Outside London
Summer 1877
Temptation came in many forms. The shine of a gold coin, the taste of fine whiskey. A fine woman with eyes the color of
expensive dark chocolate.
Rory Jameson knew temptation. And he liked chocolate.
What he could see of the woman’s hair beneath the voluminous hood of her cloak was as dark as her exotic eyes. He’d
felt her gaze pause on him as she’d squeezed into the crowded taproom, then made her way toward the long oaken bar
with an ease born of familiarity.
Buried in the smoke and noise surrounding him, Rory watched her, intrigued by the womanly shape her cloak failed to
hide. Everything about her brought to mind a night of sin. Over the rim of a shot glass of smooth Irish whiskey, a smile
slowly tugged at his mouth. He had finally found something worthy of his interest in this backwoods hamlet.
Rory was a man who enjoyed his vices. He’d lived hard, but unlike many of his peers, he hadn’t died young. And he had
no intention of doing so. At least not tonight.
Indeed, at two and thirty, he’d managed to live longer than most ever expected. A combination of luck and fortitude got
him this far in a profession that fed its young into the gristmill just to see what came out on the other side. He’d seen
much of the world in one fashion or another and intended to see the rest before old age or a bullet took him off the
playing field forever.
He feared little, except perhaps missing his niece’s birthday and disappointing his sister, which in the end had been what
brought him to this part of England on this sleepy summer’s eve. The letter she’d received a month earlier from their
estranged grandfather burned more than a hole in his pocket and, more than once, he’d wondered how Lord Granbury
had found him.
He relegated those thoughts to the back of his mind as he relaxed in his chair and felt it creak beneath his weight. He
sat in the shadows near the opened window, his legs casually crossed at the ankles. Soft leather riding boots hugged
his calves. He drank as he continued to watch the dark-eyed beauty’s progress across the room as she stopped to talk
to the barkeep. Her hood slipped slightly to her shoulders revealing her profile and he wondered for a moment at her
age.
His eyes narrowed as he watched her exchange, her gloveless hands animated as she spoke, the movement of her lips
drawing his eyes to her mouth.
Arousal pressed against the fine black wool of his trousers, which he found damn hard to ignore. His mind noted that
everything about her seemed out of place in this crowded public room filled with a medley of drunken men, footpads,
and slatterns, yet no one accosted her. In fact, the burly barkeep currently eyed Rory, something of which he had just
became aware. The oaf ’s silent warning seeming to overtake other patrons as well for they too turned to peer toward
where Rory sat, as if he’d trespassed in forbidden territory. The air around him grew chilled. Recognizing the type of
men here, he suspected the only reason he’d not been challenged yet was that his manner and clothing warned them
he would prove to be something more than a casual mark.
Amused by his interest in the local entertainment, Rory tipped back the shot of whiskey, liberating his conscience as he
set the glass on the scarred table next to the half-empty bottle. He stood, removed a coin from his pocket, and flipped it
into his shot glass. At two inches over six feet, he had to duck his head to avoid bumping the low-hanging gas lamp. He
didn’t look back at the girl, though he could feel her eyes on him now. The sensation was as physically arousing as if
she’d put her hands all over him. And it was as novel as it was discomfiting. Perhaps even more so because she’d left
him with a curiosity. He wanted to know who she was.
##
Winter Ashburn’s hand paused on the frayed edge of the curtain separating her from the crowded taproom, her gaze
lingering on the door through which the tall, dark-haired stranger in black had just passed. The mammoth rack of antlers
above the oaken door seemed to frame the quiet drama of his exit in her mind as she stood hidden within the confining
shadows of the storage room. She dropped the curtain, shocked as awareness of him shimmied through her veins like
an electrical current. The man was a stranger, an outsider yet there had been something familiar about his lazy smile.
And the race of her heart had nothing to do with the frantic reason that had brought her to this inn tonight.
A solid thud of the door sounded behind Winter, and she turned to greet the older woman who stepped into the room. A
soiled apron clung to Mrs. Derwood’s ample bosom where her hands now made use of the apron skirt as if it were a
towel.
Mrs. Derwood’s massively built son, the Stag & Huntsman’s proprietor and barkeep who had directed Winter into this
storage area, was also the sheriff. He had once been the overseer for Winter’s father’s stable of horses at Everleigh
Hall, and his mother a cook while they’d lived there. Winter had known both Derwoods her entire life, and always felt
safe inside the walls of this inn.
“I would have been here sooner,” Winter said, holding out the scrap of paper in her hand. “But I only just received your
note.”
Mrs. Derwood’s brown eyes softened as she approached. “Fie on that rascal brother of yers for not tellin’ ye we found
yer mam. She is with Mrs. Smythe.”
Last month, Winter’s mam had been making nightly treks to the cemetery where Winter’s father was buried. Father
Flannigan had found her asleep atop the grave. Tonight was worse though--Winter hadn’t even known Mam was
missing until she’d received Mrs. Derwood’s message. She’d been looking for her errant brother this entire evening.
Winter scraped a hand through her unbound hair. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “I’m sorry to put you through this
again.” Suddenly tired, for these incidents had become too common this past year, she looked away. She disliked
showing emotions and took great care to keep them walled most of the time. But tonight had been too close a call. “I just
don’t know what I’d do if something happened to her.”
“Leave her be. Mrs. Smythe could do with the company as her husband just recently passed. Besides, ye take too much
on yerself.” Mrs. Derwood patted her like a babe and Winter laughed at the incongruous thought that it would be
perfectly natural to burp. “Now, that’s a good girl.”
Wiping the moisture from her cheeks with her fingertips, Winter drew away. “Thank goodness the baron is in London. He
would be none too pleased to learn of Mam’s latest escapade.”
Not that Winter cared what the bastard thought, but his money gave him the power to destroy their lives. And he would,
too, if he learned that in addition to Mam’s illness, she had now taken it upon herself to wander about the night. The
baron would lock Mam away.
“Your uncle should be the one brought to shame, lass.” Mrs. Derwood took Winter’s hands, her concern mitigating the
sternness of her expression. “You should be with them in London for the Season.”
“Goodness, no.” Winter withdrew her hands. She had never even danced a waltz in public. “I don’t care about such
frivolity and nonsense.”
“Nonsense. Your uncle don’t want you with him because you outshine that snippety daughter of his, lass. It is you what
should be weddin’ Granbury’s heir--”
“Mrs. Derwood.” Winter pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair. “It’s late. Please, I need to be getting back to Perry
before he and Robert get into their usual mischief.”
“I’ll have Old Ben fetch the cart and take you back.”
“I have no need to worry about ghouls, ghosts, or wild dogs surprising us the woods. Perry and Robert are in full
character tonight.”
“If you would wait a minute, I’ve something for them in the kitchen.”
Mrs. Derwood bustled out of the room. The noise filtering through the curtained barrier from the taproom eased over the
silence that followed the elderly woman’s departure.
Barrels and crates filled the airless storage room. The smell of yeast and a hint of the night’s smoked boar teased
Winter’s senses. She touched a barrel as if it were an old friend. This place had been like a second home to her since
her father died.
Though on paper, Winter Ashburn might be the great-granddaughter of a duke, she never let herself think any more
about how things used to be when her father was alive. She focused these days on how to keep her life running as
smoothly as possible. As long as she did nothing to draw her uncle’s attention, he ignored her, which was just as she
wanted it to remain.
Baron Richly was the husband of her father’s older sister, and had entered Winter’s life just before her father’s death
left the family without funds to pay their debts. In a matter of months, Winter had gone from society’s prevailing darling to
someone her father’s once staid friends pitied. Not a single high-minded elitist stepped forward to stop the baron from
taking her beloved Everleigh. The only people who had aided her during those awful years were the estate’s tenants
and many of the villagers. They were Winter’s family now.
Winter held no love for the baron’s world and no allegiance to an establishment that made paupers out of other men’s
souls as well as their purses. In her mind, aristocrats and nabobs--aristocrat wannabes--were notoriously worthless, and
a wealthy reprobate might find his pockets considerably lighter before leaving the boundaries of this hamlet.
And just that fast, her thoughts returned to the dark-haired stranger whose eyes had boldly assessed her in the pub.
Maybe it was the music coming from the other room as the fiddler took up his bow and a jaunty tune drifted back to her.
Like the shadow of a great bird slowly spreading its wings, the stranger began to fill her thoughts. Or maybe he had
been at the back of her mind all along. In persona, he embodied every aristocratic attribute she despised, but somehow
she sensed he was not like the other gentlemen of her narrow acquaintance. Despite his languid sprawl, he’d exuded
danger--along with his palpable sexuality and arrogance. She couldn’t place where she might have seen him before. But
there was something familiar about him.
Winter walked to the small window that looked out over the livery where she’d left her brother. But it wasn’t for Perry
whom her eyes searched.
Idly folding her arms beneath her cloak, she narrowed her attention to the white-washed livery and surrounding
paddock. A full moon picked out the mist rising silently from the ground and the fleeting shadow of a spotted hound.
Had the stranger already ridden out of the yard? An odd sense of loss fell over her.
Mrs. Derwood returned carrying a basket filled with goodies. “Here ye be, mum. Don’t be shy about eatin’ some of these
victuals yourself. They’re fer sharing. Ye tell Master Perry and that scamp, Robert, I said so, mum.”
“I will.” Winter thanked the woman, not only for the basket, but also for helping take care of Mam.
Mrs. Derwood opened the back door to the crisp night air. “Now run along and give that sweet potato pie to those two
young pirates outside. Then hie yerself home. No good ever comes on a night with a full moon.”
##
Once outside the Stag & Huntsman, and despite Mrs. Derwood’s ominous full-moon superstitions, Winter found herself
in better spirits than she had been inside. She followed the familiar sound of laugher and discovered her brother with his
friend behind the livery. Perry loved caring for the horses, his father’s son to be sure. He had been too young when their
father died to remember the celebrated Ashburn stables.
Her brother turned at her approach. Wearing a pirate eye-patch, Perry still managed to see the white basket in her hand
first. He and his friend Robert were dressed in their swashbuckling costumes. They liked to leap from trees and terrorize
the unsuspecting at the most inopportune time, sending animals and people screaming.
Her errant brother already had to make restitution to Mrs. Peabody for scaring her nearly to death, but mucking stables
for a week wasn’t enough. Just last week, he’d nearly broken his neck after constructing wings from bed sheets and
leaping off the stable roof on the assumption he could fly.
Perry ran to her and, with the instinct of a growing eleven-year-old, ferreted out the pie. The two boys tussled over who
would get first bite until Winter thought they’d resort to fisticuffs.
“Perry! Robert!” she admonished just as the two dropped the pie on the ground between them.
Fortunately, Mrs. Derwood had wrapped it. But then what was a little dirt to two rambunctious boys dressed up like
Blackbeard and Henry Morgan? “You can both eat that pie at home. It’s getting late.”
Robert ignored her and unwrapped the pie, replying for Perry, who, though taller, was the younger and shyer of the
pair. “We can’t go yet, mum.”
