Page 3 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

“Has our driver been harmed?” Grace asked, mortified that she was only now thinking of his welfare. Neither he nor the footman who had served as an outrider were anywhere in sight.

“Nothing that a spot of love and tenderness won’t cure,” the highwayman assured her. “Is he married?”

What was he talking about? “I—I don’t think so,” Grace replied.

“Send him to the public house, then. There is a rather buxom maid there who—Ah, but what am I thinking? I am among ladies.” He chuckled. “Warm broth, then, and perhaps a cold compress. And then after that, a day off to find that spot of love and tenderness. The other fellow, by the way”—he flicked his head toward a nearby cluster of trees—“is over there. Perfectly unharmed, I assure you, although he might find his bindings tighter than he prefers.”

Grace flushed, and she turned to the dowager, amazed that she wasn’t giving the highwayman a dressing down for such lewd talk. But the dowager was still as pale as sheets, and she was staring at the thief as if she’d seen a ghost.

“Ma’am?” Grace said, instantly taking her hand. It was cold and clammy. And limp. Utterly limp. “Ma’am?”

“What is your name?” the dowager whispered.

“My name?” Grace repeated in horror. Had she suffered an apoplexy? Lost her memory?

“Your name,” the dowager said with greater force, and it was clear this time that she was addressing the highwayman.

But he only laughed. “I am delighted by the attentions of so lovely a lady, but surely you do not think I would reveal my name during what is almost certainly a hanging offense.”

“I need your name,” the dowager said.

“And I’m afraid that I need your valuables,” he replied. He motioned to the dowager’s hand with a respectful tilt of his head. “That ring, if you will.”

“Please,” the dowager whispered, and Grace’s head snapped around to face her. The dowager rarely said thank you, and she never said please.

“She needs to sit down,” Grace said to the highwayman, because surely the dowager was ill. Her health was excellent, but she was well past seventy and she’d had a shock.

“I don’t need to sit down,” the dowager said sharply, shaking Grace off. She turned back to the highwayman, yanked off her ring, and held it out. He plucked it from her hand, rolling it about in his fingers before depositing it in his pocket.

Grace held silent, watching the exchange, waiting for him to ask for more. But to her surprise, the dowager spoke first.

“I have another reticule in the carriage,” she said—slowly, and with a strange and wholly uncharacteristic deference. “Please allow me to retrieve it.”

“As much as I would like to indulge you,” he said smoothly, “I must decline. For all I know, you’ve two pistols hidden under the seat.”

Grace swallowed, thinking of the jewels.

“And,” he added, his manner growing almost flirtatious, “I can tell you are that most maddening sort of female.” He sighed with dramatic flair. “Capable. Oh, admit it.” He gave the dowager a subversive little smile. “You are an expert rider, a crack shot, and you can recite the complete works of Shakespeare backwards.”

If anything, the dowager grew even more pale at his words.

“Ah, to be twenty years older,” he said with a sigh. “I should not have let you slip away.”

“Please,” the dowager begged. “There is something I must give to you.”

“Now that’s a welcome change of pace,” he remarked. “People so seldom wish to hand things over. It does make one feel unloved.”

Grace reached for the dowager. “Please let me help you,” she insisted. The dowager was not well. She could not be well. She was never humble, and did not beg, and—

“Take her!” the dowager suddenly cried out, grabbing Grace’s arm and thrusting her at the highwayman. “You may hold her hostage, with a gun to the head if you desire. I promise you, I shall return, and I shall do it unarmed.”

Grace swayed and stumbled, the shock of the moment rendering her almost insensible. She fell against the highwayman, and one of his arms came instantly around her. The embrace was strange, almost protective, and she knew that he was as stunned as she.

They both watched as the dowager, without waiting for his acquiescence, climbed quickly into the carriage.

Grace fought to breathe. Her back was pressed up against him, and his large hand rested against her abdomen, the tips of his fingers curling gently around her right hip. He was warm, and she felt hot, and dear heaven above, she had never—never—stood so close to a man.

She could smell him, feel his breath, warm and soft against her neck. And then he did the most amazing thing. His lips came to her ear, and he whispered, “She should not have done that.”

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