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Moonrise
Ana Seymour


Mistress Sarah Fairfax was playing a dangerous game, for she had sworn to fight back against the injustices done to her people, a vow that had made her an enemy of the formidable Lord Rutledge, and put at risk not only for her freedom, but her guarded heart, as well.Lord Anthony Rutledge knew he would soon catch the thief who had brought his wealthy countrymen to their knees, for he was a man who loved a challenge… and Sarah Fairfax was fast proving that her enchanting beauty hid as many secrets as the north country moors.









Moonrise

Ana Seymour



















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To my wonderful parents…and all those swashbucklers we’ve shared




Contents


Prologue (#u3d486d61-91da-59ee-a78b-a232def8b18b)

Chapter One (#u2a1c97c1-8032-5228-b5da-87d37e798f5e)

Chapter Two (#udc7f84ff-97a3-510b-8eba-726ec587139c)

Chapter Three (#ub31efbea-3fb7-562c-b1c9-dc12bb3baaa5)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


September 3, 1666

From the gardens at Vauxhall to the bustling and smelly streets of Southwark, Londoners agreed that it had been an odd year. The city was tinderbox dry. Instead of fresh autumn winds, a sweltering heat enveloped it like a clinging blanket and showed no signs of dissipating.

Behind three feet of clammy stone wall, Sarah Fairfax felt prickles along her arms where her wool dress clung damply to her skin. She glanced for the hundredth time at the basin of water sitting on the room’s single table. It would be heavenly to rid herself of the heavy gown and bathe.

A movement at the small, barred window in the door caught her eye. In the shadowy light she could just make out the features of the warder, the one who had been coming around more and more often. His leering eyes and blackened smile had begun to appear in her dreams...darting in and out amid the other haunting faces.

“Say the word, mum, and I’ll fetch ye some fresh water,” he said with relish, putting his face right up against the bars. “Won’t cost ye nothin’. A lady like yerself needs her baths.”

A scar along his left eye made it look squinty and small, while his good right eye had a lecherous gleam that turned Sarah’s stomach. “No, thank you,” she said calmly. She turned away from him toward the narrow, deep window that had been her only source of light for...how many days now? Weeks? She had lost count.

At the beginning she had demanded candles, blankets, writing materials. Her guards had been only too happy to oblige the beautiful new prisoner, but she had soon discovered that the price of their largesse had been filthy propositions and surreptitious gropings. Finally she had ceased to ask for anything.

She felt the warder’s uneven eyes staring at her back. A chill went along her spine in spite of the heat. When she had entered the Tower weeks before, she had been defiant and angry. But day after endless day in the tiny cell had drained the defiance out of her, along with the hope.

Only the hate remained.

Her father would have told her to give that up, too. She could almost hear his sonorous voice echoing around the cell. “My dearest child,” he would say, “you must make peace with all mankind before you can find peace with your Maker.”

She believed that Jack had done so before he died. He had been possessed of a wonderful serenity during that last sad meeting they had had here in this very cell. But Sarah had reconciled herself to the fact that she simply wasn’t as good as her father and brother had been. She intended to take her hate with her all the way to the grave and beyond.

It was early afternoon. By now she knew every angle of the sun’s rays through the window slit and could judge the hour more accurately than a timepiece. The warder had at last moved on to torment some other poor victim. Sarah gave a little shudder. Actually, she’d been lucky. She had had to suffer the guards’ leers and their hands on her, but some blessed edict from an unknown higher authority had so far kept any of them from bothering her in a more direct way. If she still had an ounce of hope left in her, it was that her death should come before this mysterious protection was lifted.

She stood and walked over to the basin of water, glancing quickly at the opening in the door. Perhaps now, before he returned... She bent and carefully lifted the hem of her skirt to dip it in the water, then brought the wet wool up against her hot cheeks. She closed her eyes, savoring the coolness.

There was a loud thump against the thick wood door. Sarah dropped her skirt and jumped back. A key rattled in the lock. She took an involuntary step backward against the rough edge of the table. Prison routine was more regular than the tide, and it was not the time of day for a scheduled visit. The fear that Sarah had worked so hard to conquer since she had been seized at Leasworth weeks ago came flooding back, leaving an acid sting at the base of her throat.

The door opened with a harsh scrape against the stone floor. The visitor was dressed in solid black, from his hose to his fine silk shirt. His hair was black, too, as were his eyes. Coal, demon black in the dim light of the cell.

“You!” Sarah gasped, bracing herself with her hands on the table behind her.

The black eyes narrowed. “Surprised to see me, my love?”

Sarah forced herself to stand straight and meet the newcomer’s gaze. “Not surprised,” she said, her voice low and fierce. “Disappointed. I had hoped by now you had been blown to bits by a Dutch frigate.”

The man smiled. Without taking his eyes off her, he reached easily back to shut the heavy door. “I’ve managed to stay out of that particular war so far,” he said lightly. “You see, I have some unfinished business yet in the world of the living.”

Her chin went up. “Not with me, you don’t. Our business was finished long ago.”

“Perhaps not.”

The softly spoken words made the heat rush to Sarah’s face. She put up a hand as he advanced toward her. “Leave me be, Anthony,” she said fiercely.

He came like a stalking animal, graceful and deadly of purpose. Sarah’s hand shook, then fell to her side. An arm’s length away, he stopped. “Now there’s a problem, my sweet.” His voice was husky. “It appears that I can’t let you be. Were old Mephistopheles himself chasing me away, I’d not be able to let you be.”

He drew her against him then, and she went without resistance. His lips found hers with the inexorable force of a river seeking the sea. Their bodies molded, clung. For a moment it appeared that they might defy the laws of the natural world to merge themselves into one being.

Sarah’s blood ran hot, then icy cold, then scalding. She was held upright only by the steely strength of Anthony’s arms around her. Involuntarily her mouth had opened to his onslaught. Her breasts burned against the pressure of his velvet doublet.

The walls of the cell blurred around her, then disappeared altogether. Blood pounded in her ears and lower as her body responded to the hard strength of his arms and the sudden gentleness of his mouth.

It took a long moment for either of them to register the sound of a tin cup scraping across the bars of the door. Anthony was the first to pull back. He held Sarah protectively out of view and turned his head toward the sound.

“Glad to see ye enjoying yerself, yer lordship.” The warder’s black teeth showed in a lascivious grin. “But ye’d best finish it off right quick. I can only let ye have a few more minutes.”