“Show her what the gent gave ye,” her brother mumbled excitedly over a mouthful of crust.
Robert displayed a coin. “I earned a shilling.”
“It’s part mine, too.” Perry shoved the battered wig off his brow.
“You weren’t begging coins from people?” Winter demanded.
“Nah!” The two boys snickered, then Robert said, “A tall highbrow gent come ridin’ in earlier and tells Old Ben to keep ’is
mount in the stable away from them other nags in the corral.”
Winter flinched at Robert’s annihilation of the King’s English. She had been teaching both boys their letters and had
taught Robert especially to speak with better syntax and less verbiage. As if reading her mind, and ever conscious of
her approval, Robert swallowed. “Away from them other horses,” he corrected. “The gent’s a regular toff, ’e ’is,” the
urchin forged onward with a lowered voice. “Butter won’t melt in ‘is mouth, mum. Gisette offered to tup him for less than
six pence and the chap turned her down flat.”
“Robert!”
His eyes widened in distress. “Ye shoulda ’eard what Gisette said.”
Perry laughed, completely unaware that such a topic could not possibly be proper. Suddenly the two boys were best
friends again, planning how to spend their newly acquired wealth, her presence entirely forgotten in their gluttonous
orgy as they discovered the roasted chicken in the basket. Perry acted as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.
“You said the man was tall?” Winter asked. “Was he dressed nicely? Black leather boots?” Tailored riding clothes as
impeccable as the body they draped? “Woolen jacket? Dark hair?”
Tucking away the coin, Robert considered her question. “He were tall. Don’t know ‘bout the boots, but he was wearin’ a
silver watch.”
“Dark hair,” Perry confirmed.
“He ain’t like the others, what come through here, mum, who just come to...you know.” Robert swallowed his mouthful
and didn’t say the word ‘tup.’ “He wanted to know which road went to Granbury Court.”
“Granbury Court?”
“I told ’im, and that’s when ’e gave me my shilling.”
Winter looked around the mist-shrouded yard. The old Marquess of Granbury’s estate sat amid thirty thousand acres
owned by the Jameson family since before the English civil war. Anyone who had grown up within a hundred miles of
London would know how to find Granbury Court, which meant the man who had inquired, was not from this part of
England. But with the exception of anyone visiting Lord Granbury’s rakehell grand-nephew, who was currently in
London, the cantankerous marquess rarely had visitors anymore.
“The man who asked, is he still here?”
Robert shrugged a shoulder toward the back entry of the stable. “The toff’s stallion is still ’ere, cause I’m guardin’ it.”
Caught by the sudden inexplicable flutter in her stomach, she glanced toward the stable. “Start home,” she told the
boys. “I’ll catch up--”
“But we have to stay, Miss Winter.”
“I’ll ask Old Ben to keep an eye on the horse. It is late. I want you both to start home. I’ll catch up to you.”
Winter left her brother and Robert grumbling, but they packed up the basket. When she turned in the doorway of the
stable, she saw them walking toward the woods. She was not one to chase after the identity of any man, but neither was
she content to live with a curiosity burning through her mind.
Adjusting the hood of her cloak, she entered the stable. A horse snorted. The pungent smell of straw, aged leather, and
manure touched her senses. Oil lanterns hung from a post at each end provided dim light. She peered up and down the
narrow aisle, listening, but heard no one present.
Moving toward a bay stallion in the last stall, she kept to the shadows. Quietly stopping, she picked an apple from the
barrel next to one of the stalls, keeping her ears alert for any noise that told her she wasn’t alone as she approached
the stall.
The horse was a beauty with long legs, a full chest and glossy coat, a thoroughbred of stellar bloodstock.
Whoever the stranger was, he knew horseflesh. This stud was worth more than most common people would ever see in
a lifetime. The bridle and saddle boasted the highest craftsmanship. Wanting to get near the valise attached to the
cantle, Winter eased cautiously into the stall all the while crooning softly. She held out the apple and powerful jaws
crunched down on the sweet morsel.
If she could but learn the name of the dark-haired stranger, she could settle the matter of his identity.
Liar, her wicked self whispered.
Even as something about him warned her to be wary of her initial reaction when she’d seen him in the pub, a flicker of
long-repressed femininity focused her memory on the touch of his gaze. Men undressed her with their eyes all the time,
but no one had ever made her body tingle. Her reaction had both alarmed and intrigued her, for at the base of it all was
an unfamiliar sense of awareness.
She saw no identifying marks or initials emblazoned on the saddle or on the valise. She struggled with the clasp before
noting it needed a key. The horse stirred and Winter slid her palm gently across its powerful shoulder.
“His name is Apollo.”
Winter whirled, horrified to find the voice’s owner lounging against the stall door, his smile flashing white in the lamp
light. “Mine is Rory,” he added. “In case you were wondering the name of the man you were attempting to rob.”
“I wasn’t! Robbing you, that is...” She brought her hand to her chest as she really looked at him. Good heavens.
Up close, this man was beautiful. Hair nearly blue-black in the low light enhanced the dark stubble shading his jaw. Eyes
not quite blue but silver, like the ornate braided chain dangling from the watch pocket on his vest. Eyes that were not
nearly as friendly as his voice.
“You startled me.” She pressed against the horse like some urchin caught in the act of stealing bread. Mentally chiding
herself for her lack of aplomb, she adjusted her hood and straightened. “This isn’t what you think.”
“It never is.” His crisp white linen shirt beneath his jacket opened slightly at the neck with the subtle shift of his body.
“Maybe all I’m thinking is that there are easier ways to earn your money tonight, love. Especially since there is nothing in
that valise worth your life.”
Her heart leapt. Did he mean to slay her where she stood? The horse shifted and tossed its head.
“I would like to come out,” she said with more brevity than calm and reached for the stall latch.
His gloved hand reached it first, and she jerked back. The corners of his mouth twitched. The beauty of his features
juxtaposed against the harsh shadows cast by the lamp behind him made him look both dramatic and dangerous, and
resentment that she should find the bounder attractive flared within her. “Step aside,” she warned.
He relaxed against the stall, preventing her escape. “I thought you people were more circumspect and practiced in your
crimes.”
Having been caught trying to go through his things, crying innocent would do no good, but his having a low opinion of
her bothered her. Perhaps not because he thought her a thief, but because he considered her a bad one. “I wasn’t
trying to steal from you.”
He laughed, clearly at ease with his boorish behavior, more so than she with her indefensible stupidity for stepping into
the stall with a horse that could be dangerous. “I would like to come out, now. Please.”
“Now this is the first hint of intelligence I’ve seen from you tonight. You should be afraid,” he said softly.
Of you or your horse? The fact that he thought she should be afraid made her determined to prove she wasn’t.
Rory unlatched the stall and Winter slid out, hesitating when he did not seem inclined to move.
She squeezed out of the stall, her body forced to touch every inch of his. A faintly exotic scent overlay the hint of
whiskey she smelled. A suggestion of patchouli struck her nostrils as if he’d washed his hair in exotic soap. The gate
clicked shut behind her.
“I will reiterate. You are a bastard.”
She started to move around him when he pressed his palm against the stall and blocked her escape. Her breath caught
in her chest for the second time in as many minutes. A flame-hot rush of awareness burned through her, electric in
intensity, and she fought to resist the intoxicating sensations that seemed to begin in the pit of her stomach and radiate
outward.
“Tell me your name,” he commanded softly.
“No,” she returned his whisper.
“Or maybe I should inform the sheriff I caught you trying to steal from me.”
Propriety demanded her immediate withdrawal. But ten cannons wouldn’t dislodge her at this point. “Blackmail?” she
scoffed in rebuke, doubting he would resort to such tactics. “Talk to the sheriff. He won’t believe you.”
“Do you always make it a habit to go through a man’s belongings then? Or am I special?”
Every female instinct warned her to caution, and it required much effort on her part not to press her palms to his chest
and push him away. Yet beneath it all was born a sense of familiarity with this man. She had seen him before. Though
she knew it impossible. She did not travel outside Granbury or in his circle.
Perhaps he’d once visited her father’s stable. “I was merely admiring your horse,” she said in a half-truth. “I have rarely
seen such a fine animal. From which stable did you purchase it?”
He took a step to his side and leaned against one of the roof supports at his back, folding his arms. “Apollo was a gift
from a corrupt Bashaw in Tangiers who owed me a favor.”
Her lips parted slightly in shock before she could speak. “What does a man do to earn a tyrant’s favor?”
A wolfish smile appeared on his handsome face. “I didn’t sleep with his Circassian lover. He thanked me for it.”
Heat crawled into her face. Taking issue with her own unworldly reaction as well as his humor, she stared at him. “Is that
a fact?”
“That is a fact.”
His gaze lowered to her lips, and she held her breath.
He’d been right about her going into Apollo’s stall. A stallion’s temperament should never be taken for granted. But at
the moment she was in more danger from the man than she had been from his horse.
“Trevor Jameson is not in residence at Granbury Court,” she blurted out, “if that is why you are going there.”
A shadow momentarily eclipsed the light in his eyes.
“My brother and his friend told me you had inquired about directions,” she explained. “You do not look like Lord
Granbury’s solicitor, so I assume you are here to see Mr. Jameson?”
“I’m not.” He peered down the length of the stable as if his senses touched on something hers had not. “No doubt this
entire town is in collaboration in some form of vice or another,” he surmised. “But I should warn you, your brethren will
not like what happens if I even get a whiff of communal chicanery tonight.”
A niggling worry probed her. “If I wanted to steal from you, I would have set someone up at the entrance to warn me of
your approach, sir.” Winter took a step around him. With no warning, a leather-booted leg blocked her escape before
she could draw a breath and her hip collided with it. Apprehension surging, she stepped backward, her heart
hammering. She shot a look to his face. “I could scream,” she said.
A hint of the humor in his eyes touched his mouth. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” she said without hesitation, and resisted a momentary swell of superiority as her lie swiped the smirk off his
face.
His eyes narrowing, he gave her a lengthy inspection. “Is that a fact?” he said, pleasantly mimicking her earlier remark. “I
like that you are a liar as well.”
Still feeling an odd lingering heat between them despite her alarmed, she lifted her chin. “Why?”
With aristocratic indifference to her shock, he replied in the lowest of tones, “Because I no longer feel guilty for wanting
to do to you exactly what I’ve had on my mind since you walked into that pub, madam.”
Winter felt the heat burn all the way from her décolletage and into her cheeks. “Of all the--”
“As I said”--again, he braced his hand against the stall at her back. And there it was again. The exotic smell of him.
Soap. Whiskey. Leather--“there are easier ways for you to earn your coin tonight.”
She’d been holding her breath against inhaling the summer warmth of him but had not realized it until his gloved hand
produced a florin. “We can start with your first name. I told you mine.”
The dolt was far too sure of himself and of her.
“A kiss then. It’s less personal perhaps.”
