Page 2

Two

Sandy

“Wait, wait!” Sandy blurted, lifting his hands. His mind raced. He’d been in worse scrapes than this, surely—that time he was caught with a Bohemian princess in his bed came to mind, or perhaps the time a Spanish ambassador realized Sandy had been cheating at cards and was ready to fight a duel over it.

Sandy was very used to people wanting to kill him—honestly, it was starting to become something of a Friday night routine—but never had anyone seemed so emotionless about it. Usually, they were howling with indignation or livid with rage, and all Sandy had to do was remind them that he was the son of a dead duke and the brother of a living one, and then whatever it was went away.

But he’d have to do more than charm his way out of this one, especially if Reginald was involved. He had no doubt that this person had a very good reason for wanting to kill his brother, since Reginald was a miserable shit of a man. Not to mention that he was also a very wealthy miserable shit of a man, so his robbery or murder would brand any thief deep into tavern songs and fireside stories forever.

“You can kill me, I promise, you can kill me whenever you like,” Sandy said quickly, still thinking of a plan as the words tumbled from his mouth. “But if you kill me here, you’ll only get whatever valuables are in the coach.”

The highwayman standing in front of him didn’t react, and Sandy rushed on. “But if you abduct me instead, you can force my brother to pay any ransom you want, and then you can still kill me after you get his money. See? You’ll get what you want, plus money! Everyone wins!”

The woman standing next to the highwayman was tall and slender, her long limbs displayed in the breeches and tailored coat she wore. She looked familiar, but Sandy couldn’t quite place her, although her voice reminded him of...someone.

“He has a point,” she said. “But Sandy is slippery. He’ll try to escape.”

Hmm . She talked about Sandy like she knew him. That probably didn’t bode well.

Sandy put his hand over his heart like he was swearing an oath. “I’m not slippery! I won’t try to escape!” He was definitely planning on escaping. The first chance he got. “And how do you know me again?” he asked her.

She didn’t deign to answer, instead turning toward the highwayman. “We might have to kill him, Peregrine,” she said quietly.

Peregrine.

Sandy’s blood ran cold—well, colder—and then suddenly and fitfully hot. Peregrine Hind was, depending on whom one asked, either a devil who tortured his victims and then left no survivors, or a gallant thief who never hurt his victims or their horses and who gave most of what he robbed to needy families in nearby parishes.

Either way, Sandy was currently at the mercy of a legend, not a man, and that didn’t feel like a safe place to be. Even if Peregrine Hind was a very tall legend. With very powerful thighs. And very broad shoulders.

And pale, eerie eyes that glittered in the moonlight.

“You can still kill me,” Sandy volunteered helpfully. “I’ll be your captive the whole time. And you’ll get a ransom on top of it. And also, it will really, really incense my brother. Like really.” Reggie wouldn’t mind so much that Sandy had been kidnapped, but he would hate the paying part. Sandy already cost him plenty of money simply by existing. Well, and existing so lavishly, but Reggie could afford it.

Peregrine studied him, his face betraying nothing. In the stories, highwaymen always had masks and wide-brimmed hats. The other thieves had some variation on the uniform, but Peregrine Hind wore none of that. His black hair was tied back in a simple queue like a soldier, and his face was unmasked, revealing dramatic, ivory features: a high forehead, a strong nose, and a grim, sharp-edged mouth. His clothes were simple—dark breeches, dark coat, dark boots—nothing trimmed or fine, even though it all looked clean and of decent quality.

Nothing about him suggested he was a man used to treating himself with the finer things. At that, Sandy’s heart sunk a little. Maybe money wasn’t an effective lure after all.

Given the lack of mask and hat, and his overall cold, efficient demeanor, Sandy suspected that Peregrine Hind wasn’t after melodrama or notoriety either. That meant Sandy could think of only one other reason a man would want to kill his brother, and that was revenge.

Which was not ideal.

He could work with a craving for money or fame—those urges were mollified easily enough. But revenge? He’d seen enough of it at court and in the Second Kingdom to know its bitter effects well. Revenge was a flame that burned without air, a sword that cut without a blade. It listened to nothing but its own counsel, and it had no master but itself.

A man bent on revenge was not a man easily persuaded.

But Sandy had cheated at cards long enough to read infinitesimal cues, and so he didn’t miss the quick flick of Peregrine’s eyes over to his band of fellow robbers, who had tied the footmen and coachman to a tree and were now standing by the road as they watched Sandy’s desperate ploy unfold.

Peregrine cared about them. Or at least cared what they thought.

Sandy shifted his strategy a little, pitching his voice so the others could hear him better.

“The duke wouldn’t think twice about paying five thousand pounds,” he said loudly. “Maybe more. I’m his heir, you know, and he’d pay anything to get me back.”

