Page 1 of The Lord Meets His Lady
One
Early November, 1768
Brisk Northumberland wind slapped his face and stung his eyes. Beneath him, Khan’s hooves pounded Devil’s Causeway, the Roman road his path to exile. His grip on the reins tightened. Banished he was to Cornhill-on-Tweed by his own edict for excessive drinking and gambling. His brother, the Marquis of Northampton, had railed long and loud about damage done to the family reputation. Besmirching the family name…a bad practice when the marquis was on the hunt for a wealthy bride.
Marcus squinted into the frigid darkness. A quiet winter stay at Pallinsburn cottage was required. He’d bide his time, look after his mother’s deserted childhood home. What possible trouble could be stirred up there?
Limbs aching from his long ride, he spied a shortcut, but Khan crested a knoll, his gait flagging on the cracked stone road. Steam curled off his steed’s hot, silver-gray coat.
“Need a rest, my friend?” Cupping his hands over his mouth, Marcus blew warmth on chilled skin.
The horse snorted, tipping his muzzle at a moon-drenched meadow. They weren’t alone.
“What have we here?” Marcus sat taller in the saddle, brown hair whipping across his eyes.
A vehicle squatted at a fork in the road. Likely a stagecoach stuck in a rut. To his left, low, stone walls stretched far, the seams binding Northumberland. Those fences were child’s play for Khan. He counted them, planning his route when an icy gust boxed his ears.
“Damn wind,” he muttered, hunkering deeper into his redingote. The comfort of a warm bed couldn’t be more than an hour’s ride if he cut through those pastures.
His gaze darted back to the idle coach. The riders probably longed for a warm bed too. Humble buildings of Lowick village clustered a quarter mile ahead. The passengers weren’t truly stranded. Hecouldmove on. Patrons shoved coaches out of ruts all the time, a standard practice for middle-class travelers. Yet no one was pushing this coach. At the side of the road, an older man held up a swaying candle lantern. Short and slight of build, the man waggled a finger at a slouching fool of good size. The smaller man rocked onto the balls of his feet, his bandy-legged stance full of authority.
“Got to be the driver giving an earful to an unruly rider,” Marcus mused aloud.
Two women huddled near the back wheel. Did anyone look to their safety?
“Where are the men?” He picked up the reins. Perhaps a trot down there was in order. Take a quick look and—
Metal flashed.
The old man stumbled backward. “Whot’s this?” His cry carried up Devil’s Causeway.
The women shrieked and flattened themselves against the coach as the miscreant waved a weapon.
A highwayman.
Blood surging and coattails flying, Marcus palmed the Spanish wheel lock tucked in his hip boot. Khan’s hooves pounded like thunder. The highwayman startled, dropping his blunderbuss. A real crack criminal of the first order.
Marcus reined Khan to a halt, dry dirt spraying the fallen weapon. The oaf bent at the waist, reaching for it.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Marcus cocked his pistol, and moonlight bounced off polished steel.
The man righted himself. “Who are ye?”
“Lord Marcus Bowles, at your service.”
He sprang from the saddle, expecting the highwayman to spout a colorful sobriquet, but this one merely staggered back, wiping his sleeve across his bulbous nose. A quick scan of the tree-lined gully showed no one lurking. Further out, a trio of stone cottages hunkered by a stone wall, their windows dark. Everything was stark and quiet, save the skirling wind.
The coachman snatched his hat off the ground and whacked it against his leg. Head cocked, Marcus sized up the highwayman. The youth was tall but barely old enough to strop a razor.
“Me blunderbuss. I need it back.”
Marcus stepped on the brass barrel, a whiff of Irish stout coming off the youth. “I’m not in the habit of handing over pistols to highwaymen.”
“Horatio? A highwaymon?” The coachman wheezed curt laughter. “Why, he’s the Jolly Sheep’s hostler come to fix a broken brace on me coach.” He swung his lantern around. “See there.”
Light glowed over village names painted on garish yellow panels, the stage stops from London to Edinburgh. The tired vehicle listed to one side, a broken leather strap dangling off the front axle.
Marcus peered at the driver. “Since when do hostlers point pistols at coachmen?”