With gentle firmness, Anthony set Sarah against the table and took two long strides to the door. He spoke through the opening to the warder in low, even tones. “My good man, if I see you looking into this room again before I summon you, I will cut out your eyeballs and roll them in my next game of bowls.”

The warder winced, and a trickle of sweat started down the squinty side of his face.

“Do you understand?” Anthony asked, almost pleasantly.

The warder nodded once, then disappeared from view.

Anthony turned back to Sarah, his expression troubled. “Have they...bothered you, Sarah? Hurt you?”

Her heart had almost stopped thundering. But she felt weak. Months of confinement and poor food had taken their toll. She’d give anything for some strength at this moment. Desperately she grasped at the table as she felt her legs give way beneath her. In an instant he was beside her and she was lifted in arms that were as familiar to her as her own.

“Sarah!” Anthony cried in alarm. He crossed the tiny cell in a single long stride and settled her on the narrow straw bed. “What is it? Are you sick?”

His head was bent over hers, the window casting its slanting light over the strong, dark features. She took a ragged breath. “What are you doing here, Anthony?”

He smoothed her hair back from her forehead in a gesture that was so loverlike, Sarah bit her lip to keep it from trembling. “I’ve come to take you out of here.”

She gave a humorless chuckle. “In case you’ve forgotten, Lord Rutledge, your king has other ideas for me. If the royal prosecutors have their way, I’m to have my head smitten from my body.”

Anthony’s black eyes shifted to her slender white throat. She could see the muscles of his neck ripple as he swallowed with difficulty. “That’s not going to happen, Sarah. You’re leaving here with me...today.”

“Oh, certainly. I just walk on out past the guards? A condemned prisoner?”

“Not as a condemned prisoner.” His dark eyes gleamed. “As my wife.”

Sarah pushed herself up on the bed, her face ghost white. “Your wife!”

Anthony reached for her hand, but she snatched it away. Patiently he said, “I knew you might be opposed to the idea, but it’s the only way, Sarah. Marry me, and you can leave here today, a free woman.”

She pulled away from him, against the cold stone of the wall. Her soft gray eyes grew deadly. “I’d sooner rot a thousand years in hell,” she said.




Chapter One


December 1665

“Don’t be such a stick, Jack Fairfax,” Sarah said with a laugh, tumbling her brother off the end of the settle. He landed in a heap in the rushes and groaned a protest. Sarah jumped on top of him, her knees gouging his stomach and holding him pinned beneath her.

“Just look at this,” Sarah said triumphantly. One by one she began pulling jewels from inside a knotted kerchief and dropping them on Jack’s chest, where they slithered in glittery trails to the ground. “It’s a bloody fortune.”

“Don’t swear, Sarah,” Jack said gravely. At eighteen, his arms already had the lean muscles of early manhood. His strength was far greater than that of his sister, and he pushed her off him with rough gentleness. “Father will be resting uneasy in his grave to hear you talk so,” he chided as he sat up beside her.

Sarah frowned. “Don’t speak to me of Father,” she said curtly. Then in a quicksilver change of mood she reached out to give Jack an exuberant hug. “All this from that fat old bishop. Who’d have thought the old toad would have such a hoard stashed away beneath that big belly?”

“We shouldn’t have taken it.”

Sarah stared at him in amazement. “Shouldn’t have taken it? What are you thinking of? This will feed our families for the rest of the winter.”

Jack shook his head. “There’ll be trouble to pay, robbing a cleric.”

“Oh, pooh. A bishop’s not a cleric. He’s a lackey of the king who cares more for his mistresses and his flagons of ale than for the Bible.”

“You don’t know that, Sarah. He may have been a godly man.”

“Parson Hollander is a godly man, not that old windbag we robbed last night.” Sarah’s gray eyes and honey brown hair made her look deceptively plain at times, especially against the background of the simple Puritan garb she still favored. But at the moment her hair had pulled loose from its bindings and framed her face in a disheveled golden cloud. Her eyes danced and her flawless cheeks were flushed with her latest success. Even Jack had to admit that he had never seen beauty equal to hers.

He gave a deep sigh. Though Sarah was the older by almost five years, she was nevertheless his sister and it was his duty to be her protector. But how did one protect a maiden who could wield a sword and ride a horse better than any member of the king’s guard? And how did one shelter the sensibilities of a young woman who had seen her father’s head parted from his body?

He picked up a gold necklace set with amethyst. “These are very fine. Recognizable. Will Parson Hollander be able to sell them?”

Sarah shrugged without concern. “His Dutch contacts will take anything and dispose of it abroad,” she said. “And the good people of Wiggleston will eat well this winter, in spite of the king’s new taxes.”

Jack shook his head. “We’re at war with the Dutch these days, Sarah. ‘Tis sheer folly to do business with them.”

Sarah picked the last of the jewels out of the rushes, then jumped to her feet. “The king’s too busy playing with his mistresses to wage a real war.”

Jack stood up more slowly. “The war’s real enough, believe me.” His handsome young face was sober. “I might have to go fight in it myself one of these days. Even Uncle Thomas might be called.”

Sarah turned to him, her expression furious. “Never! Charles Stuart has taken enough from this family. You’ll walk over my grave before you’ll ever fight for him.”

Jack smiled in spite of himself. If there was one sight more beautiful than his sister excited, it was his sister angry. “Uncle Thomas is one of the finest generals England has,” he reminded her mildly.

Sarah’s voice was steady, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the kerchief full of jewels as though it were King Charles’s neck. “Uncle Thomas and General Monck handed Charles Stuart back his throne on a silver platter, and he repaid them by executing some of the finest men in the land, including our own father, in case I have to remind you, Jack Fairfax.”

Jack knew that his sister’s opinions on the subject were somewhat unfair. It was true that the loss of their father had been almost beyond bearing. But John Fairfax had signed his own death warrant long ago when he put his signature on the document condemning the king’s father, Charles I. In reality, the executions after the Restoration had been relatively few, the new king proving himself to be more interested in the entertainments of the new court than in revenge and bloodletting.

“And as for Uncle Thomas,” Sarah continued, “he will do as he pleases, and shall the rest of his life. The king can’t afford to offend him. It’s as simple as that.”

She relaxed her death grip on the kerchief and let out a tense breath. “So no more talk of war, my dearest brother.” She hefted the kerchief in her hand and gave a grim, satisfied smile. “Come on, let’s go show the good parson this latest evidence of the Lord’s bounty.”

