, he took the trail back to Winterbourne, locating the farmhouse easily enough after having studied a map of the estate before arriving to question Putney. Hidden by the folly and an alcove of trees, the small bothy paled in comparison to the main house and the immense size of the estate. Tying his horse's reins to a branch, he carefully opened the door and went inside and waited.

Surprisingly, Lora was true to her word. When she joined him an hour later, she looked defeated. "He got away."

The agony in her voice as she lowered her bow and quiver to the fireside table, and removed her cloak, made him squirm. She wore men's breeches and a corset over a loose linen shirt, her shapely form one he'd never forget. He struggled to think and fought for the right words. "How long have you been chasing the man in the orange neckerchief?"

"Almost a year."

Since the young earl's death. "What happened to your brother?"

She sat down and glanced out the lodge window, smiling sadly. "We were racing on the downs. I allowed Nicholas to win, of course, which put him ahead of me by one horse length. Tempted as I was to race ahead, maybe I could have prevented his death."

In that case, he might never have met her. "Your brother's death isn't the work of a random thief. I suspect that no matter how far ahead of him you were, he was the intended target."

Locked in her memories, she must not have heard him.

"It all happened so fast," she said. "I saw Nicholas fall. He hit the ground and there was nothing I could do to stop it. Nothing whatsoever. By the time I reached him, he was gone."

He understood her agony better than she knew. Stuart's death stare flashed before his own eyes.

"My world ended that day. I didn't know what to do, where to go. How to tell my father. Until I saw him ."

"The man with the orange neckerchief?"

She clenched her jaw, nodding. "He . . . taunted me. Threatened to kill me, too. That moment still haunts my dreams." She rose unsteadily to her feet. He rushed to her side when it appeared she might collapse from sheer exhaustion. She shooed him away. "I swore then that I would get my revenge. But there's more. Someone sent him here."

"How do you know this?"

"His partner was attacking Miss Parr and Miss Finch on the London Road several nights ago. When I discovered them, the poor dears were frightened half to death. And after . . . after what I suspect the man in the orange neckerchief did to your butler, I—" She started to shake. He stepped forward, and she walked into his arms. "This can't go on. I cannot keep—"

"You do not have to do this alone. I am here," he assured her, tightening his embrace. "Dark forces are at work, but we will outwit them together."

"What do you mean?"

He rubbed his chin against her braided hair, inhaling her scent—leather and horse and a hint of violets. "Who stands to gain from your father and brother's deaths?"

"My uncle is next in line." She tilted her head back to stare up at him. "If you are suggesting that he would purposefully harm my most beloved brother, you could not be more wrong." Shaking her head as if reluctantly working through the possibility that her uncle had deceived them, she broke away. "No," she said.

He felt her rejection of his suggestion keenly.

"I do not believe it. I will not. Moreover, my uncle is not well. Dr. Wells told me he's developed an odd cough, and, at times, seems to be in a stupor, though he's never taken sick a day in his life. It is relieving to know that Dr. Wells sent a servant to procure an elixir for what ails my uncle." She stopped pacing, as if processing what she'd just told him. "My cousin, Samuel, however, is my uncle's heir. If anything happened to my uncle—" She strode to the window, peering out. "As much as I loathe my cousin, his taunts and persistent gambling, the truth is I cannot lay the blame at his feet. He has been with his regiment."

"Has he?" If the papers in Grimes's possession were any indication, Hawkesbury had been investigating his own son. The reports from Jonathan ‘Jew' King, Howard and Gibbs, and King's Hamlet's could explain why. London moneylenders were notorious for refusing to forgive debts. "Evil has a way of seeping under the securest doors."

She whirled to face him. "What do you mean?"

"Samuel could have hired men to do his bidding."

"With what? He's gambled any blunt he's had away. No." Her wretched expression lanced him. "My father and uncle would have to die before Samuel receives another farthing."

"The plan, surely," he suggested. From her shocked expression, Lora had not considered such a betrayal. He pressed on. "Think on it. Your father suffered an unlikely hunting accident. How?"

"The girth strap on his saddle failed."

"I see. Someone murdered your brother."

"I just told you that." Her eyes narrowed. "By a man in an orange neckerchief."

"Who stands in the way of your cousin inheriting Winterbourne?"

"Papa and my uncle."

"And your cousin just returned from the Continent and your uncle has conveniently become ill." As he aired the facts—he suspected, confirming her fears—the tension in the old lodge thickened. "Doesn't that seem suspicious to you?"

Anger lit her eyes. "Samuel is many things, but he is not a killer. He prefers to prolong his cruelty."

"Reckless gambling can make good men do horrible things."

She stiffened. "He has been acting strangely lately, as if he is afraid of his own shadow."

"Moneylenders employ men who often take matters into their own hands. Is it possible your cousin intends to liquidate the estate to pay off his debts? If that is the case, maybe they sought to speed up his inheritance by killing your brother and poisoning your uncle."

