Chapter 3

T he coachman squeaked in shock as the pistol appeared in Pamela's hand. "Why, ye've all gone mad as March hares," he cried, "the whole lot o' you!" Before any of them could react, he sprang to his feet and went scrambling down the hillside, abandoning coach, musket, horses, and paying customers without so much as a backward glance.

"If you weren't pointin' that pistol at my heart, lass, I might be tempted to agree with him," Connor said, eyeing the woman holding him at gunpoint with newfound respect.

With its dainty size and pearl plating, the pistol looked more like a feminine trinket than a weapon capable of blasting a hole through his chest and putting an end to his misspent life.

"Pamela, what on earth are you doing?" her sister demanded, looking even more shocked than the coachman had. "Have you lost your wits?"

"Hush, Sophie. I know exactly what I'm doing."

Connor nodded toward the weapon in her hand. A hand that was remarkably steady, he noted with reluctant admiration. "Then I suppose you also know a weapon that size only holds one shot."

She smiled sweetly at him. "At this range one shot is all I would need. So why don't you be a gentleman and hand over your pistol?"

He smiled back at her, just as sweetly. "If you want it, you'll have to come get it."

Her smile faded. Eyeing him warily, she inched forward until she was just within reach of the muscular arms he'd folded over his chest. She crept closer, forced to look up at him through a tumbled skein of hair. Several sleek coils tinted a rich, warm mahogany had spilled down from their pins to frame her face.

It was a perfectly ordinary face—as oval as a cameo with a straight, slender nose, a generous rose of a mouth and full cheeks. But those eyes…they sparkled like amber gemstones beneath the arched wings of her brows—glowing with intelligence, good humor…and a tantalizing hint of mischief.

With those remarkable eyes still locked on his, she reached for the weapon tucked into his belt. As the back of her hand brushed the taut planes of his belly through the folds of his shirt, she wavered. He cocked one eyebrow, challenging her to continue. She was so close he could smell the intoxicating scent of lilac water wafting from her hair.

"Careful, lass," he murmured. "We wouldn't want that thing to go off, now would we?"

He felt the tensed muscles in his abdomen twitch with reaction as she closed her free hand around the heavy grip of his pistol and smoothly slid the long barrel out of his breeches.

She slowly backed away from him. He studied her, intrigued by the meticulous care she took to keep the muzzle of his pistol pointed at the ground until she could get it tucked safely into the crimson sash of her pelisse.

"What now, lass?" he quipped. "Shall I hand over my drawers?"

"No, but I'll thank you to remove your mask."

Connor felt all traces of humor flee his face. "What if I told you that none of my victims has ever seen me without my mask…and lived to tell the tale?"

She looked taken aback, but only briefly. Lifting her chin, she said coolly, "I'd accuse you of spouting overwrought drivel again."

Connor held her gaze for a long moment, then reached behind his head with an impatient motion and jerked loose the strings binding the crude half mask. The scrap of leather fell away, exposing his face to the moonlight and her avid gaze.

This time she crept closer as if she were helpless to do otherwise. He stood stiffly at attention as she circled him, her pistol still held at the ready.

Sophie edged closer as well, but her horrified gaze was fixed on her sister, not on him. "I know what you're thinking, Pamela, and you can't be serious. This man is little more than a barbarian. Why, he would never do!"

"Do what?" Connor snapped.

"Are you so sure about that, Sophie?" Pamela asked, her eyes glowing with fresh excitement, her ripe, rosy lips parted ever so slightly. "Just look at him! He must be close to the right age. He has broad shoulders. A savage yet noble brow. A hint of arrogance in his bearing. An unmistakable air of command."

"Rope scars on his throat," Sophie retorted. "A chipped front tooth. Hair that hasn't been trimmed—or possibly combed—in months. And a brutish demeanor." She hugged the shoulder cape of her woolen cloak tighter around her shoulders, shivering. "If I'm not mistaken, he threatened to murder us both only minutes ago."

