Dukes By the Dozen

by Alyssa Alexander

  Or the Honorable Highwayman.

  Wulf had yet to make the acquaintance of the local legend, though he had heard a great deal about the highwayman’s ill-gained generosity.

  “I don’t particularly care to give up my blunt, even for widows and orphans.” Though he was actually quite willing to forgo his winnings for such a cause. “At least not at the end of a pistol,” he continued, attempting to stall.

  Another few inches and Wulf would be able to reach his weapon. He shifted again, setting his hand a little closer to the saddlebag.

  Wind rattled the branches above them, so they clacked and creaked like brittle bones. Wulf’s stallion sidestepped, pranced a few paces. Using both hands—unfortunately—Wulf brought the animal under control again.

  “Very well, Your Grace.” The pistol notched higher, its barrels seeming to stare at Wulf with two dark, round eyes. “Then I shall wound you with the first shot. Perhaps you shall change your mind.”

  “Unlikely.” Still, Wulf had lost the precious inches he’d gained reaching for his own weapon. His stallion was edgy, and the storm swirled around them—and the coins and pound notes in his pocket were not worth the effort.

  But by God, it was the principle. He’d not spent years dodging the guillotine in France only to be bested by a highwayman a few miles from his home.

  The wind sharpened, howled, and in the momentary silence as it died again, Wulf clearly heard a long-suffering sigh.

  “As you wish, Your Grace.”

  The report was deafening, slicing through the silence of snow and night. The already-spooked stallion reared, pawed the air. Even as Wulf recognized the searing pain in his shoulder for what it was, he understood he would not keep his seat.

  “Bloody hell!” he cursed, tumbling through flying snow.

  When the ground slammed into the back of his head, everything went black.

  Chapter 2

  She’d shot him. Actually shot him.

  “Damnation.” As the sound of panicked horse hooves faded into the night, Bea looked down at her pistol and let out an irritated huff. “Why did you have to pick now to be slippery?”

  Her aim was nearly perfect, and she’d never yet wounded any of her intended prey.

  Only frightened them.

  Bea contemplated the man sprawled on the ground as snow began to blanket his greatcoat. She couldn’t leave him here. Unconscious, wounded, and without a horse, since his had gone running off into the trees.

  He was also the Duke of Highrow—a boy she’d known. A man she didn’t.

  “Damnation,” she said again, as she saw the stains on the snow. Blood. She didn’t need sunlight to recognize the dark drops dotting the ground.

  Uncocking the second barrel of her pistol, Bea tucked the weapon into the waist of her breeches and dismounted. She tied her mare’s reins to the nearest tree, then strode forward.

  Highrow lay on his back, face bared to the dark sky and biting wind. Crouching, she probed his shoulder among the folds of his greatcoat and evaluated the damage.

  He groaned, which was heartening.

  Her search revealed the shoulder was just a flesh wound, and she repeated the actions on the back of his head, hatless now. Beneath thick hair just long enough to curl over his collar, she found a large knot. It was no wonder he was unconscious.

  Shifting, Bea stared down at the duke. She was close enough to discern the lean planes of his cheekbones, the strong jaw. Although she did not need any light to remember he was handsome. Extraordinarily so. Bea had known it since she was old enough to toddle after him at the village fair or at picnics. Before he had been the Duke of Highrow.

  He had been Wulf to her, then. Especially when he’d grown into a young man who teased and laughed with her, indulging a young girl’s foolish infatuation.

  She swallowed hard as guilt rippled through her. She’d wounded an old friend, even if it was barely a scratch. She ought to feel more appalled than she did, she supposed. But then, a highwayman did not feel pity for their victims when they were entirely too wealthy for their own good. Which he was.

  Her bad fortune that Wulf’s tracks were the set she’d followed. He had never been her target. If there was one man the Honorable Highwayman knew to avoid, it was Wulfric Standover. He had been a soldier for far too long.

  Leaning back on her heels, she studied the prone man. Well, she couldn’t leave him here. Wulf wouldn’t bleed to death, but he’d certainly freeze.

