Chapter 1 #2
No one in his right mind would describe the formidable marquess, Cyn’s eldest brother, as a mother hen, but upon their parents’ deaths he had taken his five siblings under his autocratic wing and God help anyone who tried to harm them. Even the forces of war.
Rothgar seemed particularly protective of Cyn. This was partly because he was the baby of the family, but it was also his damned looks. Despite all evidence to the contrary people would persist in seeing him as fragile, even his family who certainly should know better.
He alone of the family had been gifted with the full glory of his mother’s delicate bones, green-gold eyes, russet-red hair, and lush lashes. His sisters—particularly his twin sister—had frequently asked heaven why such an unfair thing should have come about.
Cyn frequently asked the same question with the same amount of desperation.
As a boy he’d believed age would toughen his looks, but at twenty-four, a veteran of Quebec and Louisbourg, he was still disgustingly pretty.
He had to fight duels with nearly every new officer in the regiment to establish his manhood.
“Turn in the lane ahead.” The highwayman’s voice jerked Cyn out of his reverie. He obediently guided the horses into the narrow lane, straight into the setting sun.
He narrowed his eyes against the glare. “I hope it isn’t much further,” he remarked. “It’ll be dark soon and there’s little moon tonight.”
“It’s not far.”
In the gathering cold, steam rose off the team like smoke from a fire. Cyn cracked the whip to urge the tired horses on.
The youth lounged back, legs spread in contemptuous ease as he tried to convey the impression of age and hardened wickedness.
It was unwise. The cloak had fallen open and the slenderness of the legs revealed by the lounging position reinforced Cyn’s suspicion that he was dealing with a mere stripling.
He noticed, however, that the pistol remained at the ready, and silently gave the lad credit.
No fool, this one.
So what had led the young man into this rash escapade? A dare? Gaming debts he couldn’t confess to Papa?
Cyn didn’t sense true danger here, and his nose for danger was highly developed. He’d been a soldier in wartime since the age of eighteen.
He remembered the explosion in his family when he’d run off to enlist. Rothgar had refused to buy him a commission and so Cyn had taken the shilling.
The marquess had dragged him home, but after battles of will that left bystanders shaking, his brother had given in and bought him an ensigncy in a good regiment.
Cyn had never regretted it. He demanded excitement, but unlike many other sprigs of the aristocracy he had no taste for pointless mayhem.
He glanced at his captor. Perhaps a military career would suit this young rascal.
Some curious thought tickled the back of his mind and he ran his eyes over the youth.
Then he had it. He stilled a twitch of his lips and concentrated on the team as he absorbed the new information.
Judging from the smoothness at the juncture of ‘his’ thighs, Cyn’s captor was a woman.
He began to whistle. A promising situation indeed.
“Stop that damned noise!”
Cyn did so and looked at his companion thoughtfully. Women rarely spoke in such a clipped, harsh tone, and the creature’s neat bag-wig and tricorn allowed no possibility of long tresses pinned up beneath. Could he be mistaken?
Casually, he let his gaze slide down again and knew his suspicions were correct.
She wore fashionably tight knee-breeches and there was no male equipment under them.
Moreover, though the woman’s legs appeared slim and well-muscled, the breeches and fine clocked stockings revealed a roundness more feminine than masculine.
“How much further?” he asked, touching the weary off-leader with the whip to get them all over a particularly rough stretch. “This track’s the very devil.”
“That cottage ahead. Pull all the way into the orchard to hide the carriage. The horses can graze there.”
Cyn looked at the gateway, which contained a dip as deep as some ditches, and wondered if the carriage would make it. He dismissed such concerns. He was too tantalized by what the next stage of this adventure would bring.
With whip and voice, he urged the tired team through, keeping his seat with difficulty as the vehicle jarred down into the dip, then jerked up.
The abused axle gave a threatening squeal but did not crack.
He pulled the team up beneath the trees with a sense of accomplishment, and wondered if the wench realized just how skillful he had been.
His schoolboy passion for coaching had finally paid off.
“Fair enough,” she said ungraciously.
He began to think his mystery lady would turn out to be an antidote. All he could see of her features above the scarf were hard gray eyes. He guessed her lips to be set in a harsh line.
“What are you staring at?” she snapped.
“It seems reasonable to try to note your features so I can describe you to the authorities.”