Scowling, Connor ran his tongue over the jagged chip in his front tooth, remembering the bleak night when he had earned it. He wasn't used to listening to two women argue his merits—or the lack of them—right in front of him. He was starting to feel like one of the savage African lions King James had once displayed in the yard at Stirling Castle for the amusement of his guests.

"You have to use your imagination, Sophie," Pamela was saying. "After all, what separates the brute from the gentleman? The fashionable cut of his coat and breeches? The smoothness of his jaw?" Pamela eyed the wind-tossed sweep of Connor's hair with a critical eye. "The clever way his freshly trimmed hair curls against his collar?" She reached up and boldly swiped a smudge of dirt from his jaw with her fingertips. "Why, if you polished him up in the bath, I wager he'd be as grand as any of the dandies at White's or Boodle's!"

"Are you volunteerin' for the task, lass? Because if you are, you can give me back my gun. I'll go with you freely."

Instead of slapping him for his impertinence, Pamela simply smiled fondly up at him.

"He has a price on his head," Sophie reminded her. "Just how do you intend to smuggle him out of Scotland?"

"You heard him. No one who can identify him has ever seen him without the mask."

"No one alive, that is," Sophie said glumly.

Connor could hardly believe what he was hearing. "Am I to understand you two lasses are plannin' to abduct me?"

Pamela nodded, looking endearingly contrite. "I'm afraid so. At least for now. Once I explain our plight, I'm sure you'll be only too happy to accompany us to London."

A helpless bark of laughter escaped Connor. He had managed to elude the clutches of the law for well over a decade and now here he was being kidnapped by two flibbertygibbeted Englishwomen. And all because he hadn't been able to resist stealing a kiss in the moonlight.

"Sophie, fetch a length of rope from the coachman's box," Pamela commanded.

Although Sophie's gamine face was still scrunched up in disapproval, she scrambled to obey her sister.

Connor shook his head in warning. "If you think I'm just goin' to stand here and let a wee bit of baggage like her tie me up…"

"Don't be ridiculous," Pamela said primly. "She's going to hold the pistol. I'm going to tie you up."

Her movements brisk and efficient, Pamela accepted the rope from Sophie's hands and surrendered the delicate pistol into her sister's keeping.

Connor snorted. "The lass can't weigh much over five stone soaking wet. I doubt she has the strength to pull the trigger."

"Not a chance I'd want to take," Pamela replied, disappearing behind him, rope in hand. "Unless you're a gambling man, that is. Sophie has always had the twitchy temperament of a cat. I wouldn't make any sudden movements if I were you."

"If you really wanted to put the fear of God in me, why didn't you just give her a parasol?" Connor muttered as Pamela captured both of his wrists in her small but sturdy hands and began to wrap the length of rope around them.

After securing her knot with a tidy jerk, she retrieved the elegant little pistol from her sister and pressed it against his ribs. She gave him a slight shove, urging his feet into motion. But after only a few steps, she was the first to falter.

She bit her bottom lip and peered down the darkened road. Apparently, now that she had him, she wasn't quite sure what to do with him. Connor had several suggestions, any one of which would probably earn him a well-deserved pistol clout to the back of the head.

As the wind rose, sighing mournfully through the branches of the pines and bringing with it the unmistakable scent of rain, she was finally forced to turn to him, her reluctance visible. "It's only a matter of time before the coachman returns and brings the authorities with him. Is there somewhere nearby we could go to pass the night? Some sort of cottage or shelter?"

Connor ducked his head to hide his smile behind a curtain of hair, hardly able to believe his good fortune. Perhaps fate wasn't such a heartless witch after all.

"I might know of such a place. But you'll need to fetch all your things. I've a horse waitin' in the trees over there big enough to carry you and your sister."

"What about you?" she asked.

"It's not far. I can walk."

"Walk? Or run ?" She narrowed her eyes at him, struggling to look menacing. "I should hate to have to shoot you in the back, you know."

