Page 10 of One Duke of a Time (Wayward Dukes’ Alliance #37)

T he Devonshire road narrowed after the last market town, squeezed between thick hedgerows.

The late afternoon was quiet, as if the world were waiting for sunset.

Maximilian sensed it first as a faint unease in the horses, then in the stillness of the woods.

The birds that had chirped moments ago fell silent.

He signaled the driver with a tap on the roof, and the man reined in, uncertain.

The dowager settled on the seat beside Lydia, who leaned out of the carriage window, her crimson shawl contrasting against the gray, scanning the ditch.

She did not look at Maximilian, but he knew she sensed the same absence of sound.

All that could be heard was the quick stamp of the lead horse and the countess's soft snore.

Then, from the shadows at the road’s bend, emerged the first of them.

The highwayman’s pistol caught the fading light, aimed directly at the coachman’s heart.

His face, beneath a knotted scarf, was unreadable, but his stance radiated hunger—lanky and leaning forward, as if he might leap onto the carriage roof.

Another figure flanked him, then a third, closing in like wolves circling prey.

Maximilian moved before he could think. He swung down from the step, boots sinking into the wet lane, positioning himself between the carriage and the men.

The leader’s voice was rough but not unintelligent. “Out, all of you. Hands where I can see them.”

Maximilian’s hand was already at his sword, thumb unfastening the loop with a practiced flick. “If you want charity, start with a request rather than a threat.”

The second man laughed, a harsh sound. The pistol did not waver. “We'll take the coin and the dark-haired lady.”

Lydia’s eyes scanned the scene, assessing the situation.

With unexpected speed, she yanked the travel hamper from the footwell.

She pried open the lid, rummaging past a book, a flask, and an envelope of candied ginger, then found what she was looking for.

A compact, ugly pistol, kept for emergencies more social than lethal.

She cocked it with a decisive snap and aimed it at the highwayman closest to the door.

Maximilian noticed the change in Lydia’s profile—the tightness of her mouth, the straightening of her back—and braced himself for the impending clash.

The lead highwayman missed the signal, his focus fixed on Maximilian’s sword. “Drop it,” he snarled.

“I will,” Maximilian replied, “if you lower yours.”

Without warning, the man fired, the gunshot shattering the stillness. The bullet went wild, ricocheting through the hedgerow. Maximilian drew his weapon and parried the second man’s blade. Their swords clashed in a spray of mud and curses.

Inside the carriage, Lydia inhaled sharply and pulled the trigger.

The recoil jolted her wrist, but the shot found its mark. The third highwayman, barely visible in the dusk, was thrown backward off his horse, his pistol clattering to the ground. The woods absorbed the sound of his body hitting the earth.

For a moment, silence reigned. Then the dowager's voice punctuated the air, "Beat the tar out of him, Duke!"

Maximilian pivoted, his sword gleaming in the fading light as he pressed forward.

The second highwayman, caught off guard, stumbled on the churned mud and fell.

The leader, witnessing his companion’s fall, raised his weapon again, but Lydia was already reloading, her hands steady despite the tremor in her chest.

"Watch out, Duke. Lydia is going to shoot," the countess called. She scooted closer to the door, peering out. "Take that scoundrel!"

It ended as quickly as it began. The leader, sensing the tide had turned, spat a curse and bolted for the underbrush, his boots sliding on the clay. Maximilian let him flee, his gaze shifting from the fallen to Lydia, whose pistol now hung at her side, barrel smoking, her expression unreadable.

He closed the distance in two strides. “You are hit.”

“No,” she lied. “Just winded.”

He pulled her arm into the light. A musket ball had grazed her shoulder, and she winced as he pressed a handkerchief to the wound.

“Hold still.” The command was brisk, but his touch was gentle as he secured the cloth.

She searched his face for judgment or horror but found instead something closer to admiration.

“Is it bad?”

He shook his head. “You will wear it like a medal.”

The driver crawled out from behind the rear wheel, eyes wide. “Did… did Miss Montague just…?”

Maximilian nodded. “She did.” He kept his hand on her arm, steadying her, and she let him.

“You saved my life,” he said.

She shrugged. “I was aiming for his hat.”

A hint of a smile flickered across his face.