* * *

“I can’t afford to offend Thomas Fairfax, it’s as simple as that.” King Charles stretched out his long legs and looked up at the tall, scowling man standing stiffly in front of him. “Sit down, Anthony, you’re making me tired.”

The newly appointed Baron Rutledge grudgingly sat in a small gilt chair near the king’s bed. The royal apartments at Oxford were not as sumptuous as Whitehall, but they were certainly much more luxurious than many of the places Anthony had stayed with Charles Stuart during the long years of exile. And at least they were away from the dreadful plague that had been ravaging London these past weeks. The death toll was up to a thousand poor wretches a day, and the haunting cry of “Bring out your dead!” echoed incessantly throughout the crowded streets of the old City.

By moving first to Salisbury, then Oxford, the court had managed to isolate itself from the devastation. Charles and his courtiers played their games and vied with one another for the most elaborate costumes and hairstyles with only an occasional pang for the sufferings of those left back in London.

“I can’t believe you want to send me to the wilds of Yorkshire just when the war is heating up...sire,” he added with somewhat belated deference.

Charles smiled. “Anthony, my friend, I have all kinds of courtiers whom I can put to captaining a ship against my foreign enemies, but I have only a few whom I can trust to deal with the enemies from within.”

“Are you saying that General Fairfax is your enemy?” Anthony looked perplexed. The famous old soldier had been living in what appeared to be peaceful retirement these past three or four years.

Charles shook his head, his elaborate lovelocks brushing along the tops of his shoulders. “I fervently hope not. But there’s been trouble in the area. The people there haven’t accepted back the church, and they don’t want to pay the new taxes.”

“Very seldom do people welcome new taxes, sire,” Anthony said dryly. Especially, he refrained from adding, when they know they will likely be spent to buy a new carriage for the king’s latest mistress.

“And there’s another problem,” the king continued, ignoring Anthony’s comment. “There have been robberies...several. It seems a masked highwayman has been assaulting the gentry. The villagers are making him into some kind of hero. They say he strikes with the full moon. Last month the Bishop of Lackdale was robbed of a small fortune that he had collected to refurbish the church.”

“To refurbish the size of his girth is more likely,” Anthony grumbled.

Charles laughed. “Impious as usual. Someday your irreverence will catch up to you, my friend.”

Anthony gave one of the slow, lazy smiles that had won him more conquests than any man at court except the king. “I fully intend to repent on my deathbed, your majesty.”

Charles impatiently waved away the formal address. He and Anthony had been in too many escapades across the length of Europe to become sudden observers of proprieties. “Will you do it, Anthony?” he asked in a cajoling tone that still managed to sound regal. “Will you go to Yorkshire and find out the truth?”

Anthony made one last attempt at refusal. “I’ve ever been better at fighting than at intrigue, sire. Spying is not to my taste.”

“Don’t be so dramatic, Anthony. It’s not really spying.... Just consider that you’re doing me a favor.”

“A royal favor.” Anthony’s tone was of one who knew he had little choice in the matter. His dark eyes looked directly into the king’s. There had been times, in earlier days, when they had been mistaken for brothers. Both were tall and dark complected. Both had an innate charm that brought people effortlessly under their spell. But whereas Anthony, five years the younger, had retained his lean form and high energy, the king had mellowed in the four and a half years since the Republican generals had given him back his throne. His face was softer, and he preferred the company of his ladies to sparring with his courtiers.

Charles sighed. “Not a royal favor. A personal favor. If Fairfax is working against me, I need to know immediately. On the other hand, if he’s still loyal, I don’t want to risk his anger by bearing down too hard on the dissenters there.”

“And what about your moonlight marauder?”

“He’s just what we don’t need at the moment—some kind of romantic hero for the masses, demonstrating once again the age-old disparity between rich and poor. Which was not, by the way, invented by my ministers, no matter what the opposition might say.”

The king boosted himself off the high bed and started to pace the room, warming to one of his favorite topics. “Oddsfish, I’ve been poor myself, you know. I’ve passed hunger and thirst and...”

“Deprivation,” Anthony filled in obligingly. Over the years the script of Charles’s adventures in exile had become more elaborated than one of Master Dryden’s productions at Drury Lane.

“Yes, deprivation,” Charles continued. “No one can say that I don’t understand my people.”

Gently Anthony tried to shift back to the topic at hand. “You were saying, sire, about the Yorkshire highwayman...?”

Charles stopped in midstride, his mind pulled back to the present. “Yes, blast it. Find the man, Anthony. Shoot him or hang him—I don’t care what you do—just get rid of him.”

Anthony gave a short laugh. “At least my mission won’t be without some sport.”

* * *

The shimmery gray silk of Sarah’s dress matched exactly the cold glitter of her eyes. “I don’t care what my uncle ordered,” she said with controlled fury. “No so-called Surveyor of the Royal Stables is coming anywhere near Brigand. That horse is mine. He doesn’t belong to the Fairfax stables.”

The old servant shrugged and pulled on his cap. “Begging yer pardon, mistress, but I believe the gentleman is already down there inspecting the lot of them. Brigand along with all the rest.”

Sarah jumped to her feet and took off at a run down the path toward the stables. She was breathless by the time she reached the old stone structure, and took a minute to compose herself. She could already picture the scene. One of Charles’s foppish cavaliers mincing along through the muck of the stable in high heels, ribbons adorning his artificially curled lovelocks. And putting his hands on her beloved horse. It was not to be borne. Her anger building, she stepped over the top of the wooden sty and tugged with all her might on the stable door. It swung open with a crash.

In the darkened interior of the barn, two men straightened up from their perusal of the foreleg of one of her uncle’s prized stallions.

“It’s my niece,” she heard her uncle say to the other man. Then he called to her, “Sarah, come in and join us.”

Slowly Sarah walked along the stalls, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. She could now see that the man beside her uncle was, at least, no fop. Taller than her brother, Jack, and handsomely built, he needed no high heels to emphasize his stature. Instead of the lace and furbelows understood to be de rigueur at court functions these days, he wore a leather jerkin over a simple, but fine, linen blouse and breeches that molded well-muscled thighs.

Her uncle reached out and took her hand as she drew near. “My dear, this is Baron Anthony Rutledge. The king has honored us by sending Lord Rutledge to review our horses as possible candidates for the royal stable.”