Tension knotted in her stomach. What was wrong with her that she did not put this man in his place? That she should
not feel insulted by his assertion that she was a local bawd, and that her heart was racing with something akin to devilish
excitement. “I won’t be forced.”
“I am not in the practice of abusing women,” he said in a whisper that caressed her senses. “If you don’t want me to kiss
you, all you have to do is step away, or say no. Or scream. I’m sure my life would be imperiled should you choose to
raise your voice an octave.”
His presence alone kept her pinned against the stall, not quite threatening, but neither had he made an effort to move
anymore than she’d made an effort to escape. She wet her lips against the dare in his eyes and the desire to put him in
his place. “Does money buy you everything you want?”
“I don’t know. Will it?”
The tone of his words told her she was merely a night’s gamely diversion for him. He didn’t care anything about her, but
he would not coerce a woman to do his bidding. If she moved away this time, she suspected he would allow her to leave
and would feel no loss at her defection. That he could so easily dismiss her produced an unprecedented response, for it
made her feel inadequate and somehow less than she was.
Men with money thought they held all the power. Her life was managed by such a man--a bastard who wanted unfettered
control. Who had already hurt her more than most people knew. The thought angered Winter.
Sometimes a woman could hold power, too, and to be less than memorable was to be dead.
Boldly pushing back her hood and letting it fall about her shoulders, she lifted her chin until she met his gaze. “You’re a
libertine,” she accused, though in the back of her mind she remembered he did not choose to tup Gisette.
She felt the momentary weight of his eyes. “A moralist term,” he said with a restrained timbre, his gloved hand rising to
cup her chin. “You’re a thief.”
Her hands fell lightly against his chest, and her heart pounded. She was a thief, more than he knew.
And she felt more alive than she had in years. Something about this man challenged a dormant part of her. She stared
back at him. “Then on the whole, you find morality inconvenient. Hence, you are willing to overlook most faults in people.
Even lies.”
His eyes grazed her hair, touched her lips and met her own gaze. “Lie with me,” he whispered.
Her mouth trembled as he leaned to kiss her.
Anxiety surged, resurfacing to pool in her stomach along with everything else, none of which she could define. “No,” she
said, her face a breath away, and she found herself bracing her fingers against his chest, closing the distance between
their lips on her own terms, not his.
She had only willingly kissed one other man in her life. No one ever made her hot and shivery, and so she imbibed as if
he were a glass of whiskey. Cautious of the taste, wary of the burn, and fully conscious of the danger as she forced
herself to center on the texture of his mouth, not the heat in her blood. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up giving him
more than a kiss. He knew it, too. His hands went to her waist.
It was that overconfidence that subdued her and ruined her at once, as she forced herself to remain focused. But her
head was swimming as she continued to press her advantage, stirring restlessly.
Distantly, she felt as if he were holding back almost like an observer perfectly comfortable allowing her to take the lead.
Sinking deeper into her kiss, she rose on her toes, wanting something more, yet unsure what. Her palms smoothed
across the contoured planes of his chest. Her knuckles skimmed along the inside of his jacket and hit something cold
and metallic in a leather sheath beneath his shoulder.
Startled she pulled back. “Is it loaded?”
His hands went to her face his fingers slid into her hair, his eyes half-lowered and intent on hers. “My gun is always
loaded, love.” His mouth claimed hers, taking the initiative from her, and making her previous kiss feel like a childish
peck on cheek.
Oh my.
His legs parted and he stepped against her, slow deliberate movements as his hand angled back her head. His tongue
swept between her lips with perfect boldness, deepening the contact. She found her back against the stall door, while
every female sense reacted to the press of masculinity against her layers of bulky skirts. Slowly his hands traveled down
her spine piling sensation down upon new sensation as every notion she’d ever held about kissing a man crumbled to
her feet.
Her body hummed. Try as she might, she could not pull away, but she lacked his carnal sophistication and could not
follow his lead. She felt trapped by her response. Everything was happening too fast. Panicked by the surge of need he
roused within her, so much so, she tore her mouth away from his.
“Loose me,” she found the voice to say. “Now...”
His hands framed her face as he pulled away, his eyes now dark and unnerving. She shivered slightly. For a heartbeat,
only their breathing touched the heavy silence between them.
“You are either a virgin,” he rasped against the heat of her lips, “or the worst kisser in the world.” Amusement laced his
tone. “In either case, you are no strumpet, love.”
The thought that her reaction to him could be so enormous while his toward her was naught but a frivolous passing sent
a maddening feeling of humiliation straight to the core of her. “Get away from me!”
“No more games, madam. Who are you exactly? Why were you trying to go through my valise?”
His eyes were no longer laughing at her, but deadly serious. Yet for just a brief instance after he’d kissed her there had
been something else in that silver gaze that went deeper than the surface, something that frightened her because it
touched her on a deeper level as well.
Winter caught herself retreating and stopped. “I wanted to know who you are. You are familiar to me.”
He used his fingertips to tilt up her chin. “Which part of me?”
Her brother’s voice startled her. “Winter?”
Perry and Robert stood in the doorway. Dressed like pirates as they were in their wigs and dragging their cutlasses they
looked like two highwaymen of lore.
Good lord. They were supposed to be halfway home by now. “I thought I told you to leave, Perry.”
Her brother’s usually friendly eyes peered watchfully at the man whose height and size dwarfed them all. “We were
waiting for you, Winter.”
“Perry,” she quietly warned when he failed to leave. “Start home. I’ll be right behind you. I promise.”
For once, he did as he was told.
“You have a protector,” the stranger said after the boys left.
“Do you find that extraordinary?”
Unlike his touch, his stare was casual. “No more than your name. Winter? I might have guessed you’d have an unusual
name.”
Disliking the intimate sound of it on his lips, she yanked up the hood of her cloak. Her eyes went to his face. Dangerous
in the shadows.
“Will I see you again?” he asked.
Perhaps one day in purgatory, she mused, stepping away from him, an involuntary reaction as much from his words as it
was from something deep inside that still wanted to wrap itself around him. “You and I will never walk in the same circle.”
“No.” The slide of his eyes over her body to her walking clearly was not what he had on his mind. “But that doesn’t mean
we can’t entertain ourselves.”
She calmly adjusted the hood of her cloak. “Try not to break your arrogant neck on the road tonight. We would all weep
inconsolably for your family’s loss.”
A black-gloved hand grabbed her arm as she swept past the man who was no longer quite a stranger and who still held
electric sway over her response to him. His eyes, glittering with a dark mystery, continued to wreak havoc on her senses
as he pulled her to him. “What are you doing?”
He slid the coin he’d held up earlier down her bodice, the intimacy of his touch making her gasp. “Assuring you that this
evening has been worth every bit of what that coin purchased, Miss Winter.”
Ignoring his quiet, confident laughter, she spun on her heel, confident that before the evening was gone, his lordship
would know he’d overpaid.
Her mouth suddenly curving at the corners into its own secret smile, she wondered how long it would take before he
discovered the entire contents of his pockets had been pilfered.
Unfortunately, the arrogant toff would never know he’d just made a substantial contribution to Father Flannigan’s
poorhouse fund.
Chapter Two
Rory folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe, watching the little vixen’s stride take her across
the stable yard. He was both fascinated and tantalized by the sway of her woolen cloak that framed soft, womanly curves
as she moved. Try as he might, Rory could not reconcile her lack of experience with her bold behavior.
He felt no censure for kissing her, only regret for allowing her to escape so easily, especially after he’d caught her
attempting to go through his things. Yet that mattered less than watching her leave.
The low ground mist began to swallow her image, but he could hear her steps sounding hollow against the planked low
bridge that spanned the stream. Despite his reasons for being here, he doubted he’d see her again as he intended this
trip to be short. His trunk would arrive at Granbury Court tomorrow. And he had just enough to remain a week. Above
him, the wide sweep of black sky glittered with stars and drew his gaze. A full moon hung suspended just at the tops of
the trees. When he looked toward the thick edge of woods again, the girl was gone.
Behind him, a voice chuckled. “Count yourself lucky, guv’nor.”
Rory unfolded his arms and turned into the stable. The owner of the voice stood inside a stall, just left of the door. It was
the hostler.
“She’d have shot most men what done what you jest did. I figure, she’s a grown-up woman what knows her own mind,
though. So it ain’t me place te say anything.”
Winter was grown up all right, Rory considered. He lifted a brow and approached the stall where the hostler stood. He
didn’t bother asking the impertinent eavesdropper how much of the conversation he’d overheard. Undoubtedly, the old
man had heard most everything.
His cheek bulging with tobacco, the hostler rested his elbows on the gate. His gaze traveled up Rory’s black boots, over
his tailored black trousers, his white shirt and black jacket. “She couldn’t place ye, but I do. You’re the old marquess’s
grandson. She’s probably seen that old portrait hangin’ in that fancy ’ouse of his lordship’s. Ye look like yer father did
when he was yer age.”
Rory’s amusement faded. “You have a good memory, considering my father has been absent for more than thirty years.”
The old man turned his head and spat a dark stream into a spittoon sitting just outside the stall. “Nigh on sixty years’
worth of memories, guv’nor. Some of them not so good. Beggin yer pardon, guv’nor. I ’spect a gent like yerself ’as better
things to do than to be talking to an old man like me.”
Rory leaned a shoulder against a stall wall, taking a few seconds to study the hostler. “What do they call you?”
He returned his gaze to his hands where he was braiding strips of leather. “Old Ben, if someone is interested in callin’
me anything other than hostler. Only Miss Winter calls me Mr. Brown. Now she’s a lady.”
Wondering if they were speaking of the same woman, Rory raised an amused brow at the man’s heartfelt avowal, “And
does Miss Winter always confront strangers in stables and kiss them?”
Old Ben chuckled. “I’ve known that snippet all twenty-one years of her life since she were born at Everleigh. I can assure
ye she ain’t the kissin’ type. The blokes ’round here stay clear. ’Sides the fact she’d likely skewer them, she’s under
Sheriff Derwood’s protection. He also be the proprietor of the Stag & Huntsman.”
Why was he not surprised, Rory thought. “I see.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Miss Winter can handle herself. She’s been takin’ care of her mam and Master Perry and most of
the tenants at Everleigh Hall fer nigh on five years.” He hesitated for the briefest moment. “Despite what ye may think,
guv’nor, Miss Winter Ashburn be a lady. Don’t dismiss her as below ye. She ain’t below no man.”
Mere moments earlier, Rory had been thinking of Miss Winter Ashburn in that very position. What he now had trouble
dismissing was her passion and his desire to own it. His mood, always capricious, had changed from bored to a single-
minded awareness of her the moment his lips had touched hers.
Rory was suddenly more interested in who the woman was. “Everleigh Hall is her home?”