Once they were safe inside the carriage, he said, “We will reach the next inn by dusk. There is a doctor.”

“I do not need one,” Lydia said, glancing at the dowager who had already fallen back asleep.

“All the same,” he replied, then offered a bright, genuine smile.

The coach jolted onward. Lydia closed her eyes, feeling the sting of her wound and the burn of memory, but above all, the lightness of survival .

Twilight spread behind them. The hedgerows gave way to open land, cart ruts glimmering where water pooled.

In the distance, smoke hung over a farmstead; nearer, the sweet scent of crushed gorse drifted through the cracked coach window.

Lydia leaned her temple against the paneling, watching the countryside fade into dusk.

Maximilian checked the bandage again when the road smoothed. His fingers were deft as he tried not to take any liberties. “It will weep,” he said. “We will clean it properly at the inn.”

“I have endured worse from new boots,” she replied, but did not pull away. “My governess used to say ladies faint at the sight of blood. She was dismissed soon after teaching me to read a map.”

One side of his mouth lifted. “You read a battlefield faster than most officers I have met.”

She angled toward him. “You have met a great many?”

“My cousin dragged me to Spain at the end of the war,” he said after a beat, his eyes fixed on the window. “Not to fight. To observe .” He tapped his ribs, almost idly. “A French sabre near Salamanca observed me back.”

Lydia’s gaze dropped to the faint white seam he indicated, half-visible where his waistcoat gaped. She did not tease. “And yet you still put yourself between me and a pistol.”

“I am better at that than staying in the carriage.” He looked at her then, taking in the steel in her eyes, the set of her shoulders.

She was remarkable, and every part of him wanted to know her better, to have her, to protect her.

He sighed, pushing the desire back. “I have no doubt I misjudged you.”

She considered, feeling the warmth of it. “I know.” A breath later, softer, she said, “Thank you for admiring it.”

The coach took a rise and leveled. Beyond the hedge, the land sloped toward the Teign, a stretch of water catching the last light. “We will cross the ridge at Haldon tomorrow,” he said, more to the dark than to her. “Chudleigh lies just beyond.”

“And an old chapel with proof that I am a fool, or that someone hopes I will act like one.”

“Or proof we can use,” he said. “If the will has been tampered with, we will find the seam.”

She smiled without humor. “You and your seams.”

“They have saved me more than once.” He paused, then added, almost ruefully, “They have cost me, too.”

“Control always does.” Her voice softened. “So does recklessness. Perhaps between us, we make one sensible person.”

“That would be a novelty.” The word carried an undertone of hope.

Quiet settled—not the brittle kind that breaks at a touch, but one that allows thought to flow. Lydia flexed her fingers and found, to her surprise, that the tremor had disappeared. She set the pistol back into the hamper, under the candied ginger and the flask.

“Maximilian,” she said, tasting the name. “If anyone asks, you fired the shot.”

He turned his head. “Lydia?—”

“I have no intention of being paraded as a curiosity in an inn yard.” She averted her gaze to the window, then back to him. “Or of inviting gossip that reaches my sister before I do.”

Understanding clicked into place. He nodded once. “As you wish, but will the countess keep your secret?”

“She will likely wake to think it all a dream.”

Her palm lay open on the seat between them, a gesture neither inviting nor dismissive. He set his hand there for the space of one breath—then withdrew to the opposite corner when the coach rocked through a rut. The imprint of warmth lingered.

They did not speak again until the first lamps of the next village appeared through the hedges like a scattered constellation. When the driver called back that the signboard read The King’s Arms, Maximilian only said, “Good.”

Night cloaked the valley as they reached the roadside inn, a stone-and-plaster building at the crossing of two lanes. The lamp above the door lit the mud so that every footprint gleamed with futility.

Maximilian let Lydia go ahead of him, noting that exhaustion had not dimmed her stride. The coachman handed luggage to a stable boy and then disappeared into the taproom. The countess disembarked and asked to be shown to her room. A footman quickly assisted her inside to see it done.

Lydia shook the dust from her skirt, ignoring the rents and stains. Maximilian knew she saw them as a record of survival, not defeat. He waited until she had finished, then offered his arm to escort her inside.

The innkeeper observed their state—smeared coats, a torn shawl stained with blood, the Duke’s face marked with dirt—and reached for the bottle instead of the guestbook.