Sarah swallowed her angry words as her eyes met the newcomer’s. They were magnetic, almost black in color...and, to her dismay, showed a keen intelligence. Her own quick mind did a short reprise of the situation. The only thing worse than a visit from a foolish representative of the king would be a visit from a king’s man with wits to challenge her own.

“Sarah?” her uncle prompted.

She lowered her eyes from the baron’s dark gaze and gave a demure curtsy. “How d’ye do,” she murmured.

When she looked up at him again, his expression had become distinctly predatory. A slight smile curved his lips. Inexplicably, Sarah felt herself growing warm.

“I’m at your service, mistress.” The words were correct, but they were spoken in a low, caressing tone that made Sarah’s toes want to curl up inside her slippers. She glanced quickly at her uncle, but he was smiling congenially as if nothing untoward were occurring.

Perhaps she was imagining things, Sarah told herself. Since her uncle’s retirement from public life, they did not receive many visitors at Leasworth. She was sadly out of touch with society these days. For all she knew it might be normal for a court gentleman to devour a lady with a mere gaze, as their visitor was doing at this very moment. Or perhaps it was just that the day was unseasonably hot.

She took a step backward.

“Sarah is the best horsewoman in the shire,” Uncle Thomas said fondly.

One of the baron’s dark eyebrows lifted in an expression that managed to combine interest with amusement. “Is that so? I would be happy to see an example of such prowess.”

Sarah shook her head and tried to clear her mind. Where were her wits? she asked herself angrily. She needed to think what to do with this unwelcome intruder. The last thing she needed was a representative from the king hanging around and discovering the natural riding skills she had inherited from her father. And what about Jack? Since her father’s death four years ago, she had fiercely protected her younger brother, trying to keep him from any notice by the king. Though King Charles had said the punishments would end with the executions of those responsible for his father’s murder, Sarah had never stopped worrying that the king’s vengeance could somehow extend to the families of the convicted men. “I fear my uncle exaggerates,” she said finally.

“I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to judge for myself.”

His gaze had gone from her face to linger briefly on the close-fitting silk of her bodice, then to her narrow waist and the gentle flare of her hips. Sarah felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your business here, Lord Rutledge. I’ll just go up to the house and inform the cook about the midday meal. You will be staying to eat with us?”

“I’ll be here well beyond that,” Anthony said with another devastating smile. “Your uncle has graciously invited me to stay at Leasworth while I view some stock in the area.”

Sarah gave a faltering smile in reply. “We’re honored to have you, of course. If you’ll excuse me...”

She backed up another step, then another, then stumbled as her foot hit a hay rake. In an instant the baron was beside her, supporting her with one strong arm around her back and another at her right elbow. “Are you all right, mistress?” he asked softly, his face just inches from hers.

She could see the black stubble along the lean line of his jaw. A small cleft parted his chin. Through the thin silk of her dress, she felt the solid hardness of the muscles of his arm. She took an uneven breath. No, this man was definitely not one of the soft court dandies she had heard about. It was time to gather her wits about her.

“Thank you, my lord. How clumsy of me.” Deliberately she put a hand on his chest. “I do believe you saved me from a nasty fall.” She looked around her with distaste and wrinkled her nose. “And in all this filth. What a dreadful thought.”

Anthony felt her soften in his arms and gave a satisfied smile. Perhaps his stay in Yorkshire wouldn’t be so dull after all. This slender beauty would be a conquest worthy of his expertise. He looked down to where her soft white hand rested against the leather of his jerkin. The lass seemed amenable, at least. He wondered how closely her uncle guarded her virtue. He knew that many country folk had kept more of the old standards from the Puritan days of the Republic than had the people in London. As far as Charles’s court was concerned, virtue had never been a high priority, even during the days of exile in Europe.

“Dreadful, indeed,” he agreed pleasantly. “Would you like me to escort you back to the house...to be sure there are no further mishaps?”

“That won’t be necessary, but thank you so much.” Sarah’s smile was sweet. Anthony’s eyes were drawn to her full lips, which were naturally pink and moist without, he was sure, any of the paints used by all the ladies at court these days—and some of the men. He felt his blood quicken.

“I will look forward to seeing you at dinner, then.” He lifted her hand from his jacket and brought it slowly to his lips.

Sarah’s stomach jumped at the touch of his warm mouth. But at the same time, she immediately thought of the calluses on her palms, which told of endless hours of chafing against leather reins. She smiled at the baron through her long lashes, hoping he wouldn’t notice the abrupt way she pulled her hand away from his.

“Yes, until dinner,” she said hastily. Then she turned to leave before this unwanted visitor had her in a complete dither.

She berated herself for her foolishness all the way back to the manor house. She had always prided herself on her cool head. When Jack would get into a lather over some slight hitch in one of their midnight forays, she would be the one to stay calm and collected. Now suddenly the presence of a handsome king’s man had her feeling like a witless dairy maid.

The best thing would be for both her and Jack to stay out of the way as much as possible while the gentleman was here. That would be no problem at all for her brother, whose comings and goings were little noted by the other members of the household. But in the past couple of years her widowed uncle had come to rely more and more on Sarah as mistress of the house. There was no way she could escape dining with their guest.

She rubbed her telltale palms together and wondered if Baron Rutledge had noted them. She was sure that at court a lady would rather be caught naked than riding without gloves, but Sarah was unaccustomed to such refinements. She had been raised in a thoroughly male household. Her mother had died giving birth to Jack, and John Fairfax had been too involved in his Puritanism and his politics to worry about finding a replacement.

Well, Sarah said to herself resolutely, if Lord Rutledge were to be so ungentlemanly as to comment on her roughened hands, she would merely tell him that life in Yorkshire was not as soft as in the palaces of London. Here in the country ladies worked rather than whiling away their days stitching fine tapestries or planning elaborate masques.

She was so lost in her own arguments that she almost missed seeing Jack skirt around the crumbling ruins of an old enclosing wall and make his way toward the stables. At her call he detoured in her direction.

“Have you just come from the horses, Sarah?” he asked eagerly. “I’ve heard there’s a royal surveyor visiting from the king.” His smile died as he took in Sarah’s sober face. “What’s the matter?”

Sarah motioned with one hand for him to lower his voice. “You heard right. There’s a representative from the king. And you’re not going anywhere near him.”

“Is he very grand, Sarah? Are his clothes as magnificent as they say?” Her brother’s eagerness was unabated.