“Everleigh Hall was her home,” Ben supplied, his veined hands hesitating over the hooks on the wall. He turned and
lowered his voice. “Most folk think I’m a half-blind old rummy. But I’ve eyes an’ ears in my head. I can tell ye tales about
the goings on in that place since her uncle took over.” The man’s rheumy eyes narrowed. “And I’m thinkin’ to meself just
now, the chap expectin’ ter inherit yer grandfather’s estate don’t know ’bout ye.” He peered shrewdly at Rory as if to
discern the truth of his birth, which Rory had no intention of discussing. “Trevor Jameson is already in London spending
his inheritance and the marquess ain’t even in his grave yet.”
Old Ben began gathering up the strips of leather he’d been braiding. “Ye can slap me down fer sayin’ these words, but
‘at rascal’s been short of charity fer anyone but hisself of late.” He sniffed as he let himself out of the stall. “Exceptin’
Miss Winter. Only it ain’t charity he feels towards her. The two of ’em growed up together, her bein’ from Everleigh Hall
and all. I ’spect she thinks she’s in love with the dandy.”
A fleshy fellow with curly white hair walked into the stable just then and stopped. His red-rimmed eyes pondered Rory
dispassionately before telling the hostler to get outside to look at a lame horse. Since Rory was as prudent with his
acquaintance as he was with his observations, he refrained from comment, telling himself it was none of his business
how Old Ben’s patrons treated the old man. The hostler dropped the leather strips and hurriedly latched the stall gate,
his relaxed demeanor gone.
“You best be leaving now, my lord.” Without a backward glance, Old Ben left the stable.
Rory stepped out of the lantern light and watched as Old Ben hurried out of sight behind the paddock to where a
powerful-looking gray mare stood. The other man leaned an elbow against the faded, weather-beaten fence. Low
conversation, indiscernible to Rory’s ear, passed between them as Old Ben knelt to study the mare’s left forelock.
A gaunt black and white spotted hound entered the stable just then and, spying Rory, stopped abruptly as if wary of
strangers.
Rory knelt on his haunches and held out his hand. “What’s your name, boy?” The dog approached and sat, its tail
thumping against the straw-covered floor. “Hmm?” Rory rubbed its ears, his black-gloved hands stark against the hound’
s white ears.
Annoyed at himself, Rory shook his head. He had just spent the last ten minutes in the company of an old drunk
imbibing in local gossip and now he was on his knee in stable muck talking to a dog. But something in the hound’s
guarded brown eyes touched him, like Old Ben’s had when the stranger entered the stable--like Miss Winter’s eyes had
when she’d inquired who he was.
The long, hard path of his life left little room for quixotic ruminations. Yet he remained hunched on the ground, petting
the hound, aware of the growing silence around him, mixed with the lack of desire to continue on to Granbury Court
tonight. He was restless and mildly morose, a mood he had not felt in a long while.
His thoughts turned to his distant cousin, Trevor Jameson. Rory had never met the man, but more than once tonight, he’
d heard an undertone concerning his cousin’s claim on Granbury. Trevor was the son of the Marquess of Granbury’s
youngest brother. Rory knew a little about the Jameson family history, but had never cared to learn more.
Nor did he give a fig about his grandfather’s title or estates. He did not intend to stay long enough to get himself caught
up in family politics. His purpose for being in Granbury was more benign than reclaiming his father’s place in his
grandfather’s world. His grandfather has wanted nothing to do with Rory’s life until now.
And now was too late.
Yet, without conscious direction for what he was doing, he stood and reached his hand into his jacket pocket for the
leather casing containing the letter from his grandfather. Finding the pocket empty, he checked the other side of the
jacket. Nothing.
A cold chill went over him.
He shoved his hand into each pocket again.
What the hell?
The slim wallet containing his bank notes and the letter from his grandfather was gone. His thoughts stumbled backward
over the last few hours, from when he’d first entered the pub then finally landing on the kiss.
But not to the one he’d given Winter Ashburn. Instead, he was remembering the first one. The kiss she had given him,
when her hands had been beneath his jacket, when he’d been too scorched by her touch to note anything else she
might have been doing with those hands.
Bloody hell.
He patted his pockets again, realizing the little sneak-thief had fleeced him. While he’d so generously parted with a
florin, the chit had robbed him blind.
He slowly smiled. Miss Winter Ashburn was more skilled at playing the ingénue than most. He liked that discovery, his
initial fury at being so blatantly robbed eclipsed by something inexplicable. Not only had she dared steal from him, she’d
done so beneath his very nose.
Hell, for that alone, she deserved the bloody five hundred pounds in that casing. He might even have let her go with her
prize had she not taken, along with those bank notes, that letter--or if he suddenly didn’t find himself challenged to
retrieve the billfold and teach her lesson.
This last he would do with pleasure, his objective to continue on to Granbury lost in the intriguing possibilities the night
suddenly offered--a polite term for what was causing the blood to hum in his ears. No doubt, with the sheriff on her side,
Miss Winter thought herself safe. But she’d be wrong. Rory felt more than uncivilized.
A few minutes later, in a hollow staccato of hoof beats, Rory sat astride Apollo and they were crossing the low, planked
bridge. He slowed the horse to a walk at the edge of the woods, searching for tracks just past the bridge where Winter
Ashburn had vanished.
Moonlight barely penetrated the oaks, beeches, and twisty hornbeams, laying down no visible path. Apollo pulled at the
reins, snorting and prancing in a circle, but Rory brought the stallion back around. Despite his immense desire to catch
Winter, he did not want to injure his horse or find himself unseated by a low branch while riding blind into the woods. He
couldn’t see a path.
Something darted through the bushes next to him. Rory tightened his grip on the reins as a hound bounded past Apollo,
wagging its tail clearly ready for an adventure. “Easy lad,” Rory murmured to his high-strung horse.
Though Rory was in no mood to pick up a cur, he changed his mind when the dog found the trail hidden in the shadows.
Then Rory was riding out of town and into the night following a dog.
The trail was no more than a footpath that wound along a shadowy stretch for half a mile. Rory finally reined in Apollo at
the top of a rocky rise overlooking a narrow spit of meadowland. That was when he saw her. His stomach pitched oddly,
the sensation without reason or cause except that he was a man who loved the chase.
In a moment, Winter Ashburn would be across the glade and sheltered in the cover of the woods again. Apollo, as if
recognizing his master’s impatience, sidled in agitation, but Rory was not yet ready to relinquish his view. Moonlight
suited the girl, he realized, taking a moment to savor her trek through the carpet of sleeping flowers. Then he nudged
his horse, the hunt truly on.
With no clear path down the rocky slope, Rory looked for a trail that paralleled the incline. He’d just found one when two
shapes dropped from the overhanging bough of the gnarled tree in front of him. “Halt!” the taller assailant yelled.
The startled Apollo reared and pranced sideways in the rock-strewn turf, nearly unseating Rory. He might have drawn
his pistol, had he not recognized the two young culprits dressed in pirate regalia, complete with old-fashioned wigs and
brandishing short swords he quickly realized were not real.
But their intended warning, “Stop or face death!” and “Stay away from my sister!” went no further as Rory brought Apollo
under control and they were faced with his wrath. It was one thing to play youthful games but not when their antics could
have endangered his horse.
Rory had just calmed Apollo when he saw them freeze, an expression of horror on their young faces. They had spied
something at his back. They turned suddenly and fled. Even the hound took off barking, as if the devil were at its heels,
leaving Rory to whatever fate would befall him. He turned in the saddle and saw two cowled riders blocking the path.
Both men brandished pistols at his chest. In one brief glance, Rory recognized the gray mare at the stable.
Disappointment pushed against him. Something told him Old Ben was involved.
Then he thought of those two boys, one of whom was Winter’s brother and wondered what their role might also be in this
confrontation.
Rory had only a small purse to give them. That and his horse.
He had a bullet for them as well, he thought, crossing one hand over the other as he leaned into his saddle.
“Gentlemen,” he said, using the term loosely.
The man on the gray mare nudged his mount into a shaft of moonlight, his gun level. Slits in the fabric revealed nothing
but shadowed pits for eyes. “Keep your hands where we can see ’em, guv’nor. Get after ’em two brats, Whitey!” the
blackguard said to his companion.
“Leave off.” Another voice replied from the darkness, and Rory realized he faced more than two men. “They did us a
favor,” the voice rasped.
The bloke on the gray mare edged forward. A shaft of moonlight, reflected off the barrel of the gun pointed at Rory’s
horse. “Get off all proper-like and we’ll be sparin’ that valuable stud you’re riding.”
Rory had once served as a British cavalry officer and knew how to fight from horseback. Before the man could grab
Apollo’s bridle, Rory hauled back on the reins. The stallion reared and flailed his hooves. Rory brought him under
control and wheeled him around, scattering the pair of riders directly in his path to prevent a flanking movement. The
action gave him precious seconds to draw his gun from the leather sheath beneath his arm.
But with the moon at his back, he knew--even as he fired two shots and nailed the highwayman in front of him—that he
was an easy target for the other two.
A harbinger that proved all too true a pulse beat later as a bullet struck him in the head.
##
Pop, pop, pop!
Gunfire. With the moon behind the clouds, the woods that surrounded Winter suddenly became a frightening place. She
halted at the edge of the meadow, picked up her skirts and ran back into the field, coming to a breathless stop among
the tall grass and flowers.
She had left Perry and Robert to trail after her. In a state of panic, she ran, thinking of nothing but finding her brother.
Did the shot come from poachers?
Perry and Robert suddenly burst out of the woods ahead of her, racing in her direction. She dashed toward them. Her
brother was in tears when they finally reached each other.
Robert grabbed her hand, pulling her around. “Real highwaymen, mum. Hide!”
“Were they shooting at you?”
“No, mum.”
Instinctively she dropped into the long grass, pulling Robert and Perry with her. There they all remained, breathing hard,
listening for any sounds that the two boys had been followed.
Winter wanted to know everything that had happened, but she kept silent, holding Perry and Robert close in an effort to
still their terror--and hers. Horses approached from the upper trail, stopping at the edge of the woods from where Perry
and Robert had emerged, perhaps a hundred feet from where the three of them lay hidden. The riders paused. She
imagined they were studying the meadow’s terrain but suspected they could see little in the ground mist. At last, they
turned their mounts toward Granbury Court.
Her every sense followed the retreating sound of horse’s hooves as they moved farther away. When she was satisfied
they were well and gone, Winter eased the cloak off her face and pushed herself up on her hands and knees, her
fingers digging into the fecund soil. Heart hammering, she peered over the long grass, glad that the moon had yet to
reappear from behind the clouds.
Her attention was drawn to Perry’s quiet sobs. “We didn’t mean anything, Winter. We just wanted to scare him off a little.”
Winter looked from Robert to Perry. Neither of them was making sense. “Scare who off? Who is back there?”
“Him.” Perry dashed tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.
“The toff,” Robert said. “The one what followed ye from the stable.”
Summer 1877
Temptation came in many forms. The shine of a gold coin, the taste of fine whiskey. A fine woman with eyes the color of
expensive dark chocolate.
Rory Jameson knew temptation. And he liked chocolate.
