Dukes By the Dozen

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.