"Why would I want to run? Now that you've got me all trussed up, I'm hopin' the two of you will decide to have your way with me."

Her blush gave him a wicked thrill of satisfaction. "I think not," she said lightly. "As I told my sister, I've heard you Highlanders prefer your females to be more docile."

He leaned down, bringing his lips dangerously close to her ear before whispering, "You heard wrong."

Apparently, not far was Scottish for "we might arrive by dawn if we don't perish from the cold first" with big horse being synonymous with "shaggy monster the size of a small dragon." Pamela wouldn't have been the least bit surprised if the massive ebony beast lumbering beneath her and Sophie had sprouted wings and began to breathe jets of fire from his flared nostrils. Although the creature seemed perfectly content to plod along at a demure pace, Pamela feared he was just biding his time, patiently waiting for his master's signal to buck both she and her sister over the nearest cliff.

An exhausted Sophie had already dozed off against Pamela's back and was snoring in her ear. Fortunately, the horse was also large enough to bear the two modest trunks they'd rescued from the coach. Trunks that contained the remainder of their earthly belongings. Securing the trunks to the horse's broad flanks had been no easy feat without the brawny Highlander's help, but they'd finally managed it.

Celebrated actor John Kemble might be able to afford to bring real horses and even the occasional elephant on stage over at the Royal Opera House, but Pamela's previous experience with horses had been limited to those of the stick variety. The beast seemed large and dangerous and unpredictable to her…much like the man leading them deeper into the forbidding shadows of the forest and farther away from civilization with each of his long, confident strides.

She scowled at his broad back. Although their lengthy trek had led them over some wild and rocky terrain, he might have been enjoying an afternoon stroll through the pastoral climes of Hyde Park. Judging from his casual saunter, he could probably walk all night without breaking a sweat—even while leading a horse with both hands bound behind his back. As they scaled a particularly daunting hill that had Pamela clinging to the beast's shaggy mane for dear life, he even had the temerity to break into a whistle. The cheery notes drifted back to her ears, borne by the brisk wind.

"What, pray you, is that tune, sir?" she finally called out, hoping to silence him.

"A wee ditty they call ‘The Maiden and the Highwayman,'" he replied.

She snorted. "Given your people's dour dispositions and fondness for the romance of tragedy, I'm sure they pledged their eternal love to each other, then met some gruesome and bloody end."

"On the contrary. The highwayman seduced the maiden into his bed only to discover she was a lusty wench who couldn't get enough of him." He tossed her a roguish smile over his shoulder. "He robbed her of her maidenhead and she stole his heart."

Pamela was thankful her cheeks had already been rubbed raw by the wind so he wouldn't see her blush. He resumed both his pace and his cheerful whistling, bringing the tune to an end with a trilled flourish.

Just when she had given up any hope of them ever reaching their destination, the trees began to thin and the wind to roar. They emerged from the sheltering boughs of the pines onto a broad shelf of grassy meadow.

Pamela gasped, the breath snatched right out of her lungs by the greedy fingers of the wind and the unexpected sight before her. She had served her entire life at the altar of make-believe without ever once imagining that such a place could exist in the real world.

It was as if the castle before them had risen out of the sea itself, flung heavenward on its island of stone by some mighty pagan god. Moonbeams slanted through the gusting clouds, painting its walls, turrets and towers in a glowing wash of silver. She blinked at the magnificent sight, wondering if she, like Sophie, had somehow dozed off and slipped into a dream.

But a dream wouldn't explain the gooseflesh rippling across her skin or the briny scent of the sea in the air. It was no longer just the roar of the wind she was hearing, but also the thunder of the waves hurling themselves against the jagged cliffs surrounding the castle.

She had expected the highwayman to lead them to some ramshackle barn or perhaps one of the many abandoned crofters' huts they had passed on their journey. She most certainly hadn't expected… this .