What he could see of the woman’s hair beneath the voluminous hood of her cloak was as dark as her exotic eyes. He’d
felt her gaze pause on him as she’d squeezed into the crowded taproom, then made her way toward the long oaken bar
with an ease born of familiarity.
Buried in the smoke and noise surrounding him, Rory watched her, intrigued by the womanly shape her cloak failed to
hide. Everything about her brought to mind a night of sin. Over the rim of a shot glass of smooth Irish whiskey, a smile
slowly tugged at his mouth. He had finally found something worthy of his interest in this backwoods hamlet.
Rory was a man who enjoyed his vices. He’d lived hard, but unlike many of his peers, he hadn’t died young. And he had
no intention of doing so. At least not tonight.
Indeed, at two and thirty, he’d managed to live longer than most ever expected. A combination of luck and fortitude got
him this far in a profession that fed its young into the gristmill just to see what came out on the other side. He’d seen
much of the world in one fashion or another and intended to see the rest before old age or a bullet took him off the
playing field forever.
He feared little, except perhaps missing his niece’s birthday and disappointing his sister, which in the end had been what
brought him to this part of England on this sleepy summer’s eve. The letter she’d received a month earlier from their
estranged grandfather burned more than a hole in his pocket and, more than once, he’d wondered how Lord Granbury
had found him.
He relegated those thoughts to the back of his mind as he relaxed in his chair and felt it creak beneath his weight. He
sat in the shadows near the opened window, his legs casually crossed at the ankles. Soft leather riding boots hugged
his calves. He drank as he continued to watch the dark-eyed beauty’s progress across the room as she stopped to talk
to the barkeep. Her hood slipped slightly to her shoulders revealing her profile and he wondered for a moment at her
age.
His eyes narrowed as he watched her exchange, her gloveless hands animated as she spoke, the movement of her lips
drawing his eyes to her mouth.
Arousal pressed against the fine black wool of his trousers, which he found damn hard to ignore. His mind noted that
everything about her seemed out of place in this crowded public room filled with a medley of drunken men, footpads,
and slatterns, yet no one accosted her. In fact, the burly barkeep currently eyed Rory, something of which he had just
became aware. The oaf ’s silent warning seeming to overtake other patrons as well for they too turned to peer toward
where Rory sat, as if he’d trespassed in forbidden territory. The air around him grew chilled. Recognizing the type of
men here, he suspected the only reason he’d not been challenged yet was that his manner and clothing warned them
he would prove to be something more than a casual mark.
Amused by his interest in the local entertainment, Rory tipped back the shot of whiskey, liberating his conscience as he
set the glass on the scarred table next to the half-empty bottle. He stood, removed a coin from his pocket, and flipped it
into his shot glass. At two inches over six feet, he had to duck his head to avoid bumping the low-hanging gas lamp. He
didn’t look back at the girl, though he could feel her eyes on him now. The sensation was as physically arousing as if
she’d put her hands all over him. And it was as novel as it was discomfiting. Perhaps even more so because she’d left
him with a curiosity. He wanted to know who she was.
##
Winter Ashburn’s hand paused on the frayed edge of the curtain separating her from the crowded taproom, her gaze
lingering on the door through which the tall, dark-haired stranger in black had just passed. The mammoth rack of antlers
above the oaken door seemed to frame the quiet drama of his exit in her mind as she stood hidden within the confining
shadows of the storage room. She dropped the curtain, shocked as awareness of him shimmied through her veins like
an electrical current. The man was a stranger, an outsider yet there had been something familiar about his lazy smile.
And the race of her heart had nothing to do with the frantic reason that had brought her to this inn tonight.
A solid thud of the door sounded behind Winter, and she turned to greet the older woman who stepped into the room. A
soiled apron clung to Mrs. Derwood’s ample bosom where her hands now made use of the apron skirt as if it were a
towel.
Mrs. Derwood’s massively built son, the Stag & Huntsman’s proprietor and barkeep who had directed Winter into this
storage area, was also the sheriff. He had once been the overseer for Winter’s father’s stable of horses at Everleigh
Hall, and his mother a cook while they’d lived there. Winter had known both Derwoods her entire life, and always felt
safe inside the walls of this inn.
“I would have been here sooner,” Winter said, holding out the scrap of paper in her hand. “But I only just received your
note.”
Mrs. Derwood’s brown eyes softened as she approached. “Fie on that rascal brother of yers for not tellin’ ye we found
yer mam. She is with Mrs. Smythe.”
Last month, Winter’s mam had been making nightly treks to the cemetery where Winter’s father was buried. Father
Flannigan had found her asleep atop the grave. Tonight was worse though--Winter hadn’t even known Mam was
missing until she’d received Mrs. Derwood’s message. She’d been looking for her errant brother this entire evening.
Winter scraped a hand through her unbound hair. Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “I’m sorry to put you through this
again.” Suddenly tired, for these incidents had become too common this past year, she looked away. She disliked
showing emotions and took great care to keep them walled most of the time. But tonight had been too close a call. “I just
don’t know what I’d do if something happened to her.”
“Leave her be. Mrs. Smythe could do with the company as her husband just recently passed. Besides, ye take too much
on yerself.” Mrs. Derwood patted her like a babe and Winter laughed at the incongruous thought that it would be
perfectly natural to burp. “Now, that’s a good girl.”
Wiping the moisture from her cheeks with her fingertips, Winter drew away. “Thank goodness the baron is in London. He
would be none too pleased to learn of Mam’s latest escapade.”
Not that Winter cared what the bastard thought, but his money gave him the power to destroy their lives. And he would,
too, if he learned that in addition to Mam’s illness, she had now taken it upon herself to wander about the night. The
baron would lock Mam away.
“Your uncle should be the one brought to shame, lass.” Mrs. Derwood took Winter’s hands, her concern mitigating the
sternness of her expression. “You should be with them in London for the Season.”
“Goodness, no.” Winter withdrew her hands. She had never even danced a waltz in public. “I don’t care about such
frivolity and nonsense.”
“Nonsense. Your uncle don’t want you with him because you outshine that snippety daughter of his, lass. It is you what
should be weddin’ Granbury’s heir--”
“Mrs. Derwood.” Winter pulled the hood of her cloak over her hair. “It’s late. Please, I need to be getting back to Perry
before he and Robert get into their usual mischief.”
“I’ll have Old Ben fetch the cart and take you back.”
“I have no need to worry about ghouls, ghosts, or wild dogs surprising us the woods. Perry and Robert are in full
character tonight.”
“If you would wait a minute, I’ve something for them in the kitchen.”
Mrs. Derwood bustled out of the room. The noise filtering through the curtained barrier from the taproom eased over the
silence that followed the elderly woman’s departure.
Barrels and crates filled the airless storage room. The smell of yeast and a hint of the night’s smoked boar teased
Winter’s senses. She touched a barrel as if it were an old friend. This place had been like a second home to her since
her father died.
Though on paper, Winter Ashburn might be the great-granddaughter of a duke, she never let herself think any more
about how things used to be when her father was alive. She focused these days on how to keep her life running as
smoothly as possible. As long as she did nothing to draw her uncle’s attention, he ignored her, which was just as she
wanted it to remain.
Baron Richly was the husband of her father’s older sister, and had entered Winter’s life just before her father’s death
left the family without funds to pay their debts. In a matter of months, Winter had gone from society’s prevailing darling to
someone her father’s once staid friends pitied. Not a single high-minded elitist stepped forward to stop the baron from
taking her beloved Everleigh. The only people who had aided her during those awful years were the estate’s tenants
and many of the villagers. They were Winter’s family now.
Winter held no love for the baron’s world and no allegiance to an establishment that made paupers out of other men’s
souls as well as their purses. In her mind, aristocrats and nabobs--aristocrat wannabes--were notoriously worthless, and
a wealthy reprobate might find his pockets considerably lighter before leaving the boundaries of this hamlet.
And just that fast, her thoughts returned to the dark-haired stranger whose eyes had boldly assessed her in the pub.
Maybe it was the music coming from the other room as the fiddler took up his bow and a jaunty tune drifted back to her.
Like the shadow of a great bird slowly spreading its wings, the stranger began to fill her thoughts. Or maybe he had
been at the back of her mind all along. In persona, he embodied every aristocratic attribute she despised, but somehow
she sensed he was not like the other gentlemen of her narrow acquaintance. Despite his languid sprawl, he’d exuded
danger--along with his palpable sexuality and arrogance. She couldn’t place where she might have seen him before. But
there was something familiar about him.
Winter walked to the small window that looked out over the livery where she’d left her brother. But it wasn’t for Perry
whom her eyes searched.
Idly folding her arms beneath her cloak, she narrowed her attention to the white-washed livery and surrounding
paddock. A full moon picked out the mist rising silently from the ground and the fleeting shadow of a spotted hound.
Had the stranger already ridden out of the yard? An odd sense of loss fell over her.
Mrs. Derwood returned carrying a basket filled with goodies. “Here ye be, mum. Don’t be shy about eatin’ some of these
victuals yourself. They’re fer sharing. Ye tell Master Perry and that scamp, Robert, I said so, mum.”
“I will.” Winter thanked the woman, not only for the basket, but also for helping take care of Mam.
Mrs. Derwood opened the back door to the crisp night air. “Now run along and give that sweet potato pie to those two
young pirates outside. Then hie yerself home. No good ever comes on a night with a full moon.”
##
Once outside the Stag & Huntsman, and despite Mrs. Derwood’s ominous full-moon superstitions, Winter found herself
in better spirits than she had been inside. She followed the familiar sound of laugher and discovered her brother with his
friend behind the livery. Perry loved caring for the horses, his father’s son to be sure. He had been too young when their
father died to remember the celebrated Ashburn stables.
Her brother turned at her approach. Wearing a pirate eye-patch, Perry still managed to see the white basket in her hand
first. He and his friend Robert were dressed in their swashbuckling costumes. They liked to leap from trees and terrorize
the unsuspecting at the most inopportune time, sending animals and people screaming.
Her errant brother already had to make restitution to Mrs. Peabody for scaring her nearly to death, but mucking stables
for a week wasn’t enough. Just last week, he’d nearly broken his neck after constructing wings from bed sheets and
leaping off the stable roof on the assumption he could fly.
Perry ran to her and, with the instinct of a growing eleven-year-old, ferreted out the pie. The two boys tussled over who
would get first bite until Winter thought they’d resort to fisticuffs.
“Perry! Robert!” she admonished just as the two dropped the pie on the ground between them.
Fortunately, Mrs. Derwood had wrapped it. But then what was a little dirt to two rambunctious boys dressed up like
Blackbeard and Henry Morgan? “You can both eat that pie at home. It’s getting late.”
Robert ignored her and unwrapped the pie, replying for Perry, who, though taller, was the younger and shyer of the
pair. “We can’t go yet, mum.”
“Show her what the gent gave ye,” her brother mumbled excitedly over a mouthful of crust.
Robert displayed a coin. “I earned a shilling.”
“It’s part mine, too.” Perry shoved the battered wig off his brow.
