How to Capture a Duke (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 1) (4 page)

The door swung back open, and the woman glared at him. She raised her hand, and that blasted blade glinted again in her hand. “Your man is missing. Where is he?”

His heartbeat quickened, and he resisted the temptation to pat his great coat in which the jewels were hidden.
 

“Put that down.” It was easy to make his voice sound commanding; he’d never had to struggle to make his soldiers obey him.

The woman wavered, then raised her chin.

“He’s gone.” She tramped toward him, and he stiffened as her skirt swept against the woolen blanket he’d taken to carrying with him. The woman’s voice held the same unflinching resolve of the severest army commander. “Rise.”

“I—”

“Now.” Her emerald eyes hardened.

“I will not be threatened by a woman.”

“You only allow yourself to be threatened by men?” She raised her eyebrows and moved the blade toward him. “Out.”

“Careful with that.” Percival attempted a laugh.

“Out,” she repeated.

The knife was large and all too menacing. But moving would mean revealing his secret to her, and that would be—

The blade inched nearer his neck. If this were the past. By Zeus, then he would have just stood up and defended himself, blade or no blade.

His life was no longer the same now, and he was at the mercy of this red-headed woman who brandished a knife with the same enthusiasm that other women took to sewing work.

The wind rattled the carriage, sneaking in through the coach’s fissures and cracks, and fluttering the edges of the blanket.

If only his cousin hadn’t been killed. If only Percival had veered more to the left on that one day, all those months previous, he wouldn’t be in the mess he was now. He hadn’t survived the Napoleonic Wars to become a victim to some woman on some God-forsaken road. So he rose.

The process was inelegant. Perhaps one day he might be able to rise in a smooth, sweeping gesture befitting a man of his station. But now he still stumbled, because blast it, he still felt his leg, and still expected it to be there when he needed it.

He gritted his teeth together and braced his hand against the cold wall of the coach. The wooden stump provided balance, and he turned to the highwaywoman.

Her stony gaze softened, and his heart sank. “Not you, too.”

“But your leg—”

“Is of no concern of yours.”

“I didn’t notice—”

“I thought you did.”

She shook her head, her eyes wide.

He sighed. “Everyone expects everyone to have two legs.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“How sympathetic of you. I wouldn’t have thought a robber would care much about the leg count of the people she attacks.”

“Very amusing.” She sighed and lowered her weapon. She leaned forward, and a surge of vanilla wafted toward him. “Where did your driver go? Is he getting the magistrate? Lord, he’s getting help!”

Percival’s breath quickened, and he forced himself to remain calm. This was just like being at war. He’d battled enemies with success dozens of times. He hadn’t risen through the ranks solely on his father’s commission. He’d been publicly commended for his efforts, charged with leading other soldiers.

But back then he’d been armed with weapons. Back then all his limbs had been intact.

Percival sighed. “He must be here. Royal mail and all.”

Her eyes narrowed, and it occurred to Percival that Graeme just might have concocted a heroic plan all by himself. Perhaps the driver had gone to fetch help. Hope jostled through him, and he managed to shrug, maintaining an expression of neutrality well-honed from hours of card playing in officers’ tents.

“Maybe he’s relieving himself.” Lord knows the man had drank sufficient ale before the journey, and likely during the drive as well, if his constant singing had been any indication.

“He took Ned,” the woman declared.  “I went to fetch him, and he was gone.”

“Graeme’s captured one of the ruffians? I wouldn’t have thought him capable.”

“My horse!”

“Oh.” He rubbed his hand through his hair and stumbled from the coach, his wooden stump clicking against the floor. The wind howled through the open door, and he grimaced as he stepped outside. He glanced down at the tiny metal steps.
Blast.

The sounds of horses stomping their feet and snorting greeted him. It was bad enough to descend these steps when a driver was there to calm and steady the animals.

He gritted his teeth, and by some happiness of fate that had not graced him at Waterloo, managed to reach the frozen ground without toppling downward in an inelegant situation the highwaywoman might take advantage of.

“Graeme!” His voice barreled through the wilderness, but there was no rustle through the trees, and certainly no answer. He studied the road, but there was no sight of his driver. “Lucky man.”

“Oh, this is dreadful.” Mournfulness shook the woman’s voice. “My poor Ned.”

“I wouldn’t have taken a woman of your sort to care about a horse.”

She jutted her chin out. “It would be a mistake to underestimate me.”

“Graeme’s already succeeded in getting the better of you.”

Something flickered in her eyes. Something that he might have termed fear if he weren’t dealing with a woman who stole money from travelers for a living.

