Chapter One
A cold wind snaked across the moorland as the coach slowed for the steep leg of road that led toward High Fell.
The horses always had a hard pull here, and Victoria Henshaw leaned forward to peer out the tiny window at her side.
Dark fell early in autumn, but the moon was up, nearly full, its light turned fitful by racks of flying clouds.
To her eyes, the rough stretch of moorland looked like it stretched on forever.
Forever. The word whispered in her mind.
Would she never forget? Oh, could she never forget?
Beside her in the coach and on the seat opposite sat her two young charges, chattering like birds at sunrise.
Victoria was governess to one of them, Miss Melissa Charles, daughter of the local Lord Beckenham.
The other girl was Missy’s best friend, Prudence.
The two girls, both sixteen, were inseparable, and Missy had persuaded Pru’s parents—who were also her own godparents—to let Pru come home to Beckenham with her for the night, following a day-long visit.
And still, Victoria thought wearily, they found something to talk about. Though she had to admit most of their chatter was nonsense, and in this case had given her a pounding headache, she still listened, perforce with half an ear.
She also heard the voice of Samuel up on the box encouraging the horses, and the carriage jerked into faster motion as they started up the rise.
Victoria had been over this stretch of road many, many times. She’d grown up in the district, daughter of the local vicar, and had both walked and ridden these particular miles.
For all that, it never failed to affect her.
Here. Here had been the last time she’d seen him.
Ah, she was tired. She needed to banish such thoughts for her own good. Yet she remained leaning forward, her eyes on the moorland as it came into full view at the top of the rise, the road stretching away like a ribbon spun of silver. Searching. Hoping?
But no. There was nothing for which she might search, and hope had long since died in her breast.
Pru giggled and Victoria turned from the window, catching only a glimpse of her own reflection in the wavy glass: staid, proper, her hair confined in a disciplined knot at the nape of her neck, her clothing plain and dark so as not to gather notice.
A proper governess never put herself forward. Just like a vicar’s daughter.
“This is the place, isn’t it?” Pru asked excitedly. “The stretch of road where he rides.”
Missy giggled also. Her laugh wasn’t quite as piercing as that of her friend, yet it drove another spike of pain through Victoria’s head. Lord Beckenham insisted Victoria accompany his daughter everywhere. A young girl’s reputation could not be guarded too closely.
A truth Victoria understood all too well.
But honestly, she’d run out of patience with these two girls hours ago. She wanted nothing more than to reach her own quarters, put up her feet, and enjoy an hour of quiet.
“They say this is the time of year when he rides most often,” said Missy with obvious enjoyment. “Because it was in the autumn he and his beloved tried to elope, and he died so tragically.”
Another shaft of pain shot through Victoria—this time piercing not her head but her heart. Aye, it had been this same time of year. All the trees had shed their leaves, which blew away just like the ribbons in Victoria’s hair when her father and the other men from the district caught them.
Do not think about it. Do not! These silly girls aren’t talking about that anyway, but about the old legend. Just a story.
But in this case, the story was too close to her own history for comfort.
“Janey Montgomery insists she saw him,” Missy continued.
“Three nights ago, when she and her mother were walking home from the village. She heard the hoofbeats first—ye know ye always do hear the hoofbeats. And when she turned, there he was on the brow of the hill. The black horse beneath him. And he had no head!”
Pru’s voice throbbed with enjoyment. “How can he ride without a head? How can he see where he’s going?”
“He’s a ghost, silly. Ghosts don’t need to see. Anyway, he’s looking for his beloved.”
“It’s so romantic,” Pru sighed.
Victoria pressed her lips together. At twenty-five, she was not very much older than these two girls, yet she was firmly on the shelf—thus her place serving as Missy’s governess—and they seemed unutterably foolish to her.
What did they know of love? The sort that made a woman pledge forever to one man despite his place or station in life? The sort that would not allow her to forget him—even when she wished she could?
Missy leaned forward to take the curtain from Victoria’s fingers and peer out in turn, vacuous excitement still filling her eyes. A pretty girl—both of them were—she relied heavily on mischievous charm as an alternative to strict propriety.
“Is he out there?” she asked facetiously. “Only look at the moonlight! It’s exactly the sort of night he might—Oh.”
She froze.
They had attained the top of the rise, and the moor lay spread out before them. Utterly deserted, it was. This stretch—the last before the village that was part of Lord Beckenham’s estate—contained no houses, not so much as a lowly cottage.
Well, not quite deserted.
Along the ribbon of road ahead of them came a lone horseman, approaching at great speed. Indeed, so swiftly did he fly that Victoria fancied she could see a trail of moondust rising from the horse’s hooves behind him.
She caught her breath as all thoughts of romance flew from her mind.
They’d been warned of this. The repeated reports of a highwayman operating in the district were the very reason Lord Beckenham had sent them so heavily escorted with the outriders in addition to the driver, Samuel, and the footman who rode clinging to the rear of the carriage.
The outriders were armed, and now she heard one of them call to the other in warning or alarm.
Her stomach tightened. Were they about to be held up? They carried no riches—just the baubles the girls wore. But in truth, these two gentlewomen were the treasures Victoria must guard.
“Is that him?” Pru came pushing in between Missy and Victoria so they all peered out together, able to see ahead where the road bent like a bow.
“No, silly. He has a head. It’s—” Missy froze. “Who is that?”
“Sit back,” Victoria ordered them even as Timothy, one of the outriders, spurred his horse forward past the side of the coach. “Keep away from the windows.”
