Lords, Snow and Mistletoe

by Bianca Blythe

  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.

  “And do you have a name?” she found herself asking.

  “Not for you.”

  “Then I’ll call you Percival.”

  He swung his head over to her, and his mouth gaped open.

  “Your forename was on your valise.” She faltered under the magnitude of his startled gaze. “Though it speaks of an informality I’m uncomfortable with.”

  “I think we left formalities behind a long time ago,” he mused, but his voice sounded hoarser than before.

  Chapter Seven

  Percival clenched his fingers around the reins. She knew his name. By Zeus, maybe she knew about the jewels. Maybe she knew he’d recently inherited a bloody dukedom. Maybe this whole thing was planned in advance, and he was merrily driving himself to some kidnapper’s lair, to the sound of jingling Christmas bells, where he’d wait until the dowager duchess might wrangle up appropriate amounts of money to appease the criminals.

  He squeezed his fingers against the leather reins. The now-familiar pain surged through him, and he fought the urge to massage the wound.

  The carriage wheels clattered, and the lantern swerved ahead, throwing dim light over the narrow lane. On occasion a fox scrambled from the road toward the tall hedges that soared on either side. He wondered what local gentry lived here and if he might guide the coach to a destination that differed from the one of the highwaywoman’s choice.

  What desperation had driven her to this life?

  He needed to make an escape. No one needed to know that the new Duke of Alfriston was so incapable that he’d managed to get himself kidnapped mere months after taking on the dukedom. But Zeus—she knew his name.

  He’d already revealed more to this nefarious-minded stranger than he did to most others. He’d never suffered from chattering too much before. Quite the opposite, if his conversations with the women of the ton were any indication. But he’d never quite succeeded in feigning an interest in flowers and dresses, and they’d never quite followed his conversations about war.

  In previous years he’d seen the slight, but definite wrinkles of their noses when he’d mentioned that he was the wrong Carmichael, and their eager excuses when he’d revealed that an actual duke, his cousin Bernard, was nearby. Percival’s brother Arthur was the fun Carmichael, the one who effortlessly earned himself the reputation of rogue, and his cousin had been the sensible one with the title and the vast estate. He had two sisters as well, Louisa and Irene, though thankfully neither had debuted yet. His mother and stepfather indulged their own interest in travel, though they seemed content in Massachusetts.

  He sighed. Bernard wasn’t here anymore. The man’s last breath had been swallowed on the fields of Waterloo, his last action saving his cousin, instead of himself, from the French.

  If his older cousin had only married. If only he had not been heroic and sailed to France. If he’d had children, particularly of the masculine variety, Percival would not be under this pressure now, and the dowager would be able to look forward to the good characteristics of her son continuing the line. Percival’s youthful desire to become a physician did not endear him to her, and she’d made it plain she thought him untrained and ill-bred for the momentous task of managing the enormous Alfriston estates, sprinkled from Sussex to Yorkshire.

  What could he do besides strive to be the best duke he could be? His cousin had died trying to save him. Appeasing the man’s mother was the least he could do.

  The woman’s scent drifted over him, warm strands of vanilla mixed with amber and berries. It seemed more complex, more mature than the perfumes crammed with roses and musk he was accustomed to.

  He let his gaze return to her. She hadn’t complained once of discomfort. Occasionally her lips contracted as if attempting to prevent a yawn from escaping.

  His lips turned upward despite himself.

  She would almost amuse him, if he could ignore the fa
ct that she was an outlaw.

  His stomach hardened. He shouldn’t be seeing good qualities in her. She was a professional. A woman of the very worst sort.

  Stopping a coach. Letting the rest of her dastardly band linger in the woods. Yes, she was definitely a professional. He was sure most thieves would want to work up to that point, conscious of the many things that could go wrong.

  Likely this woman had already experienced all of them.

  By Zeus, perhaps she had even killed people.

  He shivered and turned to her. “So do you have a name? Or do you just go by Miss Demon?”

  She chuckled, but then shifted her legs. “I’ll tell you soon. I promise. Or I won’t. It depends—”

  “On if you get caught first?”