“You weren’t begging coins from people?” Winter demanded.
“Nah!” The two boys snickered, then Robert said, “A tall highbrow gent come ridin’ in earlier and tells Old Ben to keep ’is
mount in the stable away from them other nags in the corral.”
Winter flinched at Robert’s annihilation of the King’s English. She had been teaching both boys their letters and had
taught Robert especially to speak with better syntax and less verbiage. As if reading her mind, and ever conscious of
her approval, Robert swallowed. “Away from them other horses,” he corrected. “The gent’s a regular toff, ’e ’is,” the
urchin forged onward with a lowered voice. “Butter won’t melt in ‘is mouth, mum. Gisette offered to tup him for less than
six pence and the chap turned her down flat.”
“Robert!”
His eyes widened in distress. “Ye shoulda ’eard what Gisette said.”
Perry laughed, completely unaware that such a topic could not possibly be proper. Suddenly the two boys were best
friends again, planning how to spend their newly acquired wealth, her presence entirely forgotten in their gluttonous
orgy as they discovered the roasted chicken in the basket. Perry acted as if he hadn’t eaten in a week.
“You said the man was tall?” Winter asked. “Was he dressed nicely? Black leather boots?” Tailored riding clothes as
impeccable as the body they draped? “Woolen jacket? Dark hair?”
Tucking away the coin, Robert considered her question. “He were tall. Don’t know ‘bout the boots, but he was wearin’ a
silver watch.”
“Dark hair,” Perry confirmed.
“He ain’t like the others, what come through here, mum, who just come to...you know.” Robert swallowed his mouthful
and didn’t say the word ‘tup.’ “He wanted to know which road went to Granbury Court.”
“Granbury Court?”
“I told ’im, and that’s when ’e gave me my shilling.”
Winter looked around the mist-shrouded yard. The old Marquess of Granbury’s estate sat amid thirty thousand acres
owned by the Jameson family since before the English civil war. Anyone who had grown up within a hundred miles of
London would know how to find Granbury Court, which meant the man who had inquired, was not from this part of
England. But with the exception of anyone visiting Lord Granbury’s rakehell grand-nephew, who was currently in
London, the cantankerous marquess rarely had visitors anymore.
“The man who asked, is he still here?”
Robert shrugged a shoulder toward the back entry of the stable. “The toff’s stallion is still ’ere, cause I’m guardin’ it.”
Caught by the sudden inexplicable flutter in her stomach, she glanced toward the stable. “Start home,” she told the
boys. “I’ll catch up--”
“But we have to stay, Miss Winter.”
“I’ll ask Old Ben to keep an eye on the horse. It is late. I want you both to start home. I’ll catch up to you.”
Winter left her brother and Robert grumbling, but they packed up the basket. When she turned in the doorway of the
stable, she saw them walking toward the woods. She was not one to chase after the identity of any man, but neither was
she content to live with a curiosity burning through her mind.
Adjusting the hood of her cloak, she entered the stable. A horse snorted. The pungent smell of straw, aged leather, and
manure touched her senses. Oil lanterns hung from a post at each end provided dim light. She peered up and down the
narrow aisle, listening, but heard no one present.
Moving toward a bay stallion in the last stall, she kept to the shadows. Quietly stopping, she picked an apple from the
barrel next to one of the stalls, keeping her ears alert for any noise that told her she wasn’t alone as she approached
the stall.
The horse was a beauty with long legs, a full chest and glossy coat, a thoroughbred of stellar bloodstock.
Whoever the stranger was, he knew horseflesh. This stud was worth more than most common people would ever see in
a lifetime. The bridle and saddle boasted the highest craftsmanship. Wanting to get near the valise attached to the
cantle, Winter eased cautiously into the stall all the while crooning softly. She held out the apple and powerful jaws
crunched down on the sweet morsel.
If she could but learn the name of the dark-haired stranger, she could settle the matter of his identity.
Liar, her wicked self whispered.
Even as something about him warned her to be wary of her initial reaction when she’d seen him in the pub, a flicker of
long-repressed femininity focused her memory on the touch of his gaze. Men undressed her with their eyes all the time,
but no one had ever made her body tingle. Her reaction had both alarmed and intrigued her, for at the base of it all was
an unfamiliar sense of awareness.
She saw no identifying marks or initials emblazoned on the saddle or on the valise. She struggled with the clasp before
noting it needed a key. The horse stirred and Winter slid her palm gently across its powerful shoulder.
“His name is Apollo.”
Winter whirled, horrified to find the voice’s owner lounging against the stall door, his smile flashing white in the lamp
light. “Mine is Rory,” he added. “In case you were wondering the name of the man you were attempting to rob.”
“I wasn’t! Robbing you, that is...” She brought her hand to her chest as she really looked at him. Good heavens.
Up close, this man was beautiful. Hair nearly blue-black in the low light enhanced the dark stubble shading his jaw. Eyes
not quite blue but silver, like the ornate braided chain dangling from the watch pocket on his vest. Eyes that were not
nearly as friendly as his voice.
“You startled me.” She pressed against the horse like some urchin caught in the act of stealing bread. Mentally chiding
herself for her lack of aplomb, she adjusted her hood and straightened. “This isn’t what you think.”
“It never is.” His crisp white linen shirt beneath his jacket opened slightly at the neck with the subtle shift of his body.
“Maybe all I’m thinking is that there are easier ways to earn your money tonight, love. Especially since there is nothing in
that valise worth your life.”
Her heart leapt. Did he mean to slay her where she stood? The horse shifted and tossed its head.
“I would like to come out,” she said with more brevity than calm and reached for the stall latch.
His gloved hand reached it first, and she jerked back. The corners of his mouth twitched. The beauty of his features
juxtaposed against the harsh shadows cast by the lamp behind him made him look both dramatic and dangerous, and
resentment that she should find the bounder attractive flared within her. “Step aside,” she warned.
He relaxed against the stall, preventing her escape. “I thought you people were more circumspect and practiced in your
crimes.”
Having been caught trying to go through his things, crying innocent would do no good, but his having a low opinion of
her bothered her. Perhaps not because he thought her a thief, but because he considered her a bad one. “I wasn’t
trying to steal from you.”
He laughed, clearly at ease with his boorish behavior, more so than she with her indefensible stupidity for stepping into
the stall with a horse that could be dangerous. “I would like to come out, now. Please.”
“Now this is the first hint of intelligence I’ve seen from you tonight. You should be afraid,” he said softly.
Of you or your horse? The fact that he thought she should be afraid made her determined to prove she wasn’t.
Rory unlatched the stall and Winter slid out, hesitating when he did not seem inclined to move.
She squeezed out of the stall, her body forced to touch every inch of his. A faintly exotic scent overlay the hint of
whiskey she smelled. A suggestion of patchouli struck her nostrils as if he’d washed his hair in exotic soap. The gate
clicked shut behind her.
“I will reiterate. You are a bastard.”
She started to move around him when he pressed his palm against the stall and blocked her escape. Her breath caught
in her chest for the second time in as many minutes. A flame-hot rush of awareness burned through her, electric in
intensity, and she fought to resist the intoxicating sensations that seemed to begin in the pit of her stomach and radiate
outward.
“Tell me your name,” he commanded softly.
“No,” she returned his whisper.
“Or maybe I should inform the sheriff I caught you trying to steal from me.”
Propriety demanded her immediate withdrawal. But ten cannons wouldn’t dislodge her at this point. “Blackmail?” she
scoffed in rebuke, doubting he would resort to such tactics. “Talk to the sheriff. He won’t believe you.”
“Do you always make it a habit to go through a man’s belongings then? Or am I special?”
Every female instinct warned her to caution, and it required much effort on her part not to press her palms to his chest
and push him away. Yet beneath it all was born a sense of familiarity with this man. She had seen him before. Though
she knew it impossible. She did not travel outside Granbury or in his circle.
Perhaps he’d once visited her father’s stable. “I was merely admiring your horse,” she said in a half-truth. “I have rarely
seen such a fine animal. From which stable did you purchase it?”
He took a step to his side and leaned against one of the roof supports at his back, folding his arms. “Apollo was a gift
from a corrupt Bashaw in Tangiers who owed me a favor.”
Her lips parted slightly in shock before she could speak. “What does a man do to earn a tyrant’s favor?”
A wolfish smile appeared on his handsome face. “I didn’t sleep with his Circassian lover. He thanked me for it.”
Heat crawled into her face. Taking issue with her own unworldly reaction as well as his humor, she stared at him. “Is that
a fact?”
“That is a fact.”
His gaze lowered to her lips, and she held her breath.
He’d been right about her going into Apollo’s stall. A stallion’s temperament should never be taken for granted. But at
the moment she was in more danger from the man than she had been from his horse.
“Trevor Jameson is not in residence at Granbury Court,” she blurted out, “if that is why you are going there.”
A shadow momentarily eclipsed the light in his eyes.
“My brother and his friend told me you had inquired about directions,” she explained. “You do not look like Lord
Granbury’s solicitor, so I assume you are here to see Mr. Jameson?”
“I’m not.” He peered down the length of the stable as if his senses touched on something hers had not. “No doubt this
entire town is in collaboration in some form of vice or another,” he surmised. “But I should warn you, your brethren will
not like what happens if I even get a whiff of communal chicanery tonight.”
A niggling worry probed her. “If I wanted to steal from you, I would have set someone up at the entrance to warn me of
your approach, sir.” Winter took a step around him. With no warning, a leather-booted leg blocked her escape before
she could draw a breath and her hip collided with it. Apprehension surging, she stepped backward, her heart
hammering. She shot a look to his face. “I could scream,” she said.
A hint of the humor in his eyes touched his mouth. “How old are you?”
“Fourteen,” she said without hesitation, and resisted a momentary swell of superiority as her lie swiped the smirk off his
face.
His eyes narrowing, he gave her a lengthy inspection. “Is that a fact?” he said, pleasantly mimicking her earlier remark. “I
like that you are a liar as well.”
Still feeling an odd lingering heat between them despite her alarmed, she lifted her chin. “Why?”
With aristocratic indifference to her shock, he replied in the lowest of tones, “Because I no longer feel guilty for wanting
to do to you exactly what I’ve had on my mind since you walked into that pub, madam.”
Winter felt the heat burn all the way from her décolletage and into her cheeks. “Of all the--”
“As I said”--again, he braced his hand against the stall at her back. And there it was again. The exotic smell of him.
Soap. Whiskey. Leather--“there are easier ways for you to earn your coin tonight.”
She’d been holding her breath against inhaling the summer warmth of him but had not realized it until his gloved hand
produced a florin. “We can start with your first name. I told you mine.”
The dolt was far too sure of himself and of her.
“A kiss then. It’s less personal perhaps.”
Tension knotted in her stomach. What was wrong with her that she did not put this man in his place? That she should
not feel insulted by his assertion that she was a local bawd, and that her heart was racing with something akin to devilish
excitement. “I won’t be forced.”
