Dukes By the Dozen

Though size was not indicative of deadliness. The thief held the weapon as straight and steady as any spymaster Wulf had encountered during the Reign of Terror.

“What shall I deliver?” Wulf pitched his voice above the wind and narrowed his eyes, evaluating risk. He kept a pistol in his saddlebags, but he would never be fast enough to beat his opponent.

Still, he took one hand from the reins and slid it onto his thigh. Easily, he hoped, so it would seem natural and not calculated to move closer to the saddlebags.

“You may deliver whatever valuables you have on your person.” Through the eerie, dim, snow-light and thickening flakes, Wulf could distinguish a cap pulled low and a scarf wrapped around the thief’s face that was substantial enough to fight the wind. “Beginning with the winnings in your pockets, sir.”

“Now, how is it you know about the blunt in my pockets?” Wulf leaned casually on the pommel. Considered his adversary.

“A rich nabob like you, coming from a house party? Of course you have blunt.” The man’s jacket was big enough he might swim in it. A local lad, perhaps, fallen on difficult times.

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.