Chapter 1

The Scottish Highlands 1814

I need a man," Pamela Darby proclaimed with the same matter-of-fact conviction she would have used to announce "I need a scrap of lace to mend my hem" or "I need a fresh turnip for tonight's stew."

From the coach seat opposite her, her half-sister Sophie glanced up from studying her worn copy of La Belle Assemblée . The periodical was two seasons out of date, but that didn't stop Sophie from sighing over its colorful fashion plates or poring over its recommendations for the rouge most likely to grace a young lady's cheek with a flattering hue.

"What I need—what we need," Pamela amended, "is not just any man, but some strapping Scots lad with more brawn than brains." She deepened her voice, faking a burr that would have done Bonnie Prince Charlie proud. "A lad easily led by two canny lasses with more wits than he."

"And I'm guessing those lasses would be us?" Sophie ventured, cocking a knowing eyebrow. She winced and wiggled on the battered cushions as the coach shuddered and began to grind its way down another rocky trail that insulted their intelligence by calling itself a road. "Just how do you propose we find this handsome dullard? Should we ask the coachman to stop at the next village and post a broadsheet?"

Trusting that her sister would play along with her silly scheme, if only to pass the long hours on the road, Pamela bit her bottom lip. "Hmmm…that's not a bad idea. I hadn't considered a broadsheet. How about one that reads, ‘WANTED: Thick-Witted, Thick-Necked Scotsman to Masquerade as Duke's Long Lost Heir.' Perhaps we could nail one up in the market square of each village we pass through."

"Just like that one we saw in the last village, warning us that there's a dangerous highwayman with a price on his head terrorizing these very roads—robbing travelers and ravishing innocent women?"

Sophie's mocking words brought Pamela's flight of fancy crashing down on the jagged rocks of reality. She remembered that broadsheet only too well. A crude sketch had accompanied it, depicting a masked man with a rugged jaw, a pistol in his hand and a ruthless light in his eyes. She had been drawn to it against her will, her fingertips lightly tracing the incongruous dimple set deep in his right cheek. She could not help wondering what would drive a man to defy both the law and God's commandments by stealing what he wanted instead of paying for it. When Sophie had approached, Pamela had quickly turned away from the broadsheet, afraid her sister might find an echo of her own growing desperation in the highwayman's steely gaze.

The memory of that gaze sent a faint shudder down her spine. She was painfully aware that two women traveling alone through these wild and rugged climes could easily become the target of more than just mild suspicion and disapproving glances. But they hadn't the means to employ maidservants to give them an air of respectability or outriders to protect the carriage they'd hired after disembarking from the public coach in Edinburgh. They would simply have to depend upon the elderly coachman and his ancient musket to defend both their lives and their virtue.

She forced an airy smile. "From what I've heard about these Highland savages, they're more inclined to ravish their sheep than their women." She ran a hand over her reticule, deriving her own comfort from what she'd tucked away in the little silk purse.

Twirling one of her curls around her forefinger, Sophie sighed. "I still can't believe we've come all this way for naught. You heard that old crone in Strathspey. According to her, the duke's heir died nearly thirty years ago, when he was still a babe. Neither he nor his mother survived their first Highland winter."

"I can certainly understand why," Pamela muttered, tucking her hands deeper into her fur muff. She had been even more dismayed than Sophie to discover that the trail they'd been faithfully following for the past month had gone cold. Colder even than this godforsaken country where the wind whipped right through you—even when the sun was shining. Colder than the icy drops of rain that began to pelt you the second you decided it was safe to put away your parasol. Colder than the dampness that sank deep into your bones, making you feel as if you'd never truly be warm again.

"Why don't we just forget all about the reward and go home?" Sophie suggested.

"A sound plan indeed…if we still had a home."