Sandy was fairly certain that Reggie would have his limit when it came to paying for a brother he despised...but the thieves didn’t need to know that part. Not when they were casting each other round-eyed looks and mouthing the words five thousand pounds .

Peregrine seemed aware of this, aware of every murmur and glance that passed between his friends, though it all happened behind his back. “That’s a princely sum, indeed,” Peregrine said after a minute.

“I’m a princely man,” Sandy replied, but Peregrine didn’t smile, didn’t respond at all, except to look over his shoulder at his fellow thieves.

“It is a lot of money,” one of them, a short and stocky man, said. “Even split between us all, it could last the rest of our lives.”

The others chimed in with agreements. Peregrine looked to the woman, who stood between him and the other thieves, her pistol still ready in her hand.

“What do you say?”

“That much money would set the duke well on the road to ruin,” she said thoughtfully. “And you could still kill Sandy after you got it, if you needed to.”

Sandy again . This woman must know him, but how? He mentally flipped through wine-soaked memories of London and Oxford while outwardly he tried to look sweet and pliant and like he’d be a very docile captive.

After a long, breathless moment, Peregrine gave his lieutenant a crisp nod. He shoved the pistol in his belt. “As you say.”

“ Thank you ,” Sandy breathed. His relief was entirely genuine, no playacting there whatsoever. “I’ll be the very best captive, I promise. I even like being tied up!”

That part was also entirely true. He did like being tied up. And he had to say, as disagreeable as it was to be a captive of a man who planned to kill him, the thought of this stern-mouthed legend lashing his wrists together sped Sandy’s pulse in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Or maybe something to do with fear, but the fun kind.

“I’ll take him to the priory,” Peregrine was telling the woman. “Free the horses. Leave the footmen here, and then have Ned ride the coachman to the next bridge. That should put the coachman close enough to Far Hope that the duke can hear of our ransom demand by tomorrow. And tell him that the duke needs to send his response to The Stag’s Head in Chagford.”

The woman dipped her head to indicate she understood, and then turned away. But not before giving Sandy a small sniff of disapproval.

A sniff he felt a little wounded by, honestly.

“Stand,” Peregrine told Sandy, so Sandy stood, taking a moment to mourn his breeches, which now had dirt on the knees, and probably on the arse too. It was bad enough to be almost murdered and now kidnapped, but he was really, really fond of these breeches! They were sensible yet stylish, and he very much doubted the band of roving highwaymen had access to a good laundress.

There was a small sound, and Sandy looked up at the highwayman, who now had an eyebrow lifted the tiniest amount.

“Did you just sigh at me?” Sandy asked.

“We don’t have time for you to inventory the state of your clothes,” Peregrine said, wrapping a hand around Sandy’s upper arm and dragging him up the hill. It was a very big hand, with long fingers and a wide palm. The kind of hand that would splay easily across Sandy’s chest or between his shoulder blades while Sandy was being bent over a bed. “We can’t risk staying here.”

Sandy didn’t bother to point out that he could risk staying here and encountering another rider or coach who might help him, because he didn’t think Peregrine would appreciate the observation. In any event, they were already to Peregrine’s horse, where the highwayman was pulling a coil of rope free.

He didn’t object as his wrists were bound and the other end of the rope tied to the saddle, or when Peregrine slid his hands inside Sandy’s jacket and up his thighs to make sure Sandy was completely unarmed. In fact, Sandy even shivered a little as Peregrine’s fingers ran an efficient search along the rims of his shoes, probing the tops of his stocking-clad feet and the knobs of his ankles.

“You missed a spot,” Sandy said.

“I don’t think so,” said the highwayman.

“But you didn’t even check the most interesting places,” pouted Sandy. “If you untie me, I can show you what they are.”

Peregrine Hind’s mouth didn’t change from its humorless line, but Sandy saw the drop of his eyes, the way his gaze burned from Sandy’s mouth to his chest and down to his hips. Peregrine’s hand flexed at his side, and for a moment, Sandy thought his captor was about to touch him again.

But he merely shook his head and mounted his horse. Sandy’s rope remained tied to the saddle; he’d have to walk alongside the horse as they went.

“I’ll go slowly,” Peregrine said as he took the reins. “So long as you behave.”

“You’d be the first to make me,” said Sandy, but he flashed a big smile to show that he’d be cooperative. He had no wish to fight the highwayman on this, because he was fairly certain he’d lose.

As Peregrine clucked at the horse and they began moving, Sandy could see every flex and press of the expert rider’s legs as he rode. He could see the highwayman’s strong hands on the reins, casual and powerful all at once.

And with the excellent scenery and the sedate pace, with his hands bound and his body still thrumming with the shaky glee of having just escaped death for a time, Sandy found he didn’t mind the walk to the highwayman’s lair very much at all.