He shrugged and found himself reassuring her. “Graeme’s a driver. He knows how to take care of a horse. Better than the life you could provide for it.”

She stiffened.

He glanced at her. “You should have chosen an honorable profession.”

“We have to go.” She turned to him, and her arms dropped down. She glowed under the wobbly light of the lantern, and she appeared far more regal than a thief had any right to appear.

“I’ve no desire to be dragged to whatever low-level place you frequent.”

Her eyes flashed. “You don’t have a choice.”

“You can steal from me here!” He removed a satchel. “No need to travel with you to do it. Just . . . er . . . let me take the coach somewhere. I don’t fancy my chances of standing here in the cold.”

“I don’t want your coins.”

He raised his eyebrows, and her cheeks flushed.

“I mean I can steal from you later.” She glanced toward the road, and her teeth pressed against her bottom lip. “Let’s go.”

He followed her glance to the empty road and then understood. She probably worried that Graeme would drag the magistrate and all the magistrate’s burliest helpers with him in pursuit of her. She was probably overestimating Graeme’s heroism, as much as he claimed to admire the army.

But maybe—maybe if he managed to stall. Maybe Graeme might venture into the forest with help after all.

“Your colleagues aren’t here,” he said.

“They’re here. Though maybe you’re right. Maybe they went after Graeme.” She leaned toward him, and her eyes were round. “If they haven’t killed him already.”

He stiffened, and she brushed his cravat with her knife. “You drive. I trust your arms are still sufficiently strong to handle reins.”

“Of course.” And he’d take them right back to the nearest inn.

“I’ll sit beside you.” She tapped the handle of her knife. “With this.”

“You’re mad!” he murmured, taking her in.

She laughed and tossed her hair. “Maybe.”

The cold wind brushed against Fiona, and she pulled her hood over her head. Pink and orange streaked the sky, and the trees cast long shadows on the dirt lane. She stepped into the coach, flickered her eye over a stack of suitcases, and grabbed a blanket. She rushed back outside and dangled the bright fabric between two trees that arched over the road. Hopefully it would serve as a beacon to warn any other people of the tree.

She sprinted back to the coach as her locks tumbled and blew around her. She pulled herself up onto the seat, and the handsome man slid away. His eyes rounded, and he flickered a nervous glance at her.

“You can drive a carriage, can’t you?”

“Woman, I battled the French. Of course I can.” The man grabbed hold of the leather reins, and with a jerk the horses trotted forward.

“You’ll need to rotate the coach. The tree—”

“I’ve heard enough about that tree,” the man growled, but he coaxed the horses to turn, maneuvering the reins with deftness. “Your men shouldn’t have cut it down.”

Fiona remained silent and fixed her gaze on the horses. They were good and solid, sturdier built than the sleek Arabians she rode at Cloudbridge. The carriage wheels crunched over the fallen leaves, and she swiveled her gaze back, half-anticipating the coach driver to re-appear, gun cocked.

They had to leave.

If only the tree hadn’t fallen. They couldn’t return to the manor house the way she had come. Certainly this man would be of little assistance in moving the tree. Fiona’s desire was to flee as far from here as possible. They would need to take the long way to Cloudbridge Castle.

The cheerful forest she remembered from the summer, filled with lush green grass, a multitude of flowers, and trees bearing pleasing shades of leaves, had vanished, and this place, filled with naked white and brown branches jutting from muddied ground, was still foreign to her.

Feet pattered behind her, and she tensed.
Graeme.

She swung around, but the sound swishing over the ground was only a badger. But she couldn’t allow herself to relax yet.

Not now, not until she’d introduced this strange man to Grandmother, so she might send him from her life with as much swiftness as he’d entered it.

Fresh air swept around her, and the carriage jostled over the lane. Something tinkled and chimed beside her, and she frowned when she spotted the offending item.

The man followed her gaze to the bell, and a small smile grew on his stubbled face. “Not an admirer of Christmas?”

“Not anymore.”

“Some wassailers with poor pitch? A bad mulled wine experience?” He chuckled, and her shoulders relaxed.

The bells rang out beside her, an up-tempo melody that matched the speed of the coach. The sound was festive, lacking in seriousness. She sighed. Perhaps that was for the best. Perhaps the man would be less likely to attack her that way.

For as much as she strove to mirror the appearance of a true highwaywoman, she would not be using a weapon on him.

She concentrated on the horses and how their sturdy forms tramped steadily. The orange and pink streaks sank, abandoning the sky to darkness and stars that twinkled in familiar clusters she recognized but hadn’t seen in a long time.