As a mist of sadness dimmed the sparkle in Sophie's light blue eyes, Pamela immediately regretted her sharp tone. Until six months ago, the Crown Theatre off of Drury Lane had been the only real home either one of them had ever known. They'd both been born backstage and pronounced ‘very fine productions indeed' by their actress mother. But now the theater was gone, reduced to rubble and ash by the same tragic fire that had killed their mother and would have killed them as well had they not been sleeping in their nearby lodgings at the time. Pamela's throat tightened around a bitter and familiar ache. Her only comfort lay in knowing that their mother had never wanted to outlive her legendary beauty—or its devastating effect on her admirers.

A beauty that survived in the pale shimmer of her half-sister's curls. Curls trimmed in a fashionable bob that perfectly framed Sophie's heart-shaped face with its Cupid's bow of a mouth and enchantingly retroussé nose. It was whispered among the opera dancers that Sophie's father had been a wealthy French comte who had found their mother both charmant and ravissant . That he had lost his heart, only to return to France and lose his head before he could offer for their mother's hand.

Pamela was convinced her own father must have been sturdy English stock. How else to explain both hair and eyes that were a perfectly ordinary shade of brown? Her features were even in her oval face but hardly memorable, and the pleasing hint of plumpness in her cheeks would have looked equally at home on a Yorkshire dairymaid. She'd curves enough to tempt a man's eye, but nothing that would inspire him to prove his devotion by casting himself off of London Bridge into the icy-cold waters of the Thames, as one of their mother's more passionate lovers was rumored to have done.

Pamela regretted her careless words even more when Sophie lifted her pointed little chin, setting her jaw to hide its faint quiver. "The duke's reward isn't our last hope, you know. It is well within my power to provide for the both of us. The viscount's offer still stands."

Pamela scowled. "This isn't some overwrought gothic melodrama. I've no intention of selling my sister's virtue to the highest bidder just to keep a roof over my own head."

Sophie lifted one slender shoulder in a shrug artfully designed to confirm her Gallic heritage. "You needn't be so provincial. Maman chose a life free from the conventions of society. Why shouldn't I?"

"Mama always had the stage. She sold herself for love, not money."

"Is it so impossible for a woman to have both?" Sophie asked wistfully.

"Oh, you might have them for a season in the viscount's arms. Until he tires of your charms, grows infatuated with some young opera dancer and decides to pass you on to one of his friends." Pamela reached across the gap between them and tenderly tucked a wayward curl behind Sophie's ear. "I'm not trying to be cruel, darling, but it's a very short path from mistress to whore. I've seen girls even younger and more beautiful than you plying their wares down on Fleet Street. I won't have you dying of the French pox before your nineteenth birthday."

"But the viscount swears that he adores me! That ever since he saw me in the chorus of Pygmalion when I was fifteen, he can think of nothing and no one else."

"Including his wife," Pamela said dryly.

Sophie's face fell at that stark reminder.

Pamela squeezed her gloved hand. "Don't give the blackguard another thought. If we can't collect the duke's reward, we'll simply give the stage another go."

Sophie's delicate nostrils flared in a glum snort. "Then we're destined to starve in the gutter."

While her sister ducked behind the periodical to mope, Pamela settled back among the cracked leather squabs with a sigh, all out of both cheer and convincing arguments. Unfortunately, their mother had been as impractical as she was beautiful. Upon discovering from the solicitor that she had left them nearly penniless, Pamela and Sophie had sought to make their fortunes in the only way they knew how—on the stage. But their one attempt to tread the boards had begun in triumph and ended in disaster.

Sophie's ethereal beauty had captivated the audience, generating gasps when she first floated onto the stage. But that spell had been broken the minute she opened her mouth and began to recite her lines in a delivery so wooden that one critic had suggested the manager should have nailed her into her coffin to prevent her from taking the stage. All their dreams of fame and fortune had died in a hail of rotting vegetables and shouted insults. They'd been forced to pack up their belongings that very night and flee the theater one step ahead of a howling mob.

They'd been running ever since. If they didn't find some way to plump up their purses before returning to London, their next stop wouldn't be the theater, but the workhouse.