  Bea judged the area, stared up into the driving snow. The storm was getting worse. Blinding. The bite of the wind penetrated her woolen coat and even the thick scarf she’d wrapped about her face.

  “I suppose I should take care of you, now I’ve shot you.” Bea shook him a little, careful not to jostle his head, and was rewarded with a groaning curse. “Wake up,” she shouted over a sudden, howling gust.

  Wulf twitched, cursed again and clutched his shoulder.

  “Easy now,” she said, pitching her voice to the lower tenor she used as a highwayman. “I imagine it burns like hell, but it is not bad.”

  Eyes flicking open, he stared up at her. She remembered quite clearly the deep blue of his irises, though in the night they only appeared to be dark and fathomless.

  She wondered briefly if he would recognize her, then dismissed the idea. He’d never recognize her in her current garb. No one ever did. Hair short, no spectacles. Breeches. And it had been nearly a decade since they exchanged more than brief pleasantries. Wulf had been at war, and when he was home, he had paid no attention to an aging spinster.

  “Bloody hell, my head hurts.” Slowly, as if testing whether his skull would stay attached, Wulf turned to face her more fully.

  “I imagine so. You’ve a knot back there—not caused by me, I am happy to report. That was the ground.” Bea fought not to set a comforting hand on the broad expanse of his chest. Drawing back, she met his gaze. “Can you sit? Stand?”

  “You shot me.” Struggling to a sitting position, Wulf peered up at her from beneath hair whipped by the storm into an unruly frenzy. Fury sharpened the already keen planes of his face.

  “I told you I would. Now, you are bleeding, and we will both die if we do not find shelter.” She pointed to the sky. “Snowstorm.”

  “Surely, this is a jest. Or a dream.”

  “Not at all.” Bea pushed to standing, careful to keep the scarf hiding her face. “I know of a cottage not far from here. We will be safe enough until the storm lets up.”

  Another groan, and Wulf staggered to his feet. Casting his gaze about the path, he growled, “Where the devil is my horse?”

  “The horse has run off, and I don’t think there’s much to be done for him.” Bea retrieved her own mare, who still stood patiently waiting in the trees. “Horses are wily creatures, though. He’ll find a place to weather the—er, weather. As we should do, unless you’d prefer I leave you here to freeze?”

  A long, weighty pause spun out, fighting the tossed snowflakes.

  “First,” he said finally, “you intend to rob me—I presume you’re the Honorable Highwayman?” At her short, acknowledging nod, he continued. “Then you shoot me, and now you plan to shelter with me?”

  “I won’t shoot you again. I give you my word.” Bea shrugged, though she sent up a quick prayer he would not recognize her once they reached the cottage. Yet she could not abandon him. “You can’t walk back, my horse can’t carry the weight of both of us, and you really should attend to the wound. Also, I cannot help being honest. Or at least, to a degree. Leaving you here to freeze seems—dishonest.”

  He stared at her, mouth open. “What strange hell have I fallen into?”

  Wulf was not so foolish as to deny himself refuge, even if he was sheltering with a daft highwayman.

  The little cottage hunkered between dense trees, appearing barely strong enough to withstand the storm. An even more dilapidated shed leaned beside it. Wulf warily eyed the structures, expecting them to blow over at any moment.
r />   Yet the highwayman was correct that weathering the storm overnight would be impossible. Wulf was trapped—no horse and too far from sanctuary, and now he carried no weapon.

  Add to that, his damned wounds. Pain burned through Wulf’s shoulder—a pain he’d felt before, having taken a musket ball to the thigh in France, another in the shoulder in Brussels. Probing this new injury proved it was only a nick, as the highwayman indicated, and the blood had already thickened and slowed.

  It was his aching head he couldn’t escape.

  The highwayman gestured toward the cottage door, as if shooing Wulf inside. Narrowing his eyes, Wulf watched the man carefully lead his horse toward the shed.

  No choice but to enter. Even if he overpowered the slight man, restrained him, what would that accomplish? Very little at present. So, he would wait and see.