  She nodded.

  Did the woman mean to kill him after all? Tell him her name to appease some sort of dying wish, after whatever criminals she consorted with robbed him? He didn’t want to speculate on why it would be bad for him to learn her name before the trip, and why it would be fine for him to learn it after.

  He scanned the horizon, but no ruffian popped out and no horse galloped toward him, carrying a criminal branding a rifle. His skin prickled, not entirely because of the cold weather.

  By summer he would be happy and settled, even if he wasn’t a doctor, even if that particular dream hadn’t come true. He’d be enjoying all that everlasting love and such. Lady Cordelia—she was it. One didn’t need to meet her to know it.

  He patted the inside fold of his great coat where he’d hidden the jewels for his future fiancée, and then hastily removed his hand. He glanced at the Scarlet Demon. Her eyes met his, but she remained as before, staring straight in front of her, observing as the coach passed underneath bare branches.

  Likely this would all be pretty in the summer, but now snow sat on the branches instead of leaves and flowers, and he’d seen scarcely any animals.

  By Zeus, what was he thinking about? Musing about flowers and leaves, like some penniless poet. Though even they had a propensity to wander the countryside, while he was confined to a blasted coach.

  “Your great coat. What’s in it?” the woman murmured to him.

  She had noticed.

  “Nothing.” He averted his gaze. He told his heart to stop its frantic rhythm of thumps, and he told his breath that it needn’t quicken as if he had a cannon trapped in his body.

  But he also saw the knife, which was directed far too near him.

  He heaved a sigh. “Put that down.”

  “No.”

  “It’s dangerous.” I don’t have time for this.

  “It’s supposed to be.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What are you hiding?”

  “Nothing of your concern.” He sucked in a deep breath of air. “It’s not money.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be able to get money easily? What with being a thief and everything? You probably have a stack of coins down your boots.” He peered down at them. They were worn, but the leather did not seem completely lacking in quality. He shook his head. He’d never met a highwaywoman before, and it was natural for her to not entirely fulfill his expectations.

  “You’re asking me to steal?”

  “No! Though you needn’t act so appalled. It is your profession.”

  “Then why don’t you go around shooting people?” She huffed beside him. “Isn’t that your profession?”

  “If his Majesty’s Army wanted me to do so . . .”

  “Well I don’t steal on whim either.” She paused. “Unless the head smuggler asked me to do so. I mean, then I can be exceedingly effective.”

  “Right.”

  She lowered her voice, and a trace of a French accent sounded. “You wouldn’t want to meet me on an abandoned road.”

  He sighed. “I already have. And I’m being dragged in the opposite direction of my destination.”

  Far away from London and the ton and the Christmas ball that would mark the start of his new life. He’d made appearances in London since his accident, but now Lady Cordelia, the woman who would have married his cousin, was there. He’d have her by his side, and everything would be different.

  He wasn’t sure this ride was all that much worse than London would be.

  The thought was ridiculous. His new life promised brilliance. That’s why he hadn’t been spending his time dreaming about it while at war. It wasn’t that his new life wasn’t something he wanted—it was just that it was better than anything he ever could have imagined.

  That was all.

  Another carriage approached them with an actual gold crest and brightly painted wheels.

  “Oh dear Lord.” The red-headed woman ducked her head down.

  “You’re reaching to religion now?” He tilted his head. “The first thing you could do is release me. I’m sure the Lord would approve.”

  “Not funny.” She gritted her teeth. “Just continue driving. More quickly.”

  He furrowed his brows and swung his head back toward the departing carriage.

  “Don’t look!” The woman squealed. “That might draw attention.”

  “So would a woman pushing her head down. They might suspect—” He grinned, for one second allowing himself to envision just what the other people might be thinking.

  “This is a mail coach,” she stammered. “They shouldn’t see us on a mail coach. That’s not the plan.”

  “Do highwaywomen tend to travel in greater luxury?” He arched his eyebrows up.