Pamela gazed out the carriage window at the gathering gloom of twilight. There was much more at stake than even Sophie realized. But she couldn't bear to burden her sister with the ugly truth. Clouds drifted over the distant crests of the mountains like the ghosts of all her fears. Weary of facing them alone, she allowed the rocking of the coach and the growing weight of her eyelids to lull her into a restless doze.

Pamela awoke to the same sounds she'd heard in countless productions through the years—the crack of a pistol, followed by the bold cry of " Stand and deliver! "

"Did you 'member to light the flash pots, Soph?" she murmured without opening her eyes. "And don't f'get to bring down the curtain after the villain is vanquished."

She was sinking deeper into both the squabs and her dreams when a sharp claw bit into her shoulder and gave her a harsh shake. "Pamela! Pamela, wake up! We've been set upon by bandits!"

Pamela's eyes flew open to meet her sister's frantic gaze.

The carriage was no longer rocking, but had lurched to a shuddering halt. One of the horses let out a nervous whicker, which then subsided into ominous silence. Full dark had fallen while Pamela napped, and the window was veiled by a velvety-black curtain of night.

She sucked in a breath laced with raw panic. What if the coachman could no longer be relied upon to defend their virtue or their lives? What if he was lying in a limp heap in the middle of the road, a ragged hole blasted through his scrawny chest?

Swallowing her terror, she touched a finger to her lips, then clutched at Sophie's gloved hands. They huddled together, holding their collective breath to listen.

The silence seemed to swell and thicken. It was finally broken by the measured tread of footsteps moving around the side of the carriage. Perhaps it was simply the coachman coming to tell them that all was well, Pamela prayed. That the pistol report and the chilling cry had been nothing more than a prank played by village lads with more spirit than good sense.

But the muffled footfalls made a mockery of that cheerful thought. It took both grace and practice to be able to navigate such a road without disturbing a single rock. And anyone who had mastered that skill could just as easily slit a man's throat for his purse or creep into a woman's bedchamber in the dark of night to put his hand over her mouth and have his wicked way with her.

Since it seemed there was to be no escaping the inexorable approach of those footsteps, Pamela gave Sophie's hand one last reassuring squeeze, then slipped her hand out of her sister's grip and into her reticule. As her fingers curled around the solid weight of the object within, they ceased their trembling.

The footsteps also ceased, leaving in their wake a silence that was even more chilling.

Pamela drew Sophie behind her with her free arm, waiting for the carriage door to fly open, waiting for a ruthless arm to reach in and yank her out by her hair.

The carriage door slowly creaked open on its hinges. There was no sign of their attacker. There was nothing but a yawning maw of darkness that threatened to swallow them whole.

A voice came out of that darkness, laced with gravel and menace. "I know you're in there. I can hear you breathin'. Step out of the carriage with your hands raised or I'll blast you straight to hell."

Pamela could feel Sophie pressed to her back, trembling like a baby bird in the talons of some fearsome predator. It was the scent of her sister's fear that tightened her jaw and stiffened her spine. This faceless bully might be able to rob her of her life and her virtue, but there was one thing she'd always been able to lose without anyone else's help—her temper.

Ignoring the frantic clutch of Sophie's hands on the back of her skirt, she lurched forward and went spilling out of the carriage.

She tripped over the hem of her pelisse but quickly righted herself, straightening her crooked bonnet with a furious jerk. "For the love of God, sir, who writes your dialogue? I've never heard such atrocious tripe. ‘Stand and deliver'? ‘Step out of the carriage with your hands raised or I'll blast you straight to hell'? Why, you wouldn't last through one performance on Drury Lane! They'd bring the curtain down on your thick head before the end of Act One. Has it never occurred to you that you might make a more convincing villain if you didn't spout such horrendous drivel?"

As the angry ringing in Pamela's ears subsided, she realized she was standing nearly toe to toe with a faceless shadow. A faceless shadow that towered over her by more than a foot. The imposing expanse of his shoulders blocked out the light of the rising moon.

