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Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

LATE OCTOBER 1814 ~ ON THE ROAD TO CORNWALL

A raven's piercing cry, followed by an owl's "hoot," startled Logan Thomas, the Fifth Earl of Fitzwater, as he and his valet made their way on the Great South-West Road. Their destination in Cornwall was close. The sun had dropped behind the hills an hour earlier, leaving behind a dark sky with only the promise of a three-quarter moon to light their way. Logan didn't expect to see the source of the noise; still, he scanned the dusky sky. Four years he'd been away. "It'll be good to get home, but not for this. Never for this."

Word of the death of Gilbert, his older brother, had made him an earl but was received weeks after the funeral—too late to be there or say goodbye. Now he had to return home and claim a title he never wanted. Three years had separated them in age, and the war had separated them by land and sea, but regardless of the distance, they had always been close friends as well as brothers. They'd always included each other in everything they did—whether it was fishing, buying horses and livestock, or having a pint with friends at The Fresh Flask in town, they'd done it together. For the first time in his life, Logan felt truly alone. He'd never wanted Gil's title and had been content to make his way in life as a soldier.

Gil had recently become betrothed and died without issue. Despite having resisted his mother's matchmaking efforts for years, Gil relented after their father died, and he became Earl. While he'd conceded to his mother's wishes, the wedding had still been weeks away. Logan wasn't ready to marry. But without an heir secured, Logan would be constantly dodging his mother's efforts. She would be as determined to see him wed as she had been with Gil. Despite that, it would be good to see his sister, Beth, again.

He held up his hand, signaling Bronson to stop. "I hear voices and they sound close. Let's make ourselves scarce," he whispered.

"Oh, Lord, I hope it's not highwaymen," the valet whispered back. "Remember the farmer that arrived when we were leaving the Rooster's Inn warnin' us about the rash of robberies on this road? I wouldn't have minded a brawl after a pint or two, but not afore."

"Aye, I remember." All Logan wanted was a hot meal, a warm bath, and a clean pallet for the night. He never backed down from a fight, but he never went looking for one either.

"And the horses are exhausted," Bronson said, reaching down and petting his horse's neck. "Poor Moonbeam. Looks like you won't be getting your oats until later."

The horse nickered in reply, bobbing her head.

"If we're quick, we can hide up there," Logan said, pointing to a path obscured by large mulberry bushes. "The rocks and undergrowth will provide cover."

"You always had eyesight like an owl. How in the heck did you spot those bushes? It's as dark as pitch." Bronson stilled. "I don't hear carriage wheels, but the horses…they sound almost upon us."

Before they could take cover, six masked men on horseback, all dressed in black, swarmed Logan and Bronson from both sides.

"Closer than I imagined," Bronson muttered.

"Yes," Logan whispered. He felt beneath his greatcoat for his pistol, finding it strapped to his side, beneath his shirt. At least he'd remembered to load it.

"Stand and deliver," the tallest of the six ordered, clearly asserting himself as the group's leader and waving his gun. "Don't try anything funny or I'll use this."

A sudden breeze carrying the pungent odor of stale grog and body odor from the thieves' direction assaulted Logan's nostrils. Silently, he took notice of the bandits. The men were unshaven, with various degrees of unkept beards and tattered clothing. Their horses looked to be in a bad state, with ribs showing and matted manes. Several had tattered tails, no doubt from being bitten by the more dominant ones—a sure sign they were poorly cared for.

Bloody hell! It was clear the highwaymen wanted fresh horses. Well, he had no intention of obliging them. Justice had been a gift from his father and had survived the battles on the continent. Logan had no desire to see him injured—or lose him to a bunch of miscreants who were too lazy to do a decent day's work. He shrugged. "We have nothing of any value," he called out, stalling.

One thief sat on a light-colored mare. He moved the mare forward a step and glared at Logan. "An unlikely story, my lord," he ground out. "Your cultured voice and air of authority tell me different. Both of you get down from the horses."

Logan glanced at Bronson before casually reaching into his pocket.

"Put yer hands where 'oi can see 'em," the man demanded.

Instead, Logan withdrew a handkerchief and pretended to mop sweat from his brow. He was going to have to fight. "If you intend to steal my horse, I should warn you, Justice will not allow it. He has fought beside me on the battlefield and will not leave my side. The other horse is his mare. They are bonded."

A second bandit straddled upon an almost sway-back, black hag, straggled forward next to the first man. "Rubbish. I ain't never seen a horse that cared who rode him," he said, spitting a mouthful of brown tobacco juice on the road. "Ye 'eard what the boss said." He nodded to the apparent leader. "Now get down from yer horses."

