Heather and Velvet (2 page)

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.