Page 2 of Road Trip With a Rogue (Her Majesty’s Rebels #3)

Lucien William Devereaux Vaughan, the twelfth Duke of Cranford, glanced down at the unconscious woman in the road, then back up at his faithful—if somewhat overenthusiastic—valet.

“You didn’t need to strangle her, Finch,” he said coolly. “You could have just held her arms to restrain her.”

Lucien frowned as he crouched down beside her and tried to still the uncharacteristic pounding of his heart. Few things managed to increase his heart rate anymore, but the female before him had always managed it, even against his will.

Daisy Hamilton. He’d recognized her the moment he’d heard her voice.

She was still breathing; she’d come round in a moment or two. He’d seen Finch use that same move countless times to incapacitate an enemy, and he knew precisely the amount of pressure to employ, but that knowledge didn’t seem to prevent Lucien from worrying, apparently.

Finch gave an unapologetic shrug and dipped his chin to indicate the lethal-looking knife that had fallen from her hand.

“You saw what she did to that bastard before you put a hole in ’im.” He gestured toward the body lying in the road with her knife embedded in its arm. “I didn’t think it wise to underestimate her.”

Lucien grunted in reluctant agreement, even as his gaze roamed over her features as if he’d been starved of the sight of her.

Her wild mop of curly brown hair was the same as ever, unsuccessfully restrained by a black ribbon at the back of her neck.

Her skin was pale in the moonlight, her eyebrows dark, but he could see the sprinkle of freckles that peppered her nose, and the lush perfection of her lips.

His body heated. He’d kissed those lips. Five years ago, now. And God, if it hadn’t been one of the best and worst nights of his life.

He was glad her eyes were closed. Something strange always happened to him whenever their eyes met: he experienced a tightening in his chest, an instant rush of desire that turned his cock to iron. It was infuriating. No other woman had ever had the same effect.

She’d been pretty at eighteen, before he’d left for war. An impetuous wide-eyed beauty just shimmering on the edge of womanhood. Now, at twenty-three, she was enough to stop a man’s heart.

He’d glimpsed her a few times, briefly, at various social functions since he’d been back in England, but he’d never allowed himself to approach her.

Like an alcoholic who knew he couldn’t be trusted to look at a tumbler of whisky without needing a sip—and then the whole bottle—he’d stayed far away from her.

He simply hadn’t needed the aggravation.

Had he occasionally imagined her beneath him while he was fucking a dark-haired courtesan? Yes. Had he once accidentally breathed her name while debauching his mistress? Yes again.

But those were perfectly acceptable substitutions. The only safe scenarios in which he would allow himself to think of Daisy Hamilton.

She was not for him. Not back then, and certainly not now.

Thanks to her brothers, he knew she worked as some sort of private investigator, but he’d resisted the urge to learn more.

She was his curse, not his salvation, and he’d been right to let her go.

It had been for the best. Noble, even. But regret still scorched his veins as he remembered his deliberately cruel rejection of her.

If the horrified look she’d given him just before she lost consciousness was any indication, she’d neither forgotten, nor forgiven, that particular episode either.

Bloody Hell.

What in God’s name was she doing here ?

Cursing himself for a fool, he gave in to the temptation to touch her.

At least he was wearing gloves. His leather-covered thumb stroked her cheek as he cupped the back of her head, gently cradling her skull, while his other hand tugged impatiently at the handkerchief tied at her throat to allow her to breathe.

He suppressed a dark laugh. Daisy being unconscious was the only way he’d ever get the chance to undress her.

His heart gave a relieved thump as she stirred.

He released her and leaned back on his haunches, trying not to loom, as her eyelids fluttered and she took a deep gulp of air.

Her eyes opened, and for a brief minute the world fell away as she stared up at him in complete incomprehension.

She looked dreamy, delightfully confused.

He knew the exact moment she recognized him: her lips parted in a gasp and she reached for her knife.

Finch, thankfully, had removed it, because Lucien was certain she would have stabbed him in the heart without a second thought.

“You!” Her voice was a croak, but full of loathing. “What are you doing here?”