“Do you understand what I’m saying, Jack? I don’t want him to know you’re here. It’s bad enough that he’s already got his eye on Brigand.”

As the import of her words gradually dawned on him, the smile faded from Jack’s face like the dimming of a lantern. “And you think he might have heard reports of the robberies?”

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s supposed to be just a royal surveyor, but it makes me nervous to have a king’s man staying here, especially one who knows horses. There’s not a horse like Brigand in all the surrounding shires.”

“And when the villagers tell their tales of the moonlight bandit, they sing the praises of the magnificent moonlit stallion ‘he’ rides,” Jack added soberly.

“I probably should have ridden one of Uncle’s horses,” Sarah said ruefully. “Though Brigand has taken me out of more close scrapes than we can count.”

“Well, it’s too late to do anything about it now. The horse is already known.”

Sarah gave a deep sigh. “We’ll just have to make sure that master surveyor Rutledge has absolutely no reason to suspect any connection between the highwayman and anyone here at Leasworth.”

“And how do you intend to do that?”

Sarah felt her cheeks grow warm again as she remembered her intense reaction to the man back at the stables. “Perhaps I can turn his thoughts in other directions.”

Jack eyed her suspiciously. “What do you mean...other directions?”

Sarah gave him a determined smile. “Never mind. Let’s just hope he won’t be here for long. And you, brother dear,” she added, putting her arm around his neck, “are to stay well out of his way.”

Jack pulled away from his sister’s embrace. “It’s about time you stopped giving me orders, Sarah. I’m eighteen now—full grown.”

“Eighteen you may be, but you’re still my little brother.”

Jack bristled. “Norah Thatcher didn’t think I was so little yestere’en after the Wiggleston fair.”

Sarah’s eyes grew wide. “Jack! What are you saying?” she asked, her voice rising with shock.

Jack’s neck colored just below his ears. “It’s just that I’m not a lad anymore, Sarah, and it’s time you recognized the fact.”

Sarah was still taking in the implications of Jack’s earlier statement. Norah Thatcher was one of the more notorious of the village maids. If she had been with Jack late at night after the fair, there was only one possible interpretation. “Fornication is a sin, Jack,” she said sternly.

Jack dropped his defensive expression and gave an easy laugh. “Hadn’t you heard, Sarah, love? There’s no such thing as sin in the merry reign of King Charles.”

Sarah looked at her brother closely. He was no different than he had been when she had broken fast with him this morning, but all at once she realized that he had shoulders as broad as their father’s had been. His chin showed traces of a man’s whiskers. His clear blue eyes and thick blond hair were no longer those of a boy. “Surely you’re not going to pattern your morals on the court’s,” she said soberly.

Jack, his typical good humor restored, leaned over to give his sister an affectionate kiss. “As I was just saying, Sarah, I’m a man now, and my morals are no longer the concern of my big sister.”

Tears stung Sarah’s eyes. “Don’t ask me to stop worrying about you, Jack. I don’t know what I’d do if anything happened to you. You’re all I have.”

Touched by her unaccustomed show of emotion, Jack took her in his arms. “We’ll take care of each other, Sarah. You’re all I have, too, you know.”

Embarrassed by her tears, Sarah pushed at him and gave his chest a glancing blow with her small fist. “I’m all you have? What about Norah Thatcher?” she teased, covering the emotion with a grimace.

Jack grinned. “Norah has become...shall we just say, a good friend.”

Sarah shook her head and laughed. “You’ve ever been bad, Jack Fairfax.”

“Now that’s funny,” he said innocently. “Norah says I was ever so good.”

Sarah felt her cheeks grow hot again. This was a side of her brother she was not sure she was ready for. She had been both sister and mother to him for so many years. It was difficult to think of him moving on in life into activities that could not, by their very nature, involve her.

Jack’s smile faded as he saw that he had truly embarrassed her. “Don’t mind me,” he said, pulling her close to him once more. “You’re absolutely right. I am bad. But it’s just that...bad’s a lot of fun, Sarah.”

Unaccountably, Sarah once again had a vision of the almost carnal look in Lord Rutledge’s dark eyes as he had watched her in the stables. She stepped back from Jack and tried to rein in her spinning thoughts. “Just promise me you’ll do as I say, Jack, and stay out of the baron’s way.”

Jack looked down at her, his eyes full of love. “If it will make you happy, big sister, I’ll make myself as scarce as hen’s teeth.”

She gave his arm a squeeze, taking note of his rock-hard muscle. When had Jack suddenly become so big? “Thank you, little brother. I only wish I could do the same. But, alas, I must be the proper hostess for our guest. And if I don’t get up to the kitchens, the grand baron from London will be supping on raw rabbit stew,” she added with a giggle.

Jack joined in her laughter. “Run along, then. I’ll just take myself off to the village. Perhaps Mistress Thatcher needs some help today in the tannery.”

“Jack!” Sarah chastised.

“You said you wanted me out of the way, remember?”

Sarah gave a reluctant smile. “Just mind what you do, little brother.”

Jack grinned. “Oh, I intend to mind it very well, Sarah.” Then he turned and took off toward Wiggleston in a dead run.

* * *

Anthony stretched out his long legs toward the huge fire that blazed in the great room of Leasworth manor. He was tired, though not entirely displeased with the results of his day. Oliver, his colleague on the mission, had reported that his men had made some progress in the village gathering information about the moonlight highwayman. And as for Anthony’s own day at Leasworth, it had been more than satisfactory. To his surprise, Thomas Fairfax actually did possess a number of horses that would rival any in London. There was one in particular that was a magnificent animal, a dark gray roan stallion with sleek lines and powerful legs that made it look as if it could run the breadth of the country without stopping.

And then there was the girl. Fairfax’s niece. She had the look of a little country dove in her plain gray dress, but she had the features of a classic beauty, and her body... He’d only held her for a moment, but that had been enough. She had all the lush curves of a woman, but with an underlying strength that promised that she would be an exhilarating match in bed.

It was a pity that he was too tired to woo her yet tonight. She should be willing enough, he reasoned. As he’d come out of the stables, he’d seen her with what must have been one of her country swains. She’d been embracing the strapping young lad. She’d even kissed him there in the plain light of day. It shouldn’t be too hard to get her to turn her attentions to an experienced courtier like himself. After all, he had wooed and won the most brilliant women at court, at least those that Charles had not marked for himself.