  He pushed at the cottage door, but it was stuck tight. Gritting his teeth, he thrust his good shoulder against the worn wood. The movement made his head throb, his abused shoulder beating in time even though he favored it, but he burst into the room with an explosion of dust and snow.

  Breath curling out to fade into the dark, he studied the single room and the shadowed furniture ranged throughout. Beyond the walls, the wind shrieked and wailed, but there was no betraying whistle. The cold would not fight its way between the wattle and daub that snugged the cottage frame. The little structure would do well enough.

  He picked his way toward the shadow of the wide hearth. Searching blindly with his good arm, he found a tinderbox and stacked wood. Kindling sat neatly beside it.

  The cottage might have appeared abandoned, but it clearly was not.

  He began to build the fire by touch rather than sight, then glanced over as he heard the highwayman step inside. The man moved toward a deep shadow, lifted something. As the kindling caught in the hearth, Wulf saw it was a blanket.

  “For the horse,” came the explanation. The voice was smooth now that it wasn’t fighting the storm and wind. Just how young was the highwayman? “I will return in a moment.”

  Whatever the highwayman’s age, he was no fool. He kept his back to the wall, eyes on Wulf, until he slipped once more through the door and into the storm. Wulf could not fault him.

  As the fire grew, the shadowy outlines of furniture became visible. A table and chairs, trunks lining one wall, shelves holding lanterns, crockery—even a teapot. Light crept into the dark, chilled corners of the room just as the highwayman returned.

  “A fire. Excellent.” He shoved the door closed, blocking out the howling wind and any sense of the world beyond.

  “What is this place?” Wulf added more wood, watched it catch and be consumed by flame.

  “Only a cottage well-stocked by those who might need it from time to time.” Face still partially concealed by the scarf, the highwayman stared at Wulf with eyes deep and dark.

  “Criminals? Poachers?” Any number of secrets might be hidden in the shadows of the room.

  “Perhaps.” A pause, then the deep, dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “Or a man who has angered his wife and wishes for a temporary roof over his head.”

  “That would explain the blankets and crockery.” There were such places in the forests in every country of the world. Espionage occurred in many of them.

  “A man needs to eat and sleep, even if his wife disagrees.” The highwayman stepped into the ring of firelight and held out gloved hands for warmth.

  Wulf watched his opponent, examining the man who had shot him. He moved with a strange type of grace, held his slight shoulders stiffly beneath the greatcoat. The bottom of his face was still covered, but the delicate line of a nose and narrow, curved brows were discernable.

  A thought began to form, as if all Wulf had needed was to organize the pieces of information he knew into the proper shape. Shock arrowed through him, swift and forceful, but he knew the truth.

  “You are a woman.”

  “No.” The highwayman did not look up, instead keeping his—her—face toward the fire.

  “The small mare, the movement of your body, your voice, even the tea pot there on the shelf—it is clear enough, if a man looks close.” And Wulf always looked, because he had learned long ago that details could keep a spy alive. “You are a woman.”

  There was a lengthy pause, as if the highwayman was weighing the benefits of the admitting the truth.

  “Very well, Highrow.” She began to unwind the scarf, slowly and deliberately, features beginning to emerge. A lush mouth. Creamy skin pinked by the cold. Large, thickly-lashed eyes. The scarf fell to the floor and her cap followed suit, revealing short, sweetly curling hair.

  She watched him for a moment, as if waiting for something significant.

  “Is that all? Any other secrets?” After being shot, forced into sheltering with his adversary, and discovering she was a woman, Wulf wasn’t certain he could withstand any other shocks.

  “I think that should do it.” She crouched in front of the hearth, pulling off her gloves and reaching toward the heat with elegant hands. Gold light edged over high cheekbones, over the strong curve of her jaw.

  He must be dreaming. Perhaps he’d had too much brandy at the house party after all.

  Except his shoulder burned and his head throbbed. The wind howled beyond the cottage door, rattling the windowpanes in their frames. Heat burgeoned from the flames well on their way to a blaze.

  This was no dream.

  The Honorable Highwayman was a woman. Clad in scarred leather boots and thick buckskin breeches, swallowed by the heavy greatcoat, but clearly a woman.