The ridiculous look of the burly man on the swayback almost made Logan laugh. But he held his tongue. If he fired a shot, he was certain Justice would remain beneath him.

Two other men got off their horses and approached Logan. One carried a club and the other a rope, most likely not the only weapons they had.

Bronson gave an almost imperceptible nod to his lower left coat pocket, signaling to Logan that he was armed. As his former batman, Bronson had been in battle, even though Logan couldn't recall ever seeing the man shoot a pistol. Despite that, Logan never doubted Bronson's bravery. He'd witnessed the older man run into the thick of battle time and again to rescue a wounded soldier.

"Climb down from the horses and back away," the leader said again in his raspy voice.

As much as he hated to do it, Logan slid down from his horse, but with an almost imperceptible shake of his head to Bronson, told him to remain on Moonbeam.

"I would urge you to heed my warning about Justice," Logan said calmly as the tobacco-spitting bandit pulled out a knife and reached for the reins of Bronson's horse. Justice turned and showed his teeth, then reared up, knocking the thief away from Moonbeam. Before the ruffian could get back up, Justice's front legs came down fast and furious. A loud crack echoed in the night, followed by a howl of pain, as the thief's leg had clearly been broken. The man's knife clattered to the ground as he yowled and writhed.

As the thieves had been watching the altercation unfold, Logan had loosened his cravat, looped the fabric through the handle of his almost-full canteen, and created a blackjack. From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a second attacker with a huge knife that gleamed in the moonlight, sneaking up on Justice's other side. Logan spun low and swung the blackjack into the brute's chin.

The attacker staggered but remained standing. Turning in Logan's direction, the ruffian ripped off his black cape, revealing a thread-bare shirt straining with every movement of the barbarian's wide shoulders and powerful muscles. "Ye will die fer that," he growled, moving a step closer.

"Just try me," Logan said through clenched teeth.

"Logan, behind you!" Bronson shouted. Logan whipped around to see another ruffian about to swing a huge tree branch at his head. Kicking out, he landed a blow in the thief's midsection, knocking him down. Logan heard Bronson curse and struggle as two of the other thieves tried to wrestle him off Moonbeam. He turned and saw Justice let out a furious snort and with his hind legs, he kicked one highwayman in the back. The thief screamed in pain as he fell to the ground. Logan grinned as Justice was about to stomp on the downed thief when another thief distracted him. A few seconds later, he felt a sharp pain in his midsection.

Logan swung at his attacker and connected with his fist, but felt himself falter. He shook his head, trying to stay alert. He couldn't recall ever being hit as hard as that, not even on the battlefield. Shots were fired, and he heard the scream of a horse. Justice? Logan strained to see when another shot went off, and something knocked him flat on his back. His arm and his gut hurt like hell.

Blinking to clear his vision, he thought he saw two figures in dark clothing arrive and jump into the fray, along with a black cat with white markings. The cat leaped on Justice's back as the horse reared up with a swift kick at one of the thieves attempting to take Moonbeam from under Bronson. Bronson got a shot off but appeared to miss.

A cap fell from one of the black-cloaked figures and Logan's breath caught at the sight of long, blonde hair that glowed like silver in the moonlight, framing a pale oval face with striking green cat-like eyes. A woman? Logan tried to shout a warning to her, but it came out sounding like a wheezing cough. He tried to get up but for some reason, he couldn't get his legs to move. Darkness was pressing in around him, and his vision began to blur. His last thought was that he must save her.

"You cannot have my horse," she heard a man yell. Lady Charlotte Penrose, Charlie to her friends, dodged a shot fired by a man on the horse and silently thanked her lucky stars for her powerful hearing. The man— Bronson , she'd heard his friend call him—was defending himself. When his friend's stallion reared, Bronson's horse followed suit. Bronson fired off a shot, but it hit a tree across the road. Another shot fired by one of the highwaymen felled his friend.

"Behind you, Caden," Charlie yelled, deftly ducking a punch thrown by a shorter thief. She glanced at the crumpled man lying on the side of the road. The slight rise of his chest let her know he still lived.

"Charlie, look at that," her brother whispered as he leaped over the wounded man and picked up something lying next to him. In a flash, he stepped around her, slinging a bottle attached to a…wait…was that a cravat ?

Her brother turned and flashed a brilliant smile. Caden enjoyed nothing better than an opportunity to use his cunning fighting skills—something he frequently did at Gentleman Jackson's when in London. Even though they were fraternal twins, they were as different as night and day. Caden enjoyed fighting, whereas she only fought when necessary.