The door to the cavernous room opened. It was she, the niece—Sarah. The name was plain, but it suited her elegant simplicity. So did the gown she was wearing—solid black, with a stark white vee bodice that emphasized her full breasts and narrow waist. Her hair was swept up from her slender neck in a graceful twist. Her finely etched cheekbones glowed in the firelight. She looked serene and dignified, but her gray eyes watched him with the deceptive calm of a wolf ready to strike. He rose to his feet. Perhaps he wasn’t too tired, after all.




Chapter Two


“Please don’t trouble yourself to rise, sir.”

“Why, I’ve already risen, mistress,” Anthony said, masking a rueful grin at the double edge to his words. Without jewelry, without paint, without laces and satin—by the holy rood, the lady was stunning.

“I’ve merely come to inquire about your sleeping quarters. They are to your satisfaction?”

Her voice was low and pleasant and her eyes now had softened. He could almost believe that he had imagined that fierce expression of moments ago. “I wish you could change your uncle’s mind, mistress,” he said, walking toward her. “I’d not have him abandon his own bedchamber for me.”

“He would have it no other way,” Sarah answered, a touch of defiance making its way into her tone. “Uncle Thomas has a very strong sense of propriety. He would never have a visitor of your standing sleep in lesser surroundings.”

Anthony shook his head. “Let me talk with him one more time. I don’t want to cause disruption in the household.”

“My uncle has retired for the evening, Lord Rutledge, and asked me to bid you goodnight.”

Anthony was silent for a minute. He supposed it was a good sign that General Fairfax still held enough respect for the crown that he wanted to treat its servants with all honor. He would so report to Charles. And in the meantime...the lady appeared to be temporarily without a guardian.

“Your uncle retires early,” he said evenly.

“Yes. He works hard and is not so young anymore.”

“But he’s in good health, surely?”

Sarah could not help the touch of bitterness that crept into her voice. “Years of battle and betrayal wear on a man, my lord.”

One of Anthony’s dark eyebrows lifted. “I know,” he said pointedly. “There are many who say the king appears much older than his five and thirty years.”

Sarah bit her lip. What was the matter with her? she asked herself for the hundredth time that day. She hadn’t come here to discuss politics with the baron or open up past wounds. She’d come to try to disarm any suspicions he may have developed during the day about Brigand and the masked highwayman. At least that was the reason she had given to herself when she found her feet directing her inexplicably toward the great room instead of to her own bed. At any rate, she certainly did not want to antagonize their guest.

She made her voice light. “I wouldn’t know about that, Lord Rutledge. I’ve never seen the king.”

Anthony cast a quick glance down the length of her black-clad silhouette and his eyes glowed. “That’s perhaps a lucky thing, mistress.”

Sarah blinked at the unexpected statement. “May I ask why, sir?”

Anthony moved so close that she could see the fine stitching on his black doublet. He spoke softly, bending toward her. “Because the king has a weakness for beautiful women.”

It was as if one of the flames from the fireplace had suddenly leapt up and scorched her face. She had never before been called beautiful. Her father had believed that vanity was a sin. While Sarah had always been secretly pleased that her features were comely, she had never remarked upon the fact, nor expected anyone else in the family to do so.

She stammered a reply. “I...I can’t imagine that his majesty would be interested in a simple country maid such as I.”

Anthony reached out a hand and gently ran a finger down her cheek. “You may be from the country, but I’m not at all convinced about the ‘simple,’” he said with a curious intensity, then lightened his tone to add, “and I’m afraid that ‘maid’ would definitely be no longer the case once Charles set his sights on you.”

Sarah dropped her gaze from the now teasing dark eyes and took a step backward, away from the touch of his hand. This was beyond her. She had grown up in a society where men and women touched not at all before their marriage, and as seldom as possible thereafter. In her household there would no more have been banter about a maid losing her virtue than there would have been blasphemy against the Lord. “I fear I’m not used to your court humor, Lord Rutledge,” she murmured.

Anthony frowned. He hadn’t meant to scare the lass. Perhaps she was virtuous, after all, in spite of the scene he had witnessed outside the stables. The fact would not change his intent, merely his tactics. “Please forgive my free speaking, Mistress Fairfax. You are correct. The ribaldry of the court has gotten out of hand these days, and sometimes I forget what it’s like to talk with a true lady.”

Sarah struggled to regain her composure. “There’s nothing to forgive,” she said, swallowing over the dryness of her throat. “Now if you will excuse me...”

Anthony grabbed her hand. “Don’t go, Mistress Fairfax. I’d have you sit with me awhile by the fire. I promise not to offend you again.”

His voice coaxed without pleading. Once again Sarah lifted her eyes to look at him. His hair fell in careless black waves past his shoulders, unlike the cropped Puritan style of the country lads she was used to. But instead of making him look feminine, it merely added to his aura of overwhelming masculinity. Raised with men all her life, she had never been so aware of the difference between the two sexes. Part of her wanted to flee to the shelter of her little room in the west wing of the manor. The other part of her kept her riveted to the floor. “I’ll stay awhile,” she said finally. “Though I would imagine you, too, are weary after your journey today.”

With the expertise of a skilled lover of women, Anthony watched the expressions flit across her face. He saw hesitation, then interest, then curiosity. There was not quite desire as yet, but that would come. He had plenty of time.

“I’m never too weary to enjoy the company of a fair lady.” Without relinquishing his hold on her hand, he led her across the room to the leather chairs in front of the fire.

“I’m unused to such compliments, my lord,” Sarah demurred, pulling her hand away and sitting in the chair farthest from the one the baron had been occupying.

“Now, I find that hard to believe.” He pulled his chair close to hers and leaned so that he was closer still. “I’ve heard no reports that an epidemic has struck blind all the good men of Yorkshire.”

His smile was warm and teasing and Sarah found it impossible not to respond with one of her own. “They are not blind, sir, but neither do they have time to waste on flattery.”

“Ah, but ’tis not flattery to merely speak the truth.” He paused a moment then added nonchalantly, “Surely the young suitor who called on you today must tell you these things.”

“Suitor?”

“A tall blond fellow. I saw you together as I came out of the stables with your uncle.”

Sarah’s mind worked quickly. As she had expected, Jack’s absence at the midday and evening meals had not been noted. Their visitor appeared to be unaware of the existence of her brother, and she intended to keep it that way if at all possible. “Oh, him,” she said casually. “Uh...Henry. He’s just a friend. His family has an estate in a neighboring village.”