His silence was a weapon all its own, so effective that she nearly jumped out of her skin when he finally said, "What would you prefer, lass? Should I blast you to hell first and spout the drivel later? I fear it would be even less convincin' without an audience to appreciate it."

His mocking burr was as rough as burlap, yet soft as velvet. It was like having both the rose and the thorn dragged across her quivering flesh at the same time.

Pamela inched sideways, thinking to lure his attention away from Sophie and the carriage door. But she had cause to regret the motion when he shifted his own weight, inviting the moonlight to spill over the long, polished barrel of the pistol cradled in his hand. The weapon rested there as if he'd been born to wield it.

Too late, she remembered the poor coachman. She glanced toward the front of the carriage to find him sprawled in the road just as she had feared. A sharp cry of dismay escaped her. She lifted the hem of her skirts and took an involuntary step toward him.

The highwayman blocked her way, his silent grace more menacing than another man's shout. "He's not dead. He'll come 'round after a while with nothin' more than an achin' head and a story to tell his mates down at the tavern while they buy him a few pints."

As if to prove his words, the coachman stirred and uttered a weak groan. Pamela glanced at the coach box. His musket was still neatly sheathed in its holder. He'd never even had a chance to draw it.

Emboldened by relief, she glared up at their assailant. "What a fine profession you've chosen for yourself, sir! Assaulting old men and frightening helpless women."

He took a step forward, bringing them so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body through the fabric of his shirt. "You don't seem very frightened, lass. Or very helpless."

In truth, she was terrified. But she hid her terror behind a disgruntled sniff. "I've simply never been able to abide a bully."

"And what makes you think I chose this ‘profession'?" His voice was a mocking caress that made the delicate hairs at her nape shiver with reaction. "What if it was thrust upon me by cruel fate?"

"We all have choices to make if we want to be masters—or mistresses—of our own fate."

"And are you mistress of yours?"

His gently barbed words struck an unexpectedly tender target. After her mother's death, she had quickly discovered that without means or a male protector, a woman was at the mercy of this world. All she could do was sit back and watch her choices vanish one by one along with her dreams.

Even when her mother had been alive, Pamela had been subject to her mama's mercurial moods, her baby sister's needs and demands. She'd always been the one left to pick up the pieces of her mother's numerous broken hearts, scrimping and scheming to make sure the family didn't end up in the streets between productions when times were lean and her mother's lovers disappeared.

"Not at the moment," she admitted. "But then I'm not the one with the gun in my hand."

"What if you were? Would you be willin' to surrender it to the first man—or woman—who branded you a bully? Maybe I made my choice a long time ago, when I decided I didn't want to go hungry and barefoot while the English and their coffers grew fat on riches that rightly belonged to the Scots."

"But surely you must see that it's only a matter of time before you're brought to justice."

"When an Englishman robs a Scot of his land and his dignity, it's his God-given right. But when a Scot nabs an Englishman's purse, he's a dirty, thievin' criminal." The outlaw's snort came out of the darkness. "Where's the justice in that?"

Pamela brought her hands together in a round of dry applause. "Bravo, sir! I was wrong about you. Your passion adds a stirring note of conviction to your dialogue. If your weapon didn't happen to be pointed at my heart, I might even be tempted to cheer on your noble effort to relieve me of my purse."

He surprised her by slowly lowering the pistol to his side. Oddly enough, the gesture didn't make him look any less threatening. Her heart began to beat faster. Perhaps he'd decided to punish her for her scorn by strangling her with his bare hands.

She couldn't see his eyes, but she could still feel his gaze against her skin—as forceful as a touch. With all of his fine talk about the oppression of the Scots, she would have expected him to be wearing a kilt and carrying a shiny claymore or a set of bagpipes. But he was garbed all in black—the midnight shade of his shirt, breeches and boots making him nearly indistinguishable from the night.