  The woman drew her head back up at once, staring straight in front of her. She pulled her hood up, and Percival stifled a laugh. “Women rarely ride beside the driver.”

  “I am not going inside.”

  He jostled the reins, and the coach darted forward. Soon the luxurious carriage was far behind, though the woman’s nervousness had scarcely eased.

  “Pull over at that tavern.”

  “Ah . . . Time for me to eat.” Percival patted his stomach.

  And run away. But the Scarlet Demon didn’t need to know that part of the plan just now. She’d find that out soon enough, hopefully well after he’d expanded the distance between them.

  He smiled as he directed the horses toward the half-timbered building. A faded sign said Old Goblet Lodge. He just needed to get away before the woman told everyone who he really was. And have dinner. Zeus knew he wouldn’t be making any stops after he made his escape.

  Her smile tightened. “Just don’t flee.”

  “Better not brandish that knife around there. You might find yourself getting hauled over to the magistrate’s.”

  “I’m sure that’s a vision that appeals to you,” she said.

  He laughed, and they descended the steps of the carriage. He gripped his cane tightly and maneuvered to the cobblestones below.

  The Scarlet Demon offered him her hand. He smiled; he would almost miss her.

  He forced his gaze away from her, toward the sky. “It’s going to snow.”

  “Nonsense. The stars are out.”

  “I’ve spent enough nights looking at the sky. Sleeping outside becomes more appealing when you’re in a tent full of snorers.”

  “How very—individualistic of you.”

  He nodded, though he didn’t mention that it wasn’t just snoring he’d longed to escape. The men shouted in their sleep, reliving battle experiences every time they shut their eyes. Perhaps their minds were trying to extract some meaning from their experiences, but it was impossible; there was none.

  He pushed open the door to the tavern, the red-headed woman at his side. Her eyes widened as they entered. Groups of men clustered at wooden tables. A few chess boards were scattered around, and in one corner men played darts. Some men were eating. Tankards adorned the tables, brimming with delightful liquids that ranged from gold to amber in color.

  He headed to the counter. He would eat, drink, and then flee. The scent of mince pies filled the tavern, an
d Percival groaned.

  “Are you quite alright?” The scarlet-haired woman directed her gaze at him, and he suppressed a laugh.

  “I’d feel better if I weren’t captured.”

  Her smile wobbled. “Later.”

  Yes, later was definitely not anything he wanted happening anytime soon. The floor creaked underneath his steps, and he ducked to avoid the wooden beams. “Some of the patrons look like they’ve been here for centuries, gossiping about Anne Boleyn.”

  An elderly man cleared his throat and narrowed his eyes slowly as if the action drew all his exertion. His gaze dropped to Percival’s wooden stump. “You look a mite ragged yourself.”

  “At least I was once handsome.” Percival ignored the stern gaze the man fixed on him. He hated when people drew attention to his leg. He put his hand on the small of the woman’s waist and raised his voice. “These people lack all sense.”

  Greenery dangled from the ceiling, and the scent of mulled wine mingled with the ale dispersed about the pub. He tried to relax, but the group of men scowling at him unsettled him.

  The Scarlet Demon eyed a group of flamboyantly dressed woman. “Such strange clothes.”

  “I take it I shouldn’t add experience with whoring to your list of crimes.”

  Her eyes widened, and he grinned. In the light her emerald shards really shone. So much life in them. He could almost forget she’d taken him to this God-forsaken place. Nobody to help him here, that was certain.

  A barmaid marched to them. “Ale?”

  “And meat,” Percival said.

  “For me too,” the Scarlet Demon said. “And um—potatoes and broccoli.”

  “I knew you were hungry,” Percival said.

  “You’re paying.”

  “I wondered when you were going to start robbing me.”

  She chuckled, and Percival almost laughed with her. He tapped his fingers against the table and considered informing these people he’d been captured. That hadn’t worked before, and the thought of the magistrate locking her up somewhere didn’t fill him with the pleasure it should have. No, far better to slip out quietly. He wouldn’t have a scandal, and she wouldn’t be harmed.