Though Harrogate lay nearby, its pump-rooms and assembling halls attracting people from much farther distances, Fiona ventured there infrequently. Her parents’ last lesson to her had been of the dangers of coach travel, and Fiona was too timid to enjoy the bustle of a large town.

She clutched the knife in her hands and allowed her gaze to wander to the heavens above. The outside world was grander than she remembered.

She mulled over the manner in which the man beside her held the reins. The action was gentler than she had anticipated, not as if he lacked control, but as if the welfare of the horses was actually of concern to him.

Goodness, spending time with a man was an unfamiliar practice. Certainly she had no regular acquaintance with any man who wasn’t gray with age, proudly displaying a hoary beard, or employed to serve her family’s needs.

But this wasn’t one of her pompous uncles. This wasn’t the meek, round-faced cleric who frequented Cloudbridge Castle in the guise of checking up on his congregation, only to spend more time finding delight in Cook’s sugar concoctions. This person resembled the smartly dressed men she’d seen during her one, shortened season. This was the type of man she’d seen from afar, the type of man who would dance with women like Madeline, but who would never deign to dance with her.

It wasn’t the first time she’d ridden with a man. She’d ridden in a carriage in Hyde Park before with a man more interested in racing than in her. She recalled the sharp swerves, the pounding of galloping horses’ hooves, and the blur of men and women in expensive clothes unsuited to the muddy park. Many women wore white despite the weather, flaunting the light garments as badges to display they had maids to sufficiently clean the delicate fabrics, despite the stains that might be cast on them by London’s infamous rain.

“You’re cold.” The man’s deep voice, velvety and warm like chocolate, interrupted her musings.

She shook herself. “Nonsense.”

“Your teeth are chattering. I can hear you.” His tone sounded more amused than it should. Didn’t he realize she was kidnapping him?

“I’m fine.” She glanced up at him, but his gaze was once again focused before him.

The man must be frightened, but his posture was more relaxed now, and he radiated a quiet calm. Her gaze flickered to his foot. It must be hard to have a leg missing. She couldn’t imagine the physical agony he must have experienced as the army surgeon sawed off the leg. And here she was dragging him into the unknown.

“You have a destination in mind?” The man tilted his head toward her, his blue eyes probing hers, and she averted her gaze.

“Just continue North.”

“To?”

She paused. “I’ll guide you.”

No need to let him know their destination yet. Some things could be postponed. It would be better if he were to continue to feel uneasy around her. Because once he found out she was just a wealthy woman from the
ton
, there wasn’t a chance he would respect her. She would be labeled a foolish chit, and even though her issues meant everything to her, they would be dismissed. She shouldn’t be faulted for the narrowness of her world. She’d had no opportunity to join the war, to arrive home sullen and scarred like him.

She tapped her feet against the hot brick. She needed to ensure he did her this favor. At the very least, once they arrived at the castle, he wouldn’t be able to leave without her approval. These horses would be exhausted, and she could direct the servants to keep him there. The place was too isolated for him to wander away from it on foot, and he might find it simpler to consent to playing her fiancé for a few minutes.

“How did you injure yourself?”

He stiffened. “Doing something many would see as dutiful—battling Bonaparte’s army.”

“And the truth?”

The man sighed. “My cousin was doing something more dutiful. He fought an officer on the imposing side. The man was charging at me on a horse, waving a sword. It was my job to stop him. I was nearer, and yet my cousin stepped in front. He was killed, and I was maimed.”

“Oh.” Fiona’s heart stilled, and her throat dried. She understood the pain of death. She wrapped her arms around her chest and murmured, “I’m sorry. Truly.”

The trees thinned, and the handsome man’s gaze flickered over her. The horses continued their plod over the road. Before them some wassailers appeared. They were clad in simple clothes, and carried torches instead of lanterns to guide them as they went from home to home, singing.

He slowed the coach, and Fiona’s heart quickened. She redirected her knife at him. “Don’t stop. Or I’ll—I’ll—”

“You’ll stab me?” He raised his eyebrows. “I’ll take my chances. You’ve got witnesses before you.”

The horses slowed, and sweat prickled the back of Fiona’s neck. A throng of wassailers peered up at them.

“Happy Christmas,” a wassailer shouted.

“Happy Christmas to you,” the handsome man answered.

She lowered her knife, her mind grappling for something,
anything
to prevent this man from asking them for help.

His gaze flickered to her lap, and he smirked.

“I’m being kidnapped,” his voice boomed. “This woman has captured me. I need help.”

The wassailers stopped their song, and Fiona’s heart lurched. She forced herself to laugh. though the sound felt unnatural in her throat. “Darling, the things you say.”

The handsome man frowned. “I’m serious. She’s captured me! Help me! Please!”