  Wulf had never heard a whisper of such rumors.

  Even as the revelation sank in, he searched her features for recognition, but could not recall seeing that strong face before.

  The woman pushed to her feet. Angling her head to meet his gaze while loose curls danced around her face, she said softly, “I am sorry I shot you.”

  Chapter 3

  “I usually miss after the warning—on purpose,” she added slyly. “My aim is quite accurate. Tonight the pistol slipped a little, ‘tis all.”

  “Forgive me if I am not impressed by your skill.” Confusion did not sit well on his shoulders, so Wulf shuffled what he knew of the Honest Highwayman to meet this new version of the truth. “I suppose I should thank you for not leaving me to freeze after you shot me.”

  “So you should, though that is neither here nor there at the moment. There are more important matters.” She raised a brow, almost as if challenging him to disagree. “Please remove your greatcoat.”

  “In order for you to inspect your handiwork?”

  Wulf had forgotten the pain in the midst of his surprise, but it flooded back now with a hot burst. Burning his shoulder, beating against his skull.

  “Just so.” Slim fingers began to efficiently unbutton her own greatcoat, moving swiftly over the wool.

  He was not certain he trusted his eyes as the outdoor garment fell to the floor. It was considerably smaller than his own, yet with its capes and squared shoulders it was no less masculine.

  The body beneath was anything but.

  Curved. Every bit of her was curved. Not lean or slender, or trying to hide in the breeches and coat. Instead, she was boldly feminine, the male clothing emphasizing every contour of hip and waist and breast.

  His mouth went dry.

  She did not notice. Instead, she ran her hand through loose, gold-brown curls, shaking her head as if to free them from an invisible band. “Please, come close to the fire so I may see the wound,” she commanded. As she angled her head, considering him, she murmured, “How is your head?”

  Throbbing in tandem with other body parts.

  “Well enough,” he said curtly, moving closer to the hearth as its building heat echoed the building heat in his blood. “I suppose if you shot me, you should attend to the wound.”

  Despite his head, despite the arm held stiffly against his side, a visceral, unexpected need gripped him. Clawed
at his gut. Wulf wanted to understand this woman, unravel the mystery of her as he might a code from Napoleon’s spies. Unwrap each layer and discover what lay hidden beneath both her clothing and her unusual pursuits.

  A woman taking to the road as highwayman was interesting, indeed.

  “I will bring a chair over while you remove your greatcoat.” She nodded toward a pair of simple chairs huddled beside the table. “You are so tall, I shan’t be able to reach your shoulder properly unless you are sitting.”

  “I am not so feeble as to be unable to retrieve a simple wooden chair.” With his good arm, Wulf picked up the nearest chair and set it carefully on the floor beside the hearth.

  “Men.” She shook her head and laughed, the sound husky and amused—and very much in keeping with her accompanying half-smile. “I suppose I have already stung your pride by shooting you.”

  “Quite.” Carefully, Wulf began to unbutton his greatcoat. After dropping it to the floor, he set to work on the jacket. Gritting his teeth, he slowly eased it off until he stood only in his waistcoat and shirtsleeves.

  Blood liberally stained the sleeve of his shirt, brilliant crimson against stunning white.

  “Oh, God.” Her whispered words held quiet distress. Full lips pressed together, thinned, then parted again after a deep inhale. “Hell, Highrow. I truly am sorry.”

  “So I see.” Wulf settled gingerly in the chair, quite certain of her regret.

  “I did not think there would be so much blood with such a shallow wound.” A somber expression moved across her features, sobering them as she gently touched his shoulder.

  “It is often the shallow ones that bleed the most profusely.” He murmured the words, trying to ignore the scents of fresh winter and warm cinnamon she carried with her.

  And her curving body.

  “For some reason, I am not as angry as I should be that you shot me.”

  “No?” She murmured the word, clearly distracted by her examination.

  Now that he was seated and she stood before him, each feminine sweep was so close. Too close. Hips and breasts, revealed by the breeches and coat, were within reach of his suddenly needy hands. But Wulf did nothing except grip his knees, forcing his body to stay still.