Anthony was surprised. Though he would not have suspected Mistress Fairfax of having a devious character, he knew at once that she was lying to him. He considered the fact briefly. Was she just trying to conceal the depth of her feelings for the man? Or was there some darker reason for her duplicity? He could not, after all, forget why he had been sent to Leasworth in the first place. The lady’s clear deception put an entirely different tone to the evening.

“Perhaps I should make his acquaintance. His family might have horses of interest to me.”

Sarah gave a forced laugh. “I hardly think so. They are not wealthy people. I’m sure they would be quite undone at a visit from a member of court.”

She was definitely hiding something, Anthony concluded, surprised to find himself somewhat saddened at the knowledge. He had planned on seducing Mistress Fairfax and then sharing with her his considerable skill—to their mutual satisfaction. He’d even thought he would fall in love with her for a few days. He’d found in the past that being infatuated enhanced the physical sensations, and it had been some time since he’d been in the mood. However, it appeared that far from falling in love with General Fairfax’s lovely niece, he would be investigating her. The seduction was still not out of the question, but it would have to be done with his guard up. He would not be able to indulge in that delicious abandonment of intellect that he had at times found so rewarding.

“I’ll defer to your judgment, then,” he said with a smile. “Though my instructions were to view all the stock in the surrounding area.”

“Oh, take my word for it, sir. The...uh...Partridges’ animals are of extremely poor quality.”

“Partridge?”

“Yes. Henry Partridge,” Sarah said firmly. “That’s the friend you saw visiting me today.”

“I see.”

Sarah searched his face for any sign of suspicion, but he just watched her with a pleasant smile. “I should really seek my bed, Lord Rutledge. We are not accustomed to keeping late hours here at Leasworth.”

This time Anthony made no move to dissuade her. He stood and gave a courtly nod of his head. “Then don’t let me keep you, mistress, for I intend to request your services on the morrow.”

“My services?” Sarah asked uncertainly, rising to stand beside him.

“As a guide,” Anthony explained smoothly. “Your uncle has spoken so glowingly of your riding talents, I would like to see them for myself, and at the same time can use your knowledge of the neighborhood to help me in my mission.”

The entire conversation had left Sarah uncomfortable. At first she had been nervous about the baron’s disturbing effect on her personally, and now she began again to fear his presence as a representative of the king. She should never had made up that story about Jack, she told herself angrily. This man was too sharp to treat as a fool. She must tread carefully.

“As I said before, Uncle Thomas views my skill with the eyes of a doting relative. However, I would be happy to serve as your guide tomorrow.”

“Fine. Shall we say midmorning?”

Sarah nodded her assent, then turned to leave the room. Anthony watched the graceful line of her back as she walked toward the door. “Mistress Fairfax,” he called softly as her hand reached for the latch.

She stopped and looked back over her shoulder.

“If Master Partridge does not tell you how beautiful you are—tell you emphatically and often—then he doesn’t deserve you.”

Sarah again felt the heat from the fire all the way across the room. “Good night, your lordship,” she said quickly, and slipped out into the dark hall.

* * *

“I don’t think I fancy ‘Partridge.’ You could have come up with a grander-sounding name.” Jack lay sprawled across the foot of Sarah’s bed. He grinned at her over the top of the apple he was devouring. It was the fourth he’d consumed in the few minutes she had taken to tell of the previous evening’s conversation with the baron. Sarah tried not to think about what nocturnal activities might have caused her brother’s inordinate appetite this morning, but she couldn’t help a motherly scold.

“What time did you get home last night, anyway, little brother?”

The grin broadened. “You told me to stay away, remember?”

“It’s not a joke, Jack. Somehow I sense that this man is dangerous.” She pushed herself farther up in bed and hugged a pillow protectively against her middle. If nothing else, Anthony Rutledge was definitely a danger to her peace of mind. It had been hours before she had slept last night, and it hadn’t helped that she had heard no sounds of Jack’s return to his room next to hers. When she had finally slept, she’d had one of her disturbing dreams. They always started out the same...on that horrible day four years ago, the day of her father’s execution. She and Jack had been in the front of the crowd that day—lost, pitiful figures who were about to witness the end of the secure world they had known. But in her dreams she was no longer helpless. She was up on the platform with her father, fighting with his captors, dressed in solid black with a black silk mask covering her face. One by one she fought off the king’s men until finally there was only one left...and he stood over her father with a huge sword, more fearsome than any she had ever seen. From there the dreams would change. Sometimes her father changed into an eagle and flew away free into a bright blue sky. Sometimes that horrible sword would descend and then all she would see was red, great bright blotches that filled her vision and her head.

Last night the dreams had changed. Suddenly she’d been watching Jack in the meadow beyond Wiggleston. He’d been entwined hotly with Norah Thatcher, and then the figure changed again and it was not Jack anymore, but the baron. Even this morning she had vague memories... The baron’s dark hair falling forward as he bent his head toward milk white breasts. And they had not been Norah’s breasts...

“Sarah!” Jack’s voice was insistent. “What’s the matter with you? You’re pale as a ghost.”

She gave herself a little shake and swung her legs over to jump down from the bed. “Nothing’s the matter. I just didn’t sleep very well last night with a king’s man in the house and my brother out prowling the village like an overheated tomcat.”

Jack winced at the sharpness of her tone. “Who can understand you, Sarah? You’re the one who told me to stay away, and now you’re angry because I did as you asked.”

She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry, little brother. It’s just that the man makes me uncomfortable. All that nonsense about my supposed beauty...”

Jack’s smile was tender. “But, Sarah, you can’t fault the man for having eyes in his head. You are beautiful.”

Sarah pulled her voluminous night robes close around her and looked over at her brother. There was definitely a difference about him, a new awareness of her as a woman and himself as a man. He would never have said such a thing even a few weeks ago. It made her uncomfortable, but she found the change intriguing. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Jack dropped his eyes. “I guess Father and I were never much good at telling you so.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Sarah shook her head with embarrassment.

“Yes,” Jack said firmly. “It does matter. I have the most beautiful sister in all the country and I’ve never even told her so. I ought to be horsewhipped...or at least forced to listen to one of Parson Hollander’s sermons.”

Sarah giggled. As usual, Jack could defuse the most awkward moment with his good humor. She was tired and more than a little confused by the feelings of the past day and night, but overriding everything else, she felt a tremendous surge of love for her brother. Without him, her life would be barren indeed.