Lucien schooled his face into the expression of bored indifference he’d perfected over the years. “I could ask you the same thing, Dorothea .”

She scowled at his deliberate use of her full name—she’d always despised it—and he bit back a smile. God, he’d forgotten how much he loved teasing her. It had always been his favorite guilty pleasure.

“It’s Daisy,” she said, pushing herself to a seated position. “And I asked first.”

He rose and stepped back, not trusting himself near her now that she was fully conscious.

“A man can travel in his own carriage, can’t he? What are you up to, dressed like that, and interrupting a highway robbery? Are you mad? Does your father know the danger you’re getting yourself into?”

“I don’t suppose he’d care.”

“He certainly would, if his only daughter turns up dead by the roadside dressed as a stable boy,” he said. “And what about your brothers? I can’t imagine they’d approve of such idiocy. God, I ought to spank you for being such a fool.”

A splash of red stained her cheeks as she glared up at him. “Don’t you touch me. What I do is none of your business.”

She started to stand. He put his hand down automatically to help her, but she batted it away. “Get off. I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he retorted. “And you became my business when you showed up here, ruining my night.”

“I just saved your life, you ungrateful beast!” She glanced behind her at the bodies lying in the road and shuddered. “If I hadn’t stepped in you would have been shot.”

He raised his brows. “You think so?”

She frowned, clearly realizing that her help might have been unnecessary. Despite the fact that Geordie, his coachman, had been wounded, he and Finch had been more than capable of dealing with the interruption.

“Why did you intervene?” he pressed. “You certainly didn’t know it was me in there.”

“Of course not,” she said bitterly. “If I’d known it was you , I’d have ridden in the opposite direction. I thought the coach belonged to someone else.”

“Who?”

“It doesn’t matter. Where are my knives?” She tried to move past him, but he blocked her with an easy sidestep. She scowled as she encountered the expanse of his chest, but didn’t come close enough to touch him. Wise girl.

“Finch has them.”

He nodded to Finch, who’d reclaimed her second blade from the corpse’s shoulder and was busy dragging the bodies to the side of the road with his usual brisk efficiency.

She held out her hand, palm upward. “Give them back.”

Finch glanced at him for permission, but Lucien shook his head. “Not just yet.” He turned to the box, keeping her in his peripheral vision as he did so. He didn’t trust her not to try to run while his attention was elsewhere. His hand itched to grab her wrist to detain her, but he resisted.

“How badly are you hit, Geordie?”

His old army mate gave a grunt of annoyance. “Bastard got me near the elbow. I’ve bound it up, but the ball’s lodged in there. It’s going to need to come out.”

Lucien nodded. “Move over, then. Finch can drive us to the nearest inn. Where are we exactly?”

“Just to the north of Hampstead Heath,” Daisy supplied, irritation clear in her tone. “Barnet’s about four miles that way.”

He glanced down at her. She really was incredibly small. Barely up to his shoulder. It was a miracle Finch hadn’t done any permanent damage to that pretty neck of hers. The thought made him a little queasy.

“Good. In that case, why don’t you get in the carriage while we move that log?”

Her recoil was almost comical. “What? No. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

He sent her a cynical look. “You are if I say you are.”

“My horse is just over there.” She gestured vaguely into the woods. “I’ll be off as soon as your man returns my knives.”

“You think I’m going to leave you here, alone, in the middle of the night?”

“I do indeed.”

“So you can get yourself raped, killed, or worse, while making your way back to London? I don’t think so.”

“I don’t see what could be worse than being raped or killed.”

“That’s because you haven’t lived through a war. There’s worse. Far worse. Believe me.”

She let out a low growl of frustration. “You can’t force me to go with you.”

He smiled, showing his teeth. “I think I can.” He deliberately let his eyes roam over her body and enjoyed the angry flush that rose to her cheeks. “You weigh less than a wet rat. You can either get in that coach by yourself, or I’ll pick you up and put you in there.”