Using the improvised blackjack, her brother aimed for the closest thief and whacked him behind the knees, causing him to crumple with a squeal of pain. It gave Charlie a chance to leverage the low-hanging branch and launch herself onto the back of the horse occupied by the supposed leader, sending him into the path of her brother and his very effective weapon. In the ensuing chaos, one man got off a shot, which ricocheted off a rock near the wounded gentleman. With any luck, she could get to him soon.

What seemed like an hour later but was no doubt just a few minutes, the skirmish ended, and Charlie ran to the man who was lying on the side of the road. She knelt and gently checked for a pulse in his neck, relief washing over her when she realized he wasn't dead. "My lord, can you speak to me?" she whispered, having sensed right away that the injured man was a titled gentleman. She put her ear close to his mouth and heard an almost inaudible groan.

"He needs a doctor," she cried to her brother. "His breathing is faint."

"We'll get him to the carriage," Caden said, nodding to the man called Bronson, who was helping him tie up the thieves. You need to change back into your dress," her brother urged her via his thoughts. You can't do that out here. Go into the carriage and blink or wiggle your finger or something.

I'll do it later, Charlie nodded, forgetting that she'd magically changed into men's attire in the carriage under the watchful eye of their grandmother before she and Caden had launched their surprise attack on the highwaymen. Well, she'd have to magically change back once they were safely away from Mr. Bronson. Her grandmother could cover the wounded gentleman's eyes.

She wished she could levitate the injured man into the carriage or simply send him to the townhouse in a blink of an eye. But her grandmother would be angry for her reckless use of magic in front of mortals who weren't in their trusted circle. As witches went, Charlie was powerful, with several special skills that included an ability to move objects and people with her mind. She couldn't levitate animals, at least not without their permission. She'd learned that the hard way. When she was ten, she tried to lift Chapelle off the bed and was roundly chastised by her feline friend. Animals, unlike humans, Chapelle had scolded, should be treated with respect and sensitivity.

Remarkably, Caden…even though he was her twin…had no powers that Charlie knew of unless you counted his ability to communicate with her and his athletic prowess as powers. Like her father, he was mortal.

Charlie tended to the wounded man, ripping his shirt sleeves, and wrapping his wounds as Caden, with the help of Mr. Bronson, finished trussing up the unconscious highwaymen into a neat pile, with hands and feet tied and mouths gagged.

"My lady," Mr. Bronson said in a low voice, "I have never in my life seen a woman fight like you."

And not likely again. "Thank you, Mr. Bronson. I only hope you will not share that with anyone," she said with a nervous chuckle.

"Aye, my lady. I understand. I doubt the highwaymen will have much to say about you, in any case, given that you and your brother subdued them before they even realized what hit them. They may, however, wonder about the cat riding my friend's horse. May I ask where you are headed?"

"Oh!" she said. "That is Chapelle. I've had her since childhood, and she has always had a special bond with horses, almost as if they understand each other."

"I see," Bronson said.

"We were on our way to Bocka Morrow for the annual ball," Charlie added as her grandmother's carriage arrived, guarded by two footmen. As she said it, she had an idea and glanced at her grandmother, who was watching from the carriage window. Grandmama, who had a keen intuitive sense and could communicate her thoughts with Charlie, nodded her consent. "My family has a home there, and there is plenty of room," Charlie offered, thankful for her grandmother's kindness. "We would welcome you both to rest and recover before continuing on your journey."

"We are most grateful for your generosity, my lady," Bronson said. "Please thank your grandmother for her kindness. In the meantime, I'll help your brother take these thieves to the local sheriff."

Caden nodded. "I'd already asked one of our other footmen to ride ahead to the sheriff when we found out what was happening. They should be here soon."

"Good. I wouldn't want to see these thieves escape after your daring efforts in capturing them," Bronson said, flashing a grin.

She wanted to ask Mr. Bronson details about his wounded friend—his name, for one thing. But she was worried about the gleam she'd seen in the man's eyes. Charlie wondered if the older man also had some magical ability. He seemed to possess an uncanny shrewdness that gave her pause.

As she directed the footmen to carry the wounded gentleman into the carriage, Charlie pondered at what would transpire once they reached her family's townhouse. Whether Mr. Bronson decided to tell his friend what he perceived was another matter, but Charlie could not contend with it now. Her primary concern was getting the wounded man to their home in Bocka Morrow before it was too late.

She leaned back and smiled as a plan began to form.

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