She pointed the pistol straight at his face. “You’re a fool, do you know that? What’s to stop me from shooting you?”
He held her eyes, still relaxed. “Fair play. Are you the type to shoot a man for no reason?”
“Saving my neck might be reason enough.”
Cyn smiled. “I give you my word that I will do nothing to help the authorities apprehend you.”
The pistol drooped and she stared at him. “Who the devil are you?”
“Cyn Malloren. Who the devil are you?”
He watched as she almost fell into the trap and answered truthfully; but she caught herself. “You may call me Charles. What kind of a name is Sin?”
“C-Y-N. Cynric, in fact. Anglo-Saxon king.”
“I’ve heard of the Mallorens . . .” She stiffened. “Rothgar.”
“The marquess is my brother,” he acknowledged. “Don’t hold it against me.” He guessed she fervently wished she’d left him by the roadside. Rothgar was not a man to cross.
She made a good recovery. “I’ll judge you on your own deeds, my lord. My word on it. Now, unhitch the team.”
Cyn saluted ironically. “Aye, aye, sir.”
He climbed down and stripped off his greatcoat and tight-waisted frock coat. He tucked the foaming lace at his cuffs out of harm’s way, and went to work.
The sun had set, and there was little light.
A damp cold bit into him despite the hard work.
The task took some time and she didn’t help, just sat there, pistol at the ready.
At one point she looked behind him and said, “Go back to the house, Verity. Everything’s all right. We’ll be there in a while.”
Cyn looked around and saw the glimmer of a pale gown turn to go back to the cottage. He’d lay odds that had been the other highwayman. Everything about this situation intrigued him.
What were two young women who appeared to be of gentle birth doing in this cottage?
Why had they turned to thievery?
And what, in God’s name, did they want with the coach?
He rubbed the horses down with wisps of dry grass and covered them with the blankets Hoskins kept ready for a wait. “They could do with some water,” he said.
“There’s a stream down the end of the orchard. They’ll find it. Let’s get up to the house. You take the loot.”
Cyn gathered up his coats, not bothering to put them on again.
He went to the coach and collected the trinket case.
He considered the pistol thoughtfully. It would be ridiculously easy to pick up the firearm and shoot his captor.
As he left it there, he wondered whether he would regret his foolishness.
Within half an hour, the answer was yes.
From where he lay spread-eagled on a brass bed, hands and feet tied to solid corner-posts, he glared up at the three hovering women. “When I win free, I’m going to throttle the lot of you.”
“That’s why you’re bound,” said the one who still pretended to be male. “We wouldn’t know a moment’s peace if you were loose.”
“I gave my word you had nothing to fear from me.”
“Faith, you did not. You said you wouldn’t turn us over to the authorities. You might intend other mischief—against my sister and nurse, for example.”
Cyn looked at her thoughtfully. ‘Charles’ was proving to be a fascinating enigma. She had shed her cloak, hat, and scarf on entering the cottage. Soon, almost absentmindedly, the wig had gone too. He sympathized. He’d never liked wearing a wig and preferred the bother of his own hair.
Even stripped of disguise, she made a tolerably convincing young man. Her suit of braided brown velvet fit neatly, and if a bosom swelled beneath, the lace frill of her shirt hid it well enough.
Her head was not shorn, but her hair was a sleek cap of light brown dusted with gold, with just the ripples of a wave. It was an extraordinary hairstyle for a female, but it did not look as outrageous as it should, perhaps because she was not a soft-featured lady. She made a handsome youth.
She was smooth-skinned, of course, which made her look about sixteen, though he would guess she must be closer to twenty.
Her voice was rather low-pitched. Her lips might be charming if she relaxed them in a smile, but she kept them tight and angry.
He didn’t know why the devil she was so angry with him.
Her companions were equally mystifying.
Verity, presumably the sister, had long, lustrous wavy hair in a shade between honey and gold, and a soft, feminine mouth.
In contrast to Charles, she had a lush figure.
Presumably Charles had her breasts bound, but iron bands wouldn’t obliterate Verity’s generous shape, which was well-displayed by a low neckline and wide fichu.
The outfit she wore, however, was more suited to a serving maid than to a lady of quality.
Verity appeared to be the epitome of a womanly woman. To prove it she was much more nervous and kindhearted than her sister. “We can’t keep him like this indefinitely,” she pointed out.