Her eyes widened in outrage, and amusement flashed through him at her impotent fury. Her gaze flicked down to his hands as she clearly imagined them on her body, and a jolt of arousal clenched his belly. He ignored it.

“Fine. But let me go get my pistol and my horse.”

She was as transparent as a window. “No. I’ll get them. I’m not having you galloping off on your own.”

“I got here on my own,” she ground out. “And if I have my knives and my pistol, I’ll be perfectly capable of dealing with whatever comes my way.”

“The same way you dealt with Finch?” he mocked.

She narrowed her eyes. “I was distracted.”

“And overpowered,” he said, just to rub it in. “And then unconscious. A less noble man would have taken advantage.”

“Noble!” she scoffed. “That’s not a word I’d ever use to describe you.”

“No? You’re alive and unmolested. You should be glad I’m such a saint. I didn’t even search you while you were insensible.”

She looked ready to slap him, and he bit back a laugh. “In any case, I owe it to your brothers not to let you endanger yourself any more tonight. Or to let you terrorize anyone else on the King’s Highway, for that matter.”

The comment clearly reminded her of the man she’d shot. She turned and walked the few paces to where he lay on the grassy verge, then bent and cautiously pressed her fingers to his neck, checking for a pulse. She let out a relieved sigh when he moved and moaned.

She glanced back over her shoulder. “He’s not dead.”

“Want me to finish him off?” Lucien drawled, just to be provoking. It was clear she was suffering an horrific amount of guilt at the fact that she’d shot the bastard.

“What? No! Of course not.”

“Why not? He would have killed you without a second thought.”

“That’s not the point. Killing him would make me just as bad as him.”

Lucien shrugged, enjoying playing devil’s advocate. “I’ve killed so many men I’ve lost count. One more won’t make any difference.”

She sent him a look of utter loathing.

“He’ll hang for highway robbery anyway, if he’s caught by the authorities.”

“I’m not leaving him here to die,” she said fiercely.

“Well, he’s bloody well not coming in my carriage. My charity only extends to rescuing damsels in distress—no matter how ungrateful and undeserving they are.”

She glared at him, as if she could burn him to ash with the heat of her eyes alone, and he let out a put-upon sigh. “Fine. Finch can bandage him up and we’ll send someone back for him when we get to an inn. Does that please your majesty?”

“I suppose that’s acceptable.”

He gestured back toward the carriage. “Get in.”

Clearly realizing she’d been outmaneuvered, at least for now, she tugged open the door and climbed up the step.

A primitive flash of satisfaction swept through him at having her in his clutches, but Lucien ignored it.

Careful to keep one eye on the coach, in case she tried to slip out the opposite side door—as Finch had done to ambush her earlier—he helped drag the log out of the road, tied her horse to the back of the carriage, and slipped her pistol into his jacket pocket from where he found it in the undergrowth.

Finch tied a tourniquet around the surviving brigand’s thigh; the man wouldn’t bleed to death before help arrived, but Lucien hoped he’d forever walk with a limp. It was the least the bastard deserved.

He glanced back over at the coach and shook his head. Daisy Hamilton was the last person he’d expected to encounter tonight, and a part of him was irritated with fate for shoving her into his path yet again.

A larger, less rational, part of him was disturbingly glad to have her back in his orbit. She’d always been a thorn in his side, but he must be a glutton for punishment because the prospect of being close to her, of sparring with her again, was one he was anticipating with an unholy amount of glee.

She was sitting inside, arms crossed defensively across her chest, when he stepped in and tossed the hat she’d lost in the melee onto her lap. She caught it, but didn’t thank him as he lowered himself onto the seat across from her.

Finch climbed up onto the box next to Geordie, and the carriage jolted as he urged the horses forward.

She did not look pleased to be alone with him in an enclosed space, and Lucien suppressed a dark smile. That made two of them. But for entirely different reasons.

He crossed his own arms, mirroring her pose, and stretched his legs out toward her so she was forced to draw her feet back to avoid contact.

“So, explain why you’re loitering in the woods at midnight,” he demanded. “A duke’s daughter shouldn’t need to resort to robbery. What’s this all about?”