“I am not in the practice of abusing women,” he said in a whisper that caressed her senses. “If you don’t want me to kiss
you, all you have to do is step away, or say no. Or scream. I’m sure my life would be imperiled should you choose to
raise your voice an octave.”
His presence alone kept her pinned against the stall, not quite threatening, but neither had he made an effort to move
anymore than she’d made an effort to escape. She wet her lips against the dare in his eyes and the desire to put him in
his place. “Does money buy you everything you want?”
“I don’t know. Will it?”
The tone of his words told her she was merely a night’s gamely diversion for him. He didn’t care anything about her, but
he would not coerce a woman to do his bidding. If she moved away this time, she suspected he would allow her to leave
and would feel no loss at her defection. That he could so easily dismiss her produced an unprecedented response, for it
made her feel inadequate and somehow less than she was.
Men with money thought they held all the power. Her life was managed by such a man--a bastard who wanted unfettered
control. Who had already hurt her more than most people knew. The thought angered Winter.
Sometimes a woman could hold power, too, and to be less than memorable was to be dead.
Boldly pushing back her hood and letting it fall about her shoulders, she lifted her chin until she met his gaze. “You’re a
libertine,” she accused, though in the back of her mind she remembered he did not choose to tup Gisette.
She felt the momentary weight of his eyes. “A moralist term,” he said with a restrained timbre, his gloved hand rising to
cup her chin. “You’re a thief.”
Her hands fell lightly against his chest, and her heart pounded. She was a thief, more than he knew.
And she felt more alive than she had in years. Something about this man challenged a dormant part of her. She stared
back at him. “Then on the whole, you find morality inconvenient. Hence, you are willing to overlook most faults in people.
Even lies.”
His eyes grazed her hair, touched her lips and met her own gaze. “Lie with me,” he whispered.
Her mouth trembled as he leaned to kiss her.
Anxiety surged, resurfacing to pool in her stomach along with everything else, none of which she could define. “No,” she
said, her face a breath away, and she found herself bracing her fingers against his chest, closing the distance between
their lips on her own terms, not his.
She had only willingly kissed one other man in her life. No one ever made her hot and shivery, and so she imbibed as if
he were a glass of whiskey. Cautious of the taste, wary of the burn, and fully conscious of the danger as she forced
herself to center on the texture of his mouth, not the heat in her blood. If she wasn’t careful, she would end up giving him
more than a kiss. He knew it, too. His hands went to her waist.
It was that overconfidence that subdued her and ruined her at once, as she forced herself to remain focused. But her
head was swimming as she continued to press her advantage, stirring restlessly.
Distantly, she felt as if he were holding back almost like an observer perfectly comfortable allowing her to take the lead.
Sinking deeper into her kiss, she rose on her toes, wanting something more, yet unsure what. Her palms smoothed
across the contoured planes of his chest. Her knuckles skimmed along the inside of his jacket and hit something cold
and metallic in a leather sheath beneath his shoulder.
Startled she pulled back. “Is it loaded?”
His hands went to her face his fingers slid into her hair, his eyes half-lowered and intent on hers. “My gun is always
loaded, love.” His mouth claimed hers, taking the initiative from her, and making her previous kiss feel like a childish
peck on cheek.
Oh my.
His legs parted and he stepped against her, slow deliberate movements as his hand angled back her head. His tongue
swept between her lips with perfect boldness, deepening the contact. She found her back against the stall door, while
every female sense reacted to the press of masculinity against her layers of bulky skirts. Slowly his hands traveled down
her spine piling sensation down upon new sensation as every notion she’d ever held about kissing a man crumbled to
her feet.
Her body hummed. Try as she might, she could not pull away, but she lacked his carnal sophistication and could not
follow his lead. She felt trapped by her response. Everything was happening too fast. Panicked by the surge of need he
roused within her, so much so, she tore her mouth away from his.
“Loose me,” she found the voice to say. “Now...”
His hands framed her face as he pulled away, his eyes now dark and unnerving. She shivered slightly. For a heartbeat,
only their breathing touched the heavy silence between them.
“You are either a virgin,” he rasped against the heat of her lips, “or the worst kisser in the world.” Amusement laced his
tone. “In either case, you are no strumpet, love.”
The thought that her reaction to him could be so enormous while his toward her was naught but a frivolous passing sent
a maddening feeling of humiliation straight to the core of her. “Get away from me!”
“No more games, madam. Who are you exactly? Why were you trying to go through my valise?”
His eyes were no longer laughing at her, but deadly serious. Yet for just a brief instance after he’d kissed her there had
been something else in that silver gaze that went deeper than the surface, something that frightened her because it
touched her on a deeper level as well.
Winter caught herself retreating and stopped. “I wanted to know who you are. You are familiar to me.”
He used his fingertips to tilt up her chin. “Which part of me?”
Her brother’s voice startled her. “Winter?”
Perry and Robert stood in the doorway. Dressed like pirates as they were in their wigs and dragging their cutlasses they
looked like two highwaymen of lore.
Good lord. They were supposed to be halfway home by now. “I thought I told you to leave, Perry.”
Her brother’s usually friendly eyes peered watchfully at the man whose height and size dwarfed them all. “We were
waiting for you, Winter.”
“Perry,” she quietly warned when he failed to leave. “Start home. I’ll be right behind you. I promise.”
For once, he did as he was told.
“You have a protector,” the stranger said after the boys left.
“Do you find that extraordinary?”
Unlike his touch, his stare was casual. “No more than your name. Winter? I might have guessed you’d have an unusual
name.”
Disliking the intimate sound of it on his lips, she yanked up the hood of her cloak. Her eyes went to his face. Dangerous
in the shadows.
“Will I see you again?” he asked.
Perhaps one day in purgatory, she mused, stepping away from him, an involuntary reaction as much from his words as it
was from something deep inside that still wanted to wrap itself around him. “You and I will never walk in the same circle.”
“No.” The slide of his eyes over her body to her walking clearly was not what he had on his mind. “But that doesn’t mean
we can’t entertain ourselves.”
She calmly adjusted the hood of her cloak. “Try not to break your arrogant neck on the road tonight. We would all weep
inconsolably for your family’s loss.”
A black-gloved hand grabbed her arm as she swept past the man who was no longer quite a stranger and who still held
electric sway over her response to him. His eyes, glittering with a dark mystery, continued to wreak havoc on her senses
as he pulled her to him. “What are you doing?”
He slid the coin he’d held up earlier down her bodice, the intimacy of his touch making her gasp. “Assuring you that this
evening has been worth every bit of what that coin purchased, Miss Winter.”
Ignoring his quiet, confident laughter, she spun on her heel, confident that before the evening was gone, his lordship
would know he’d overpaid.
Her mouth suddenly curving at the corners into its own secret smile, she wondered how long it would take before he
discovered the entire contents of his pockets had been pilfered.
Unfortunately, the arrogant toff would never know he’d just made a substantial contribution to Father Flannigan’s
poorhouse fund.
Chapter Two
Rory folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorframe, watching the little vixen’s stride take her across
the stable yard. He was both fascinated and tantalized by the sway of her woolen cloak that framed soft, womanly curves
as she moved. Try as he might, Rory could not reconcile her lack of experience with her bold behavior.
He felt no censure for kissing her, only regret for allowing her to escape so easily, especially after he’d caught her
attempting to go through his things. Yet that mattered less than watching her leave.
The low ground mist began to swallow her image, but he could hear her steps sounding hollow against the planked low
bridge that spanned the stream. Despite his reasons for being here, he doubted he’d see her again as he intended this
trip to be short. His trunk would arrive at Granbury Court tomorrow. And he had just enough to remain a week. Above
him, the wide sweep of black sky glittered with stars and drew his gaze. A full moon hung suspended just at the tops of
the trees. When he looked toward the thick edge of woods again, the girl was gone.
Behind him, a voice chuckled. “Count yourself lucky, guv’nor.”
Rory unfolded his arms and turned into the stable. The owner of the voice stood inside a stall, just left of the door. It was
the hostler.
“She’d have shot most men what done what you jest did. I figure, she’s a grown-up woman what knows her own mind,
though. So it ain’t me place te say anything.”
Winter was grown up all right, Rory considered. He lifted a brow and approached the stall where the hostler stood. He
didn’t bother asking the impertinent eavesdropper how much of the conversation he’d overheard. Undoubtedly, the old
man had heard most everything.
His cheek bulging with tobacco, the hostler rested his elbows on the gate. His gaze traveled up Rory’s black boots, over
his tailored black trousers, his white shirt and black jacket. “She couldn’t place ye, but I do. You’re the old marquess’s
grandson. She’s probably seen that old portrait hangin’ in that fancy ’ouse of his lordship’s. Ye look like yer father did
when he was yer age.”
Rory’s amusement faded. “You have a good memory, considering my father has been absent for more than thirty years.”
The old man turned his head and spat a dark stream into a spittoon sitting just outside the stall. “Nigh on sixty years’
worth of memories, guv’nor. Some of them not so good. Beggin yer pardon, guv’nor. I ’spect a gent like yerself ’as better
things to do than to be talking to an old man like me.”
Rory leaned a shoulder against a stall wall, taking a few seconds to study the hostler. “What do they call you?”
He returned his gaze to his hands where he was braiding strips of leather. “Old Ben, if someone is interested in callin’
me anything other than hostler. Only Miss Winter calls me Mr. Brown. Now she’s a lady.”
Wondering if they were speaking of the same woman, Rory raised an amused brow at the man’s heartfelt avowal, “And
does Miss Winter always confront strangers in stables and kiss them?”
Old Ben chuckled. “I’ve known that snippet all twenty-one years of her life since she were born at Everleigh. I can assure
ye she ain’t the kissin’ type. The blokes ’round here stay clear. ’Sides the fact she’d likely skewer them, she’s under
Sheriff Derwood’s protection. He also be the proprietor of the Stag & Huntsman.”
Why was he not surprised, Rory thought. “I see.”
“Don’t get me wrong. Miss Winter can handle herself. She’s been takin’ care of her mam and Master Perry and most of
the tenants at Everleigh Hall fer nigh on five years.” He hesitated for the briefest moment. “Despite what ye may think,
guv’nor, Miss Winter Ashburn be a lady. Don’t dismiss her as below ye. She ain’t below no man.”
Mere moments earlier, Rory had been thinking of Miss Winter Ashburn in that very position. What he now had trouble
dismissing was her passion and his desire to own it. His mood, always capricious, had changed from bored to a single-
minded awareness of her the moment his lips had touched hers.
Rory was suddenly more interested in who the woman was. “Everleigh Hall is her home?”
“Everleigh Hall was her home,” Ben supplied, his veined hands hesitating over the hooks on the wall. He turned and
lowered his voice. “Most folk think I’m a half-blind old rummy. But I’ve eyes an’ ears in my head. I can tell ye tales about
the goings on in that place since her uncle took over.” The man’s rheumy eyes narrowed. “And I’m thinkin’ to meself just
now, the chap expectin’ ter inherit yer grandfather’s estate don’t know ’bout ye.” He peered shrewdly at Rory as if to
discern the truth of his birth, which Rory had no intention of discussing. “Trevor Jameson is already in London spending
his inheritance and the marquess ain’t even in his grave yet.”