Sophie awoke with a start. Her snore deepened to a wheeze as she too caught sight of their destination. "Oh, my!" she whispered. "Perhaps he's not truly a robber at all, but a king of some sort."

"Don't be ridiculous," Pamela replied. "Scotland hasn't had its own king for two centuries. King George is his liege, just as he is ours."

"Then perhaps he's a prince. A robber prince," Sophie suggested, the note of awe in her voice undiminished.

Pamela shifted her troubled gaze from the castle to their host, wishing she hadn't been the one to point out that there was a regal quality to his bearing.

As he tugged on the reins to urge the horse forward, she saw the narrow, meandering bridge of land that connected the meadow to the castle for the first time. Far below, the wind whipped the sea into a swirling mass of whitecaps pierced by jutting rocks.

Letting out a moan, Sophie clutched at Pamela's waist and buried her face against her back. "Tell me when we arrive. If we do."

Given the battering force of the wind and the dizzying height of their perch, Pamela should have been equally fearful they were about to plunge to their deaths. But their mount started forward with brisk confidence, no less sure-footed than his master.

They were halfway to the castle when icy needles of rain began to spill from the sky. Before Pamela could tug up her bonnet to cover her hair, both the rain and the cloud that had spawned it were gone, blown on their way by a chill gust of wind. Instead of cursing the mercurial weather as she might have done earlier, Pamela threw back her head and laughed aloud, feeling a strange exhilaration at the beauty and wildness of it all. It was as if they were riding straight into a fairy tale on the wings of a dragon.

As a second cloud passed over the moon, bathing the highwayman in shadow, her smile slowly faded. It still remained to be seen if their guide was prince or ogre.

The great chasm between castle and land should have formed a natural moat impenetrable to men and the brutality of their cannons. But as they passed beneath what must have once been the castle gatehouse, Pamela saw that it had failed miserably in its duty.

The highwayman drew their mount to a halt in the courtyard of the mighty fortress. The once gentle moonlight now seemed harsh and unforgiving, spilling without mercy over the shattered walls and heaps of crumbled stone. It seemed the fairy tale castle was only an illusion after all, no more real than a painted backdrop in a production of King Lear . As she surveyed the ruins of what must have once been one of the crown jewels of the eastern coast, the pang beneath Pamela's breastbone felt oddly like grief.

Even in its advanced state of decay, there was no denying the melancholy beauty of the place. Although some chambers and towers appeared to be intact, all that remained of the castle's chapel was a lone wall overlooking the sea, its stark silhouette standing guard over a crumbling white cross hewn from limestone. Moss had crept over every inch of exposed stone, softening the jagged edges with a thick veil of green.

A gaping window that must have once housed a bell was set high in the wall. Pamela could almost hear the ghostly echo of its pealing, calling those who were long dead to worship or battle.

With nothing but the endless indigo sweep of sky and sea beyond the wall, it was as if they'd reached the edge of the world itself.

"What is this place?" she asked, lowering her voice to a reverent whisper without realizing it.

The rich timbre of the highwayman's voice paid its own respects to any lingering ghosts. "This is where Clan MacFarlane made their last stand against the forces of Cromwell's army over a hundred and fifty years ago. Rather than let the castle fall into the hands of their enemies, they blew it up themselves—set the charges and went marchin' off into the night, their bagpipes wailin' a final farewell."

As she gazed around them at the heaps of rubble and the shattered dreams they represented, Pamela wanted to weep at the tragic waste of it all. "Are you one of these MacFarlanes? Were they your clan?"

A cloud skittered across the moon, casting a fresh shadow over his face. "I'm afraid my grandfather lacked both the courage and the scruples of old Angus MacFarlane. He sold out our clan at Culloden for thirty pieces of English silver."

An involuntary shiver danced down Pamela's spine. She'd never heard the word English uttered with such icy contempt. Before she could consider digging her heels into the horse's sides and making a mad dash for freedom, the clouds parted to reveal the highwayman gazing up at her, his expression guarded.