Maximilian requested a room. The man shrugged, produced a single iron key, and explained that the upstairs was full, save for one room.

The announcement neither surprised nor unsettled him.

In fact, he was pleased not to be sharing a room with the dowager countess and her squirrel in addition to Lydia. Indeed, things could be far worse.

Taking the key, he led Lydia up the stairs.

The room was small: the bed dominated the space, positioned beneath a gabled window that offered only a view of the slate roof and the rising moon. A battered basin and pitcher sat on a rickety stand, and two stubby candles flickered on the mantel.

Maximilian closed the door and leaned against it. Lydia dropped her shawl onto the lone chair and turned. In the candlelight, her hair glowed like polished mahogany, and his finger twitched with the urge to run through it.

He poured water into the basin, dabbing at the blood on his temple. Lydia removed her boots and sat on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees.

In the mirror, he caught her reflection. “You are still bleeding.”

She wiped at the scratch on her arm, the bandage now soaked. “Hardly.”

“Let me see.”

“You will have to untie it. ”

He crossed the room, knelt, and carefully unwrapped the makeshift bandage. The cut was shallow but bruised. He pressed a fresh towel against it, and she winced, curling her lip but holding back a gasp.

“You could have been killed,” he murmured.

“So could you.”

His smile was tense. “We are not the same.”

She studied his face, eyes tracing the cracks in his composure. “Why not?”

He faltered. She covered his hand with hers, squeezing hard enough to silence the argument. “I do not want you to die,” she said simply.

He released her arm but held onto her hand. “Then perhaps we should not shoot at highwaymen.”

She snorted. “Next time I will let them take my jewels and my virtue, in that order.”

His chest burned. “Neither is negotiable,” he said, and before he could think, he pulled her close and kissed her.

It was a collision of adrenaline and hunger. Lydia responded, her hands sliding up his shoulders, fingers threading through his hair. She nipped at his lip. He sucked on hers.

They broke only for air. Lydia's eyes were full of fire .

His pulse raced, desire and something more tender rising within him.

“I could have lost you,” he said, the admission hitting harder than any blow.

She gazed at him. “I could have lost you, too.”

The air between them tightened, no longer bound by old rules. They were just two people, alive through luck and stubbornness, and neither willing to pretend otherwise.

He kissed her with the passion of a man who had run out of arguments.

She matched him, her hand in his hair, nails digging into his scalp as she opened to him. The bed was at their knees, the fire at their backs, and the rest of the world ceased to exist.

Clothes fell away in pieces, his cravat tossed into the fire, her stays unlaced by trembling fingers, his waistcoat discarded so quickly one of the buttons ricocheted off the bedpost. Her shift joined the pile, and for a moment, they simply stared at one another, as if each expected the other to vanish.

Then he pulled her down with him, mouth on her throat, hands tracing every bruise and scratch. She returned the favor, exploring the ridge of his ribs, the line of his spine, the rough edge of an old scar on his hip .

It was not gentle, but it was honest. Every touch a demand, every gasp an answer. They rolled together, her hair tangling them both, his breath loud in her ear as she bit his shoulder to muffle her own sounds.

He whispered her name as he entered her, the syllables full of need. She arched against him, nails digging into his back, legs wrapped around his waist. The first shock—too sharp, too much—gave way to a heat that drowned everything else.

They moved as if they could outpace the night, sweat and blood and salt on their skin. He said her name again, voice cracking, and she shuddered around him, the world collapsing into color once more.

After, they lay tangled together, sheets twisted beneath them, bodies sticky with the evidence of violence, survival, and spent passion. Lydia traced the lines of his face with her fingertips, watching as he struggled to regain the composure she had dismantled.

“Is this the part,” she asked, her voice a hoarse whisper, “where you remind me of my reputation and yours?”

He pulled her close, his hand on the small of her back. “This is the part,” he said, “where we stop pretending it matters. ”

They did not speak of what tomorrow might bring. The candles flickered, the fire subsided, and the only sound was the slow, shared rhythm of their breathing.

In the darkness, Lydia's hand found his and held fast. She smiled, eyes closed, as he pulled her closer.

They drifted toward sleep, bruised and battered but alive.