Old Ben began gathering up the strips of leather he’d been braiding. “Ye can slap me down fer sayin’ these words, but
‘at rascal’s been short of charity fer anyone but hisself of late.” He sniffed as he let himself out of the stall. “Exceptin’
Miss Winter. Only it ain’t charity he feels towards her. The two of ’em growed up together, her bein’ from Everleigh Hall
and all. I ’spect she thinks she’s in love with the dandy.”
A fleshy fellow with curly white hair walked into the stable just then and stopped. His red-rimmed eyes pondered Rory
dispassionately before telling the hostler to get outside to look at a lame horse. Since Rory was as prudent with his
acquaintance as he was with his observations, he refrained from comment, telling himself it was none of his business
how Old Ben’s patrons treated the old man. The hostler dropped the leather strips and hurriedly latched the stall gate,
his relaxed demeanor gone.
“You best be leaving now, my lord.” Without a backward glance, Old Ben left the stable.
Rory stepped out of the lantern light and watched as Old Ben hurried out of sight behind the paddock to where a
powerful-looking gray mare stood. The other man leaned an elbow against the faded, weather-beaten fence. Low
conversation, indiscernible to Rory’s ear, passed between them as Old Ben knelt to study the mare’s left forelock.
A gaunt black and white spotted hound entered the stable just then and, spying Rory, stopped abruptly as if wary of
strangers.
Rory knelt on his haunches and held out his hand. “What’s your name, boy?” The dog approached and sat, its tail
thumping against the straw-covered floor. “Hmm?” Rory rubbed its ears, his black-gloved hands stark against the hound’
s white ears.
Annoyed at himself, Rory shook his head. He had just spent the last ten minutes in the company of an old drunk
imbibing in local gossip and now he was on his knee in stable muck talking to a dog. But something in the hound’s
guarded brown eyes touched him, like Old Ben’s had when the stranger entered the stable--like Miss Winter’s eyes had
when she’d inquired who he was.
The long, hard path of his life left little room for quixotic ruminations. Yet he remained hunched on the ground, petting
the hound, aware of the growing silence around him, mixed with the lack of desire to continue on to Granbury Court
tonight. He was restless and mildly morose, a mood he had not felt in a long while.
His thoughts turned to his distant cousin, Trevor Jameson. Rory had never met the man, but more than once tonight, he’
d heard an undertone concerning his cousin’s claim on Granbury. Trevor was the son of the Marquess of Granbury’s
youngest brother. Rory knew a little about the Jameson family history, but had never cared to learn more.
Nor did he give a fig about his grandfather’s title or estates. He did not intend to stay long enough to get himself caught
up in family politics. His purpose for being in Granbury was more benign than reclaiming his father’s place in his
grandfather’s world. His grandfather has wanted nothing to do with Rory’s life until now.
And now was too late.
Yet, without conscious direction for what he was doing, he stood and reached his hand into his jacket pocket for the
leather casing containing the letter from his grandfather. Finding the pocket empty, he checked the other side of the
jacket. Nothing.
A cold chill went over him.
He shoved his hand into each pocket again.
What the hell?
The slim wallet containing his bank notes and the letter from his grandfather was gone. His thoughts stumbled backward
over the last few hours, from when he’d first entered the pub then finally landing on the kiss.
But not to the one he’d given Winter Ashburn. Instead, he was remembering the first one. The kiss she had given him,
when her hands had been beneath his jacket, when he’d been too scorched by her touch to note anything else she
might have been doing with those hands.
Bloody hell.
He patted his pockets again, realizing the little sneak-thief had fleeced him. While he’d so generously parted with a
florin, the chit had robbed him blind.
He slowly smiled. Miss Winter Ashburn was more skilled at playing the ingénue than most. He liked that discovery, his
initial fury at being so blatantly robbed eclipsed by something inexplicable. Not only had she dared steal from him, she’d
done so beneath his very nose.
Hell, for that alone, she deserved the bloody five hundred pounds in that casing. He might even have let her go with her
prize had she not taken, along with those bank notes, that letter--or if he suddenly didn’t find himself challenged to
retrieve the billfold and teach her lesson.
This last he would do with pleasure, his objective to continue on to Granbury lost in the intriguing possibilities the night
suddenly offered--a polite term for what was causing the blood to hum in his ears. No doubt, with the sheriff on her side,
Miss Winter thought herself safe. But she’d be wrong. Rory felt more than uncivilized.
A few minutes later, in a hollow staccato of hoof beats, Rory sat astride Apollo and they were crossing the low, planked
bridge. He slowed the horse to a walk at the edge of the woods, searching for tracks just past the bridge where Winter
Ashburn had vanished.
Moonlight barely penetrated the oaks, beeches, and twisty hornbeams, laying down no visible path. Apollo pulled at the
reins, snorting and prancing in a circle, but Rory brought the stallion back around. Despite his immense desire to catch
Winter, he did not want to injure his horse or find himself unseated by a low branch while riding blind into the woods. He
couldn’t see a path.
Something darted through the bushes next to him. Rory tightened his grip on the reins as a hound bounded past Apollo,
wagging its tail clearly ready for an adventure. “Easy lad,” Rory murmured to his high-strung horse.
Though Rory was in no mood to pick up a cur, he changed his mind when the dog found the trail hidden in the shadows.
Then Rory was riding out of town and into the night following a dog.
The trail was no more than a footpath that wound along a shadowy stretch for half a mile. Rory finally reined in Apollo at
the top of a rocky rise overlooking a narrow spit of meadowland. That was when he saw her. His stomach pitched oddly,
the sensation without reason or cause except that he was a man who loved the chase.
In a moment, Winter Ashburn would be across the glade and sheltered in the cover of the woods again. Apollo, as if
recognizing his master’s impatience, sidled in agitation, but Rory was not yet ready to relinquish his view. Moonlight
suited the girl, he realized, taking a moment to savor her trek through the carpet of sleeping flowers. Then he nudged
his horse, the hunt truly on.
With no clear path down the rocky slope, Rory looked for a trail that paralleled the incline. He’d just found one when two
shapes dropped from the overhanging bough of the gnarled tree in front of him. “Halt!” the taller assailant yelled.
The startled Apollo reared and pranced sideways in the rock-strewn turf, nearly unseating Rory. He might have drawn
his pistol, had he not recognized the two young culprits dressed in pirate regalia, complete with old-fashioned wigs and
brandishing short swords he quickly realized were not real.
But their intended warning, “Stop or face death!” and “Stay away from my sister!” went no further as Rory brought Apollo
under control and they were faced with his wrath. It was one thing to play youthful games but not when their antics could
have endangered his horse.
Rory had just calmed Apollo when he saw them freeze, an expression of horror on their young faces. They had spied
something at his back. They turned suddenly and fled. Even the hound took off barking, as if the devil were at its heels,
leaving Rory to whatever fate would befall him. He turned in the saddle and saw two cowled riders blocking the path.
Both men brandished pistols at his chest. In one brief glance, Rory recognized the gray mare at the stable.
Disappointment pushed against him. Something told him Old Ben was involved.
Then he thought of those two boys, one of whom was Winter’s brother and wondered what their role might also be in this
confrontation.
Rory had only a small purse to give them. That and his horse.
He had a bullet for them as well, he thought, crossing one hand over the other as he leaned into his saddle.
“Gentlemen,” he said, using the term loosely.
The man on the gray mare nudged his mount into a shaft of moonlight, his gun level. Slits in the fabric revealed nothing
but shadowed pits for eyes. “Keep your hands where we can see ’em, guv’nor. Get after ’em two brats, Whitey!” the
blackguard said to his companion.
“Leave off.” Another voice replied from the darkness, and Rory realized he faced more than two men. “They did us a
favor,” the voice rasped.
The bloke on the gray mare edged forward. A shaft of moonlight, reflected off the barrel of the gun pointed at Rory’s
horse. “Get off all proper-like and we’ll be sparin’ that valuable stud you’re riding.”
Rory had once served as a British cavalry officer and knew how to fight from horseback. Before the man could grab
Apollo’s bridle, Rory hauled back on the reins. The stallion reared and flailed his hooves. Rory brought him under
control and wheeled him around, scattering the pair of riders directly in his path to prevent a flanking movement. The
action gave him precious seconds to draw his gun from the leather sheath beneath his arm.
But with the moon at his back, he knew--even as he fired two shots and nailed the highwayman in front of him—that he
was an easy target for the other two.
A harbinger that proved all too true a pulse beat later as a bullet struck him in the head.
##
Pop, pop, pop!
Gunfire. With the moon behind the clouds, the woods that surrounded Winter suddenly became a frightening place. She
halted at the edge of the meadow, picked up her skirts and ran back into the field, coming to a breathless stop among
the tall grass and flowers.
She had left Perry and Robert to trail after her. In a state of panic, she ran, thinking of nothing but finding her brother.
Did the shot come from poachers?
Perry and Robert suddenly burst out of the woods ahead of her, racing in her direction. She dashed toward them. Her
brother was in tears when they finally reached each other.
Robert grabbed her hand, pulling her around. “Real highwaymen, mum. Hide!”
“Were they shooting at you?”
“No, mum.”
Instinctively she dropped into the long grass, pulling Robert and Perry with her. There they all remained, breathing hard,
listening for any sounds that the two boys had been followed.
Winter wanted to know everything that had happened, but she kept silent, holding Perry and Robert close in an effort to
still their terror--and hers. Horses approached from the upper trail, stopping at the edge of the woods from where Perry
and Robert had emerged, perhaps a hundred feet from where the three of them lay hidden. The riders paused. She
imagined they were studying the meadow’s terrain but suspected they could see little in the ground mist. At last, they
turned their mounts toward Granbury Court.
Her every sense followed the retreating sound of horse’s hooves as they moved farther away. When she was satisfied
they were well and gone, Winter eased the cloak off her face and pushed herself up on her hands and knees, her
fingers digging into the fecund soil. Heart hammering, she peered over the long grass, glad that the moon had yet to
reappear from behind the clouds.
Her attention was drawn to Perry’s quiet sobs. “We didn’t mean anything, Winter. We just wanted to scare him off a little.”
Winter looked from Robert to Perry. Neither of them was making sense. “Scare who off? Who is back there?”
“Him.” Perry dashed tears from his eyes with the back of his hand.
“The toff,” Robert said. “The one what followed ye from the stable.”
| Passion and Pleasure In London Excerpt |
 | |  |
On shelves August 26, 2008
Avon Historical
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AVON Historical
ISBN# 978-0-06-147093-6
ISBN# 978-0-06-147093-6
This one is definitely going on my
keeper shelf. ~~Maura
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance
keeper shelf. ~~Maura
Reviewer for Coffee Time Romance