"So here we are," he said. "All the comforts of home. I'd help you down but…" He shrugged his broad shoulders to remind her of his bound hands.

"That's all right. We can manage," Pamela assured him, throwing one leg over the horse's neck and sliding to the ground.

She would have kept right on sliding until she landed on her bottom if the highwayman hadn't stepped forward to brace her with his weight. She hadn't taken into account how long they'd been riding or how unaccustomed she was to such exercise. She clutched at his shirt, her thigh muscles quivering like a pot of jam. His chest felt as sturdy as a rock beneath her trembling hands, reminding her of those dizzying moments back at the coach when she had clung to him while he sipped tenderly from her lips.

"Thank you," she murmured, keeping her eyes lowered. She quickly untangled her fingers from his shirt, telling herself it must be the near tumble that had left her so breathless. As she stepped away from him, the bitter wind whipped stinging strands of hair across her eyes. "It's no wonder you Scots are such a hale and hearty lot. If you weren't, you'd never survive this climate."

"Once you get a wee dram of Scot's whisky in your belly, you'll discover the wind is nothin' more than God's breath whisperin' against your cheek."

He watched through heavy-lidded eyes as she lifted her arms to Sophie, hoping to spare her sister a similar embarrassment.

As soon as Sophie was settled safely on her feet, she drew the little pistol out of her sash and leveled it at him, hoping to regain their only advantage. His pistol was safely secured in the horse's saddlebag. "If you would be so kind as to lead the way, sir."

"'Twould be my pleasure, lass," he drawled, offering her a mocking bow before turning away and striding into the shadows.

As they fell into step behind him, Sophie slipped a hand into hers and whispered, "Are you certain we're not making a terrible mistake?"

"No," Pamela whispered back, her own courage faltering as they followed him down a grassy path that brought them closer to the churning sea with each step.

At first she thought he was going to lead them right over the edge of those towering cliffs. But he shifted direction at the last minute, guiding them beneath a stone arch to a set of flat, narrow stairs that seemed to disappear into the earth itself.

"Watch your step," he warned them. "I can't catch you if you fall."

Nor could he catch himself if he stumbled, Pamela realized, fighting a twinge of guilt. But as he disappeared into the murky gloom, his steps were as sure and steady as they'd been in the forest. She and Sophie exchanged a nervous glance before following. The roaring of the wind soon faded. As they descended deeper into the earth, they were enveloped by an oppressive hush broken only by the steady drip of water on stone and the shallow rasp of their own breathing.

Pamela was beginning to wonder if the steps led straight down to the bowels of hell itself when she spotted a thin sliver of light below. The highwayman paused, waiting for them to catch up.

He nodded toward the broad oak door set deep in the stone wall. "Would you mind doin' the honors?"

Pamela closed her icy fingers around the iron handle and gave the door a push. It swung open easily, inviting them inside.

She brushed past the highwayman without a second thought, unable to resist the seductive lure of warmth and light. The chamber was no rat-infested dungeon as she had feared, but simply a long-forgotten vault to a tower that no longer existed. A fire crackled on a stone hearth set against the opposite wall. Pamela breathed a sigh of relief. The long, low-ceilinged room was not only warm and dry, but also cozy and welcoming.

That is, until the air resounded with the echoing clicks of a dozen pistol hammers being drawn back at once.

One by one, the men holding those pistols emerged from the shadowy corners, their eyes gleaming with lust, their lips twisted into delighted leers.

The largest of those men wore a silver hoop in one ear and a leather vest hanging open over his sun-bronzed chest. He looked Pamela and Sophie up and down with a jovial familiarity that made Pamela's blood curdle with dread.

Firelight glinted off the gold tooth set in the front of his mouth as his meaty lips split in a grin. "Och, Connor, and what have ye brought us tonight?" he inquired of their guide. "Bawds or brides?"