She gasped and he drew her into his embrace. "Do you think someone poisoned my uncle?"

"The signs are there—the cough, the stupor, and instability. I almost saw him collapse the night of the ball."

She tilted her head back to look up at him, blinking back bafflement.

"Perhaps we should bring this to your father's attention. He has been kept in the dark for far too long, don't you agree?"

"I've been trying to protect him."

"You cannot shield him from the truth or keep dashing off into danger, Lora. The longer you deny your cousin what he considers to be his birthright and the longer he owes dangerous people money, the more crazed and unpredictable he will become."

"I cannot involve my father. He's lost so much." She abandoned his arms and moved to the table. There, she picked up the red cloak and held it up to her nose, inhaling its scent. "This is all I have left of Nicholas. All I know how to do. Without revenge, I am nothing but a wallflower waiting to be asked to dance."

"You are not shy and silent, Lora. You are bold and beautiful and brave."

"That is not the impression you left me with three years ago at the Templetons' ball. You danced with everyone else in the room but me."

Bollocks! She remembered.

"What would you say if I told you that I didn't ask you to dance because I found you attractive? Don't turn away, I am being honest. Doting mamas and eager young ladies surrounded me on all sides. It was a Herculean effort just to speak to my fellows. I had no intention of forming an attachment. Love would have impeded my scholarly pursuits." He reached out to caress her cheek, wiping away an errant tear. "Lady Vengeance, you have carried this burden alone for too long. Forget the past—my mistakes, the horrors you've faced. I am here. Now. Standing before you as a man besotted, offering my help and pleading for you to take care with my heart." Lowering his forehead to hers, he whispered, "Dance with me?"

The silence became deafening as he waited for her to acknowledge that he'd unlocked his soul and heart.

"You are daft. There isn't any music."

"Then we shall make our own." He raised her chin gently, his spirits soaring, coaxing her to meet his gaze. "From the moment you beguiled me at the Templetons' ball—patience and propriety your only weapons—I have wanted only you." To kiss the pulsing beat at the base of your throat and feel your heartbeat thud against mine. But he couldn't tell her that now. Nothing could make up for the years he'd allowed to pass unchecked, or the heartbreak she'd endured alone. "Despite everything—outside threats— the courage you have shown to right wrongs, and the losses we have both experienced, you still make me want to be better, stronger, cleverer. If I could, I would strut about like a peacock to win your heart."

"That would be a sight, wouldn't it?"

"It would be the start of many things." He ran his finger along her jaw.

"What kinds of things?"

He peered at her intently. "This." He kissed her forehead. "This." He kissed the tip of her nose. "And this." The moment their lips met, the ground fell away. "Now," he said, hardly recognizing his voice. "Imagine that, but all over."

Her eyes widened. "All o—"

"Everywhere."

"Show me," she said, her breath as light as a sigh.

"Now?" he asked, slipping his hands over her arms. "What about your plan to catch the man in the orange neckerchief?"

"I have not been able to catch him for a year and I am tired of chasing ghosts. I am weary of this heartache and long for the good in this world. I need assurance that my life is not doomed. Show me there is more than death and deceit, tears and torment. I fear if I do not experience love now, I never shall."

" ‘Fortune and love favor the brave.' " He pulled her to him, whispering in her ear. "And you have been fearless for far too long."

"Show me," she whispered, her breath fanning his face.

Driven mad by need and desire, he could hardly resist her invitation. If he lost her, he would never find her equal again. She deserved to be loved, to know that the rest of her days would be filled with joy and happiness. "Are you sure this is what you want? Once you cross this threshold, there will be no turning back. You will be mine, and I yours."

She relaxed into his embrace. "Haven't we always been?"

He chuckled. "I guess you are right." Indeed, instinct diverted him to years of caprice, which he regretted wholeheartedly. The young woman she was then, however, was not the wild, untamed creature in his possession now.

No man walked away from such a woman.

"A look across a ballroom floor. Secret yearnings and public partings." She pressed her lips to his, giving him his prize. The heady sensation increased his desire. "I never set out to be a wallflower. Yet, after I saw you, no one else could compare. Even when life thwarted plans for another season, I knew we were destined for each other. My aunt, good soul, has always been a wallflower. She instructed me to seize happiness when it comes, no matter the cost, the sacrifice."

"You have sacrificed more than anyone I know."

"Whatever happens, Your Grace." She brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. "Do not let me become her."

"Perhaps to start," he suggested, "you should call me Myles."

"Myles." Her voice was a soft entreaty that touched his soul. "Promise me. I want love, marriage, children."

"I promise." He crushed her to him, filled with a burning desire and an aching need to soften her hurt and make her his. As he roused her passions, his determination to be everything she needed grew stronger. Dipping into divine ecstasy and buffeted by savage hunger, hope sang in his veins. "Lora. Let me love you."

But would love be enough to help them put the past behind them?