Chapter 1
Yorkshire, 1812
Only a miracle could halt the wedding now.
Marisa Dunsmore whispered another hopeful prayer, though it did nothing to slow the carriage racing towards Westbrook Hall, the home of her betrothed. Soon she would have to abandon dreams of aid, divine or otherwise, but for the moment optimism was still a comfort.
She glanced at her brother Bernard, sleeping across from her, his head lolling in a most undignified fashion against the gold silk interior. He would be horrified to learn his meticulously arranged blond curls had flattened on one side, while his cravat was crushed beyond repair. Marisa bit back a grin. Since Bernard had refused every appeal to help her escape the wedding to Lord Westbrook, she would not inform him of his sartorial faux pas.
After all, betrayal did have its price.
They were still several miles from Westbrook Hall, though there would be no further stops, or chances to escape. Freedom had been so near at hand at the last posting inn. As soon as the carriage had stopped, Marisa had exclaimed the interminable trip from London had shattered her nerves, putting her in dire need of the necessary. She had clapped a hand over her mouth and run to the back of the inn. Once there, she detoured for the stables, ready to borrow one of the horses awaiting its turn in the traces. She reached toward the nearest mount, her heart leaping with elation, until Bernard's hand clamped around her arm, a triumphant expression lighting his features.
Marisa closed her eyes, weary at the reminder of her latest setback, and what it meant for her poor Aunt Althea. She tugged her red wool cloak closer, though the chill she tried to ward off was not due to any deficiency in Lord Westbrook's carriage. In truth, the coach's only defect was its inability to speed her away from the upcoming nuptials. Was it too much to hope for a small portion of divine intervention?
A single gunshot exploded, piercing the stillness with a loud crack.
"Stand and deliver!"
The coach skidded to a halt, the coachman yelling out to the York horses squealing in protest. Marisa bounced on the bench seat, grabbing for something, anything, to keep herself in place. She flew across the carriage, landing atop her brother, her elbow slamming into the side of his head. Bernard sat upright, rubbing the newly inflicted injury, and blinked in bewilderment.
Marisa grinned, her stomach tumbling with excitement.
Her prayers had been answered, and so quickly.
She darted toward the side glass, eager to glimpse the highwaymen accosting them. The carriage lamps reflected little except her own likeness, and she was not at all interested in the blue eyes and unruly blonde curls mirrored there. She rubbed the glass for a better view. The moon proved to be a brilliant lantern, illuminating the dozen or more brigands as they galloped from the surrounding beech trees, positioning their mounts around Lord Westbrook's coach.
"It is fortunate Lord Westbrook insisted on covering his crest on the carriage door," Bernard said in a tight voice.
Marisa swiveled to look at her brother. He tugged the ends of his cravat, frowning as the ruined linen drooped even further.
"Why should the crest matter? They have stopped the carriage regardless."
"You are quite valuable to your future husband," Bernard said, running his fingers through his hair.
Marisa's heart pounded. "Do you think they will abduct me?"
"I apologize, poppet." He stopped his primping and reached his hand towards her, his eyes sorrowful. "I did not mean to frighten you. I can assure you that will not happen."
"Oh." Marisa sat back against the silk cushions, her hopes deflated.
Bernard laughed. "Any other female would be clawing through her reticule for her smelling salts. Yet, rather than being terrified, you are irrationally hopeful."
"I am quite serious about not wedding Lord Westbrook."
She could see he was ready to retort, most likely something he had uttered earlier in response to her pleas, such as the maddening "you must marry some man, why not a wealthy one?" or the infuriating "I suppose you must insist on marrying for love".
Before he could incense her with the phrases again, the carriage door was thrown open, flooding the coach with the chill of a spring night, and the exhilarating prospect of freedom.
"Come join me under the stars this evening," a seductive voice invited.
Marisa's heart raced with anticipation. Some deity had heard her prayer, and answered it in a most extraordinary fashion. She stepped forward, eager to set eyes on her rescuer.
Bernard's arm shot out and blocked the doorway.
"I shall descend first," he said.
"Of course," Marisa demurred, retreating to her side of the carriage.
Bernard's eyes narrowed. "Do not attempt anything foolish, poppet."
Marisa donned her most innocent expression. The widened eyes and raised eyebrows often deceived her father into believing she had submitted to his will. However, her brother had experienced it too many times to be duped anymore.
"I am serious," Bernard warned. A reluctantly admiring smile spoiled the admonition.
Marisa fought off her own grin. "As am I, Bernard."
He gazed at her a few moments before turning to vault through the open door.
She heard Bernard's boots hit the hard ground, followed by the highwayman's cultured tones. "Thank you for your cooperation, my good man. And your traveling companions? Have they been overcome by shyness?"
Marisa giggled. She had been labeled many things in her twenty years, but shy was never atop the list. "Headstrong" and "hoydenish" were frequent descriptors, as was "devil's handmaiden", particularly when she refused to agree to her father's demands.
Such as his insistence on this wedding to Lord Westbrook, a man twice her age.
She placed a gloved hand at the opening of the carriage, her stomach fluttering with renewed optimism. She stretched her foot down to the metal step, but it had managed to disappear in the darkness, and she tumbled towards the paved roadway.
"Poppet!"
The highwayman sprang forward, before Marisa's own cry of dismay was past her lips. His gloved hands caught her at the waist, and in the next heartbeat Marisa's arms reflexively encircled his neck. Once assured that she was safe, the rogue should have placed her feet on the ground, and stepped away. Instead, he slid his arms around her, placing her flush against his chest in a very scandalous fashion.
Marisa's heart pounded, most likely with relief at avoiding disaster, though she had to admit her pulse raced anew at being held in such a protective embrace. She felt the muscled strength in the way he cradled her, yet it was tempered with gentleness, banishing any thoughts of fear she might have entertained.
A hint of sandalwood rose from his warm skin, mingling with the virile scent of a man accustomed to doing whatever he wished with his life. It was a combination both exotic and comforting. For the first time in a long while Marisa felt safe, and she had to fight the urge to lay her head on his shoulder.
She closed her eyes, thankful he could not see her reddened face, or divine her wayward thoughts. He was a means to freedom, nothing more. If only Aunt Althea had not filled her head with romantic notions throughout her childhood. . .
The highwayman lowered her until her half boots touched the ground, and only then did he release his hands. Marisa nearly sighed her disappointment.
"I must thank you for preventing a most disastrous episode," she said.
"I am delighted I could be of service to you, mistress."
The merriment in his voice caught her off guard. She glanced up, impatient to actually see this man who had been heaven-sent to aid her.
Her breath stopped in her throat. In the next instant, she could not remember the correct sequence of breathing, or how to restart it now that it had halted.
He was beyond handsome. Her brother Bernard was considered handsome, as were her other five brothers, so she was accustomed to seeing comely men on a daily basis.
This man was in another category entirely.
His strong jaw and elegant cheekbones denoted noble bloodlines, yet it was unlikely a man of aristocratic lineage would become a knight of the road. Perhaps he had been born on the wrong side of the blanket, and his only opportunity was to take up this lawless profession. Still, he wisely wore a strip of leather to conceal his identity, though it did nothing to disguise his appeal.
His long blond locks fluttered, as if the light breeze found them as irresistible as Marisa did. His thigh-high leather boots, and the black cape which swirled around him, made her heart skip more than once. She glanced once more at his face, to see amusement sparkling in his blue eyes. He tossed her an impudent wink.
Clearly he enjoyed her detailed perusal.
***
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