Dukes By the Dozen

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.

“Have you previously injured your—” he paused to find the word “—prey?”

“No. A warning shot is usually all that is necessary, though I’m quite adept at wounding haystacks.” Self-deprecation threaded through her words. “Surely, you are more practiced than I. You have been abroad. Seen war.” Her hands paused as she reached for the buttons of his waistcoat. They hovered there, long fingers so still and steady they might have been carved from marble. “Fought for your beliefs.”

“Yes.” He might have said more, but the fingers began to briskly unbutton his waistcoat as if the pause in her movements had never happened.