They shrank back, any puerile enjoyment deserting their faces. But Victoria could not keep her eyes from the scene unfolding outside, lit to brilliance by the silver moonlight.
The rider sat astride a black horse, a tall, powerful animal with a streaming mane. He was dressed all in black with no hint of any other color about him. Tall black boots, trousers, and a cape that swirled out behind him. A black hat cocked on his head—for yes, he did possess one of those.
No phantom, this, despite Missy’s stories. A real man.
A real danger.
For he brandished a pistol. As he raised it, the moonlight skittered down the length of the barrel, winking with wicked purpose.
All the breath fled from Victoria’s lungs.
“Do not move!” she told her charges.
And the man sitting the horse with the dancing hooves cried, “Stand and deliver!”
Oh, God, Victoria prayed. Oh, dear God, do not let anyone get hurt.
For she knew all too well that the outriders, while armed, were actually just grooms from Lord Beckenham’s stables and quite likely no less intimidated at this moment than she.
Samuel, on the box, was the eldest among them, being in his thirties with a wife and two children, but he went unarmed.
“What is happening?” asked Pru, pressing herself into the frogs of the seat.
Victoria found the breath to speak. “We are being held up. Let our escort handle it.”
Please.
“Victoria?” Missy sounded like the child she mostly was. Victoria should go to her. But for her life, she couldn’t take her eyes from what unfolded outside.
She heard a scrape and a thump as Philip left his post at the rear of the carriage. He ran past her window and joined the others of their men beside Samuel on the box.
Please, please do not let anyone get shot. She knew these men, liked them all. Samuel had children.
“We’re armed!” shouted Timothy bravely. “Be off with ye!”
The bandit did not move. He sat his mount easily, controlling the beast without touching the reins. One hand gripped the pistol. The other made a magnanimous gesture in the air.
“Hand o’er yer valuables, and I do assure ye, I’ll be gone.”
“This is Lord Beckenham’s coach,” Samuel snarled. “Nay valuables aboard.”
“I do not believe ye. Beckenham is a wealthy man. Is he inside?”
“Nay!” Samuel returned.
“Well, I am certain—” the robber began before pointing his pistol at one of the men, possibly Deke on the far side. Victoria could not see. “Do not. Ye will be dead before ye can aim it. I am an excellent shot.”
His accent was heavy, pure Yorkshire and familiar for that. Victoria, now virtually pressed against the wavy glass, could not see his face for the brim of his hat, shutting out the moonlight.
“Lord Beckenham, as I say, is a wealthy man. Whoever rides inside will have something o’ value they can trade for yer lives—and their own.”
“’Tis only the women!” poor Timothy cried, sounding as terrified as Victoria felt. “Lord Beckenham’s daughter, her friend and the—the governess.”
“Women, eh? Ha’ them step out.”
Oh, Lord, no. Please no. Do not put these girls through that.
“Stay where you are,” Victoria told Missy. “Whatever happens.” If need be, she’d step out. Face off against the bandit.
But Samuel said, “I cannot let them out. I dare not. ’Twould be worth my life.”
“’Tis worth yer life either way.” With deliberate precision, the bandit aimed his pistol at the box.
There came a flurry of movement. A shot rang out, and a cry, almost as one. The horses started and the coach rocked so violently, Victoria fell against the door. The bandit’s horse stood firm.
“What’s happened?” Pru began to cry.
“Is someone shot?” Missy croaked.
“I do not know,” Victoria replied.
Smoke rose up from the bandit’s pistol. Quickly, he drew another from a loop at his saddle and repeated patiently, “Ask the women to step out.”
Not a sound ensued. The coach horses had settled back down.
The highwayman raised his voice. “Whoever’s in the coach, step out carefully, unless ye wish yer coachman to die.”
“Stay where you are,” Victoria told the girls again. If she went out, might it satisfy him? But she had no valuables to hand over, not so much as a single bauble.
She fumbled with the door latch, her fingers stiff and clumsy, and pushed the door open. The steps were not down and she more than half fell onto the road, which lay awash with moonlight.
Shutting the door behind her, she faced the highwayman.
Oh, and he looked huge sat there upon his tall horse, the silver road behind him. Utterly terrifying. She took one step forward, then another, pausing beside the rear of the nearest coach horse.
“We have no valuables,” she called in a voice that sounded far steadier than it had any right to. “We are but three women trying to reach home. Pray, let us go.”
The bandit’s horse stepped toward her. It must have moved by magic, for she saw him give it no signal. The bandit peered down at her, silvered in the moonlight, and studied her for a long moment.
“Please,” she said again, and it was not to him. Another prayer, maybe.
That moment seemed to last forever. Then he suddenly swept off his hat, bowed to her, and said, “Well, since ye ask so politely.”
He replaced the broad-brimmed hat on his head, brought his mount around, still without touching the reins, and, in an achingly beautiful movement, the horse leaped away, leaving their party in the road.
“After him!” Deke cried. But no one moved, perhaps not eager to chase down such a well-armed bandit. A single glance told Victoria they’d never be able to catch him anyway. He and the horse flew like a dark wind.
“Are ye hurt, lad?” Samuel cried. Victoria knew she should walk around the coach, see if, aye, anyone had been shot. She simply could not move.
“Nay,” Deke replied. “He missed me. On purpose, I think.”
He. The highwayman.
Victoria had got one good look at him when he’d swept off his hat, revealing himself to the moon. A fall of long hair, black as midnight. A handsome, clever face sculpted by a master, sharp at cheekbones and jaw. A face she knew. A pair of eyes capable of looking straight into her soul.
But that was impossible. Utterly impossible, for he was dead and gone.