She took an experimental step backward, then another. He followed, shadowing her every move. She continued to back away from him, wondering if there was some way to use their dangerous dance to her advantage. If she could lure him away from the carriage door, perhaps Sophie would be clever enough to slip out and run for help.

Or for her life.

Pamela stole a glance over her shoulder at the sweeping arms of the towering Caledonian pines bordering the rocky trail. There was only one sure way to distract him. One chance for Sophie to make her escape.

Knowing she might very well earn a pistol ball in the back for her efforts, Pamela spun around to run.

She had barely taken two steps when the highwayman seized her wrist and roughly jerked her around to face him. She stumbled over a rock and right into his broad, unyielding chest. She shook her hair out of her eyes and tipped back her head to glare at him, anger once again foolishly displacing her fear.

For the first time, the moonlight shone full upon his face.

Pamela froze, all of her schemes for escape forgotten.

The narrow slits in his black leather half mask revealed eyes as luminous and silvery gray as the light of the moon. Pamela was close enough to count each of the thick lashes that framed their striking depths. His nose was strong but slightly crooked, as if he'd started more than his share of tavern brawls.

Although it was no struggle for him to subdue her with just one hand, he was breathing hard and his jaw was clenched as if he was doing battle with some enemy neither of them could see.

It was a rugged jaw with an unlikely dimple set deep in his right cheek. At the moment his mouth was set in a stern line, but it wasn't difficult for Pamela to imagine the devastating effect that dimple might have on a woman's heart should he smile.

Her breath caught in her throat. She was just as powerless to resist its charm as she had been when gazing upon the broadsheet in the village. Some might argue that the crudely drawn sketch could have been any one of a dozen men, but Pamela would have recognized its subject anywhere.

He held himself as still as a granite statue as she lifted one trembling hand and lightly brushed her fingertips over his cheek. The broadsheet had been cool to the touch; his cheek was warm and rough with a day's growth of stubble.

His indrawn breath was both sharp and audible.

"I saw the broadsheet in the village," she confessed, lifting her gaze shyly to his eyes. "If they catch you, they have every intention of hanging you."

"Then perhaps it's time I stole somethin' worth bein' hanged for," he replied, his voice a husky rumble she felt all the way to the tips of her toes.

"Such as?" she whispered.

He lowered his gaze to her lips, giving her the answer she both feared and longed for.

His grip on her wrist gentled; the callused pad of his thumb caressed her fluttering pulse. He closed his eyes and lowered his mouth to hers, his lips no longer stern but soft and warm with invitation. They played over hers with a deliberate tenderness that was far more dangerous than force.

Pamela was well acquainted with the art of the stage kiss. How its purpose was to convey passion without actually provoking it. This was accomplished with the merest brushing of lips—neat and dry, with no communion of hearts or souls.

Which was why it came as such a shock when the highwayman boldly breached the seam of her lips with the rough, silky heat of his tongue. There was nothing neat or dry about his kiss. His tongue swirled over hers—tasting, teasing, tantalizing—urging her to take him deeper inside of her with each maddening pass of his mouth over hers. He smelled like freshly crushed pine needles and wood smoke and tasted of whisky and danger.

Too late, she realized she was no longer his prisoner. She had no recollection of him freeing her wrist, yet somehow both of her hands had ended up flattened against the muscular contours of his chest. Her palms measured each thundering beat of his heart as if it were her own.

Despite his threat, he hadn't yet committed a hanging offense. Her kiss was not stolen after all, but freely given. And given with such generosity and enthusiasm that no court of law in the land would dare to convict him.

He threaded his fingers through the thick coils of her hair, knocking her bonnet away until it was hanging down her back by its velvet ribbons and tilting her head back to allow him to take even more shocking liberties with her mouth.

In that moment, she forgot Sophie, forgot all about their doomed quest for the duke's heir, forgot they were only a few shillings away from utter ruin, forgot everything but the utter joy and madness of kissing a highwayman in the moonlight.

Until a shrill shriek pierced the pleasant roaring in her ears and a fluttery, pink object came crashing down on his head.