“Sweetheart.” Fiona forced herself to smile and she slid her arm into his. Heat surged through her as her arm nestled into his.

She might be twenty-two, but this was the pinnacle of her contact with any man, and her heart galloped as she stared at the gathering of men and women before her.

The handsome man sucked in his breath sharply.

A round-faced woman chuckled, and others joined her. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard. My dear husband, why don’t you say those things about me?”

A man beside her gave a sheepish grin.

“No, I’m serious,” the handsome man said. “I’ve been kidnapped.”

“By Cupid’s bow?” someone called out.

“No, no. By force!”

Laughter filled the air, and the scent of beer and cider wafted over the carriage.

“Perhaps we should sing you a song,” the round-faced woman said.

“How did you get that mail coach?” someone shouted.

The handsome man’s expression firmed. “Because—”

“Darling, let me drive.” Fiona snatched the reins from him and urged the horses past the wassailers.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” he grumbled.

“I’ll add it to the list of things you disapprove of.” She fumbled for her knife and handed the reins back to him.

They continued in silence.

Lights shone off the side of the road, directing travelers to the public houses. The man swiveled his head in the direction of an inn.

“Don’t even think about it!” Fiona said.

His eyebrows darted up. “A mind like mine can’t be dissuaded from thinking, no matter how eager you are to force on it your lack of education.”

She stiffened. “I suppose you went to Oxford.”

“No.” He stared firmly ahead.

“Cambridge?” The smooth sound of his voice and his consistently rounded vowels spoke Oxbridge to her.

His voice that would make him suitable to pose as her fiancé, until she saw fit to invent a suitable death for him. It was the voice of a man whom she automatically distrusted.

He pressed his lips together. “Edinburgh.”

“They do classics there, too?”

“I’ve got no patience for Latin, woman. Seems people already do enough talking when they’re just speaking their own language. Don’t need to add additional languages.”

Fiona snorted. “How educated of you. I suppose you have a degree in ignorance and close-mindedness?”

His lips jutted upward. “Medicine.”

Fiona’s eyes widened. People didn’t study medicine unless they were genuinely interested in it. “But you were an officer.”

“My family thought it more worthwhile for me to kill people than heal them.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “I gave up that dream a long time ago.”

“Maybe now—” She paused, and her eyes fluttered to his leg.

“I’m rather occupied otherwise now. I . . . er . . . needed to take over my cousin’s business after his death.”

“You couldn’t be a doctor at the same time?”

He grinned. “That would be highly unconventional with my cousin’s business.”

“Which you’re not going to share with me?”

“No.” He shook his head, and his lips arched upward again. “Besides, doctors are rather supposed to be models of health. Not missing vital body parts.”

“I’m sure you didn’t intentionally—”

“Lose a leg? No, any struggle I have with disorganization is not that great.” A chuckle escaped from his lips.

Warmth filled Fiona, and she settled back into the carriage chair. For a moment she might even imagine that the man was really her fiancé, and that they weren’t hauling a large, awkward coach, but were in a curricle. The scent of pine would fill the air in just the same way, and the rumble of the man’s voice beside her would be a comfort to her instead of a reminder she had to be on guard.

If the magistrate found she’d captured a man . . . Fiona didn’t want to contemplate the legal consequences. It was enough to imagine how the action would fuel the
ton
‘s gossip, humiliate Grandmother, and confirm all of Madeline’s worst suspicions of her.

She’d thrown her reputation away. With one impulsive move, she’d hurried this man, who bore scars from the war, into a carriage despite all his protestations. She’d frightened his driver, and once that man managed to secure help, she’d have the wrath of the royal mail to answer to.

Nice ladies didn’t capture men. Nice ladies didn’t pretend to be ferocious highwaywomen. Even improper ladies didn’t do this—at absolute worst they might permit a rogue to bed them, an experience that did not likely have the rogue cowering with fear.

Her fingers scrunched together, tightening further around the edge of the blade. If this ever got out, and if they didn’t get off the road soon, some authority was likely to find them. Then she would never be able to marry, never be able to have anything similar to a normal life. Even her sister would be subject to the tittering of gossip-mongers.

And though she’d long told herself she had no intention of ever marrying, the idea that she’d virtually guaranteed herself society’s contempt, that she might actually find herself ushered off to a prison cell for a while, caused her heart to shudder.

The man had been brutally injured in the war. He didn’t deserve this. No one deserved this. And yet she couldn’t do anything except continue to drive forward. She couldn’t go to the magistrate and confess. Not when word might reach Grandmother of her actions.  And not when being a highwaywoman was a capital crime. Her chest tightened.