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M yles kept his distance from Lora for several days, forgoing a picnic, and avoiding her when the ladies strolled about the gardens or passed the time in the estate’s massive library.

He rose before everyone else to break his fast. He hunted fowl until mid-morning, then handled business into the late afternoon, often meeting one of his men in the woods to receive updates on their activities.

Ornate dinners and the occasional musicale arranged by Lora’s aunt, Miss Percival, continued to delight guests, and billiards entertained gentlemen over drinks.

Even then, however, he could not escape the young woman he’d come to admire and adore.

Lora occupied his thoughts, refusing to let go.

Everywhere he went, Lora was there. He saw her face on the surface of the lake. He heard her singing at the pianoforte as the breeze drifted through the trees. She was in his blood, the very breath filling his lungs.

Restless and determined to clear the cobwebbing thoughts clouding his mind, he ordered a horse to be saddled and set out over the green.

With everything going on at Darby, and his men being no closer to finding Stuart’s killer, desiring Lora seemed wrong.

He had a mystery to solve. And rather than school Lora on how to hold a bow, he should be searching for the expert archer—the highwaywoman—who’d shot Grimes.

His original goal left no time for dancing or temptation, it required focus.

He’d come to Winterbourne to interview the guests, to piece together the puzzle that would paint a broader picture of why the highwaywoman haunted Kingston and Stuart was murdered.

The two were connected. But how?

He revisited the day of the archery tournament in his mind, recalling that he’d only accepted Hawkesbury’s challenge to warn off the lieutenant.

Her cousin’s penchant for gambling and desperation to win was cause for concern.

Because of it, he’d been determined to keep Hawkesbury from earning Lora’s kiss.

The thought of tasting her soft, dewy lips put him in need of a cold pond.

Who was he trying to fool? A dousing wouldn’t cure what ailed him.

His instincts about her the night of the Templetons’ ball had been precise.

Being around Lora and getting to know her only made him desire her more.

Her brave spirit, unconquerable heart, and gamble-worthy lips tempted him more than any woman ever had.

If only he could tell her that.

Highly improper.

Wallowing in torment, he took the London Road and headed back to Kingston.

His concentration had waned and he needed to recharge.

It was Stuart he should be thinking of, plotting and planning to apprehend the ones responsible for his butler’s death, not wooing the sensibilities of a good, upstanding woman.

Riding hard, he dismissed the heartache such a decision triggered, shelving away the losses that catalogued his life.

The rakish frivolity in which he’d indulged himself in London prior to his father’s death; the duties that he’d immediately thrown himself into and sworn to uphold.

Heraldry, honor, and heart. More was the pity.

It all paled compared to the spectacled beauty who’d somehow bewitched him, body and soul.

Someone ran out of the trees and dashed across the road in front of him.

To avoid trampling the poor soul, he quickly reined in his mount. The beast reared, and he lost his grip. Grappling for the reins, he fell back and hit the hard earth with a thud. Blinking away the sting to his pride, he slowly rose to his feet, confused.

The moon was full, the woods a mixture of path and shadow. Just as he’d got his wits about him, another figure cloaked in red darted across the road, giving chase to the first.

Gravel crackled beneath his feet as he abandoned his horse and impulsively ran after the two figures, the sound of his approach a stark warning to whoever lurked in the woods.

He knew he might be walking into a trap, hemmed in by trees and underbrush with nowhere to run.

And yet the desire to discover the identity of the highwaywoman and put an end to his own suffering and that of the inhabitants of Kingston drove him on.

An arrow whooshed through the trees, the whir of a distant warning.

A twig snapped. The resounding strum of the shaft missing its mark and impaling wood followed before the red-clad apparition finally took form. The figure, like that of an avenging huntsman in search of the damned, parted from the trunk of an old oak.

The highwaywoman!

His eyes hadn’t deceived him.

The night Stuart died replayed in his head, compelling him to recall seeing her for the first time. Powers of reasoning led him to believe she had not been involved in his butler’s death. But she had been there, whether taking part in Stuart’s murder or pursuing the killer.

Did she know the killer’s identity? Was that who she was after now? If he caught up to her, would she divulge that information willingly?

Burying Stuart had been hard, almost as hard as saying goodbye to his father. The man had been a confidant and friend, family—and Myles had few blood ties left to spare.

Fury seized his good sense, propelling him forward.

Tracking was a dangerous sport, especially if you didn’t know what or who you were hunting.

Nevertheless, he continued to stalk his prey, a rash decision, surely.

He was unarmed, but he kept to the trees, aware that her swift and steady aim might instantly seal his doom.

Folklore taught that a wild hunt forebode catastrophe, abduction by fairies or death to the one witnessing it. And like the king of the underworld in Arthurian legend, he meant to make sure that devils—including a certain highwaywoman—did not destroy human souls.

Even if it meant preventing her from capturing and killing the man responsible for Stuart’s death?

Justice must prevail. The court passed judgment on a man, no matter the cost to pride or prejudice.

There! A darting to the left.

Her cloak fanned out in dramatic fashion. He moved to outflank his quarry as the figure stretched a bowstring and let another arrow fly. She stilled, her gloved hand hovering over her quiver as she peered through the trees.

Hoping she was distracted by the man’s distant cry, he crept behind her, then stopped dead in his tracks when she said, “Stay where you are.” In a split second, he was staring at a nocked bow. “Do not come any closer.”

The highwaywoman’s voice was husky, strained, as if she altered it to keep from being recognized. “You wouldn’t shoot an unarmed man, would you?”

“That depends on the man.”

Curious about her identity and who would be revealed beneath the hood, he took a step closer. “I mean you no harm.”

“I’m warning you,” she said, her voice deepening to a threatening croak. “You shouldn’t have followed me. This is none of your concern.”

“Everything happening in Kingston concerns me.”

“Stay where you are, Your Grace.”

The opening Myles waited for had arrived.

She knew him, or rather, who he was. Being a duke made that part easy.

Raising his hands in mock surrender, he continued to advance slowly, struck by a nagging suspicion that he knew her too.

Something about her drew him in, and he sensed that she would not harm him.

She’d allowed Grimes to live, and no one liked a solicitor.

Tightening her bowstring, she eased the arrow back along her cheek. “This arrow isn’t meant for you.”

“Then don’t shoot it,” he said matter-of-factly, taking another step.

He didn’t get far. Faster than he could blink, the arrow strummed between his feet.

She withdrew another and nocked it, but before she could let loose, he snatched her arm. “Caught you.”

Her instincts were sharp. She spun out of reach, outfoxing him.

Undeterred, he caught her again. This time, he seized the edge of her cloak, which she quickly shrugged off, moving this way and that through the trees, to evade him.

But he was larger, his stride wider and faster.

Recapturing the she-devil, he twirled the vixen around in his arms until they came face-to-face.

The shocking collision forced them both to the ground.

“Get off me, you oaf!” she demanded, kicking and squirming and trying to dislodge him. “Let. Me. Go!”

“Hold still,” he ordered, trying to process the now familiar voice?—

“I can’t . . . breathe.”

“Lady Lora?” Impossible! “Is that you?”

“You big oaf!” She pummeled his arm. “I . . . cannot . . . breathe.”

He raised up on his elbows, one eye trained on the direction her arrows loosed, to make sure the wounded man wasn’t circling back around to ambush them. “What are you doing here? This is no place for a lady. And why were you wearing a red cloak?”

The questions mounted, but nothing numbed the truth.

Lady Lora is the highwaywoman!

But how could that be? She was a simple wallflower, a modest woman who needed glasses to . . . see.

Stunned by this unbelievable revelation, he glared down at her in annoyance. Farcical! The glasses were gone, and she didn’t need archery lessons. With deadly precision, she shot her arrows exactly where she wanted them to go.

Anger and frustration radiated off her in waves. Her nostrils flared. “Let. Me. Go,” she repeated.