She walked around the end of the bed and leaned over to drop a kiss on his blond head. “Anyway, you do see that it’s more important than ever that you keep out of sight. You’ll have to stay in the village until the baron is gone. And I want you to talk to Parson Hollander and tell him to spread the word among the villagers. If he asks them to keep your presence secret, I know they’ll cooperate.”

“What about the servants here?”

“I’m going to speak with Uncle Thomas.”

“Get Bess to help you.” Bess was the head cook, absolute ruler of the Leasworth kitchens, and the only woman besides Sarah that Jack had ever listened to.

“She’ll do anything we ask if it’s to help you,” Sarah said with a smile. “So, it’s settled. Now be off with you.”

“And you promise not to be angry with me for spending the night away?”

“You could stay at Parson Hollander’s.”

Jack’s grimace made him look like a little boy again, and forced Sarah to laugh. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Stay wherever you please, just don’t come back around here until I send word that it’s safe.”

“But what about you? I don’t like the idea of you being with that man unprotected.”

“Don’t worry about me,” she said airily. “I’ll be fine. Now get along out of here before the baron shows up for our riding appointment.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. Absolutely sure. I’m not the least bit worried about being able to handle Lord Anthony Rutledge.” She turned away biting her lip. As far as she could remember, it was the first time she’d ever told her brother a lie.

* * *

“Which of these beauties do you ride, Mistress Fairfax?”

Beneath her smile, Sarah was fuming. She had hoped to reach the stables before Lord Rutledge this morning to tell the stableboy, Arthur, that she would not be riding Brigand today. But the baron had knocked at her bedchamber door before she had even finished dressing, barely missing Jack’s departure.

As she had feared, the words were scarcely out of the baron’s mouth before the vigilant young Arthur stepped forward leading her beloved stallion. “This un’s Mistress Sarah’s horse,” he said proudly.

Sarah’s smile wavered as Anthony gave a low whistle and said, “He’s magnificent. I had marked him yesterday, and hoped to be able to ride him myself today.”

“He doesn’t take kindly to strangers,” Sarah said stiffly.

“Has he learned that from his mistress?” Anthony asked with mild amusement.

Determined not to let the man disconcert her again, Sarah ignored the remark. “I’ve ridden him since he was a colt. He’s used to me.”

Anthony reached out to run a practiced hand along the horse’s side. “What’s his name?”

Sarah gave a swift glance at Arthur, who was listening raptly to their exchange. Reluctantly, she answered the question. “I call him Brigand.”

Anthony’s hand stopped for a moment, then continued down the horse’s smooth flank. “A bloodthirsty name for a horse belonging to so lovely a mistress.”

When Sarah made no reply, he asked, “Would you consider selling him?”

“Never!” Sarah responded more vehemently than she had intended.

Anthony straightened from his examination of the stallion and turned to her with a half smile that took Sarah back to her dreams of the night before. “Not even to the king?” he asked softly.

“I’m sorry,” she said, regaining her innate dignity, “Brigand is not for sale.”

“I suspected as much. Still, it’s a pity. Perhaps I will be able to persuade you to change your mind during the course of my stay here.”

“You would be wasting your time to try, Lord Rutledge.”

“It would be an interesting challenge, then.”

His intense gaze was focused on her, not the horse, and suddenly Sarah felt herself unsure as to the topic of the conversation. Once again the baron was standing too close to her. It muddled her thinking. Wedged between the wall and her horse, she was unable to move away.

“Mistress Sarah won’t never sell Brigand.” Arthur’s eager young voice startled them both. At many estates, Sarah knew, a servant would be beaten for speaking without being addressed first by the master, but her uncle and father had always encouraged fair treatment and respect for all who worked on their properties. Their idea of Christian brotherhood was not mere abstract theology.

Anthony turned his easy smile on the boy. “I believe you, lad. Though it’s been said that I can be very persuasive when I want to be.” His dark eyes shifted back to Sarah.

“If we’re to get some riding in before the midday meal, we’d best get started. If you like, you may try out my uncle’s prize stallion, Chestnut. I think you’ll find him a worthy mount,” she said hurriedly. She wanted the morning to be over with.

Arthur, now fully under Anthony’s spell, rushed to ready Thomas Fairfax’s best horse for the baron’s use. It was a handsome sable stallion, as high as Brigand, but without quite the breadth of flank that gave Sarah’s horse its extraordinary strength.

They left Arthur staring after them in awe, and Sarah had to admit that they must make a striking sight as they made their way along the well-worn road to the village. Brigand and Chestnut were two of the finest horses in the area, and today both had riders worthy of such impressive mounts. They rode several minutes in silence, enjoying the rare December sunshine.

“If I’d known Yorkshire to have such a mild clime, I’d have visited before,” Anthony said finally.

“We’re fortunate today. Perhaps the sun is shining in your honor, my lord.”

Anthony lifted a dark eyebrow. It was the nearest the lady had come to coquetry since that obviously staged moment when they had first met back at the stables. Most of her conversation was disarmingly direct. He found her completely unlike the ladies he was used to back at court. Yet he remembered his impression that she had been lying about something the previous evening. The truth was, Mistress Fairfax had him perplexed and intrigued. It was an uncomfortable feeling for a man who prided himself on his skill in judging women.

It was on the tip of his tongue to answer with one of his courtly comments—to profess that the sun’s rays were no brighter than the dazzling brightness of her countenance, or some such nonsense. But he stopped himself and said simply, “If anyone should be honored, mistress, ’tis you.”

The unadorned compliment brought color to her cheeks. She answered him with a smile, and Anthony felt his heart skip a beat. “Shall we run a bit, mistress?” he asked brusquely.

“Of course. We can head through the meadow, if you like. The terrain is smooth and flat.”

Anthony nodded agreement and followed her as she let her beautiful stallion stretch out into an easy gallop. Her uncle had been right. Even with the constraints of her riding skirts and a sidesaddle, she rode superbly, moving in perfect harmony with the animal. He let his horse fall back a ways just to enjoy the view, then spurred ahead, not willing to let her get too far from him. When he pulled up to her, she urged her horse to more speed, forcing him to catch up once again. All at once it became a contest, one in which Sarah seemed to have total control.

Finally she let him match her speed and stay with her. They raced side by side for several minutes, then Sarah pointed to a low rise in the grass and began to slow her pace. “There’s a stream beyond. We’ll just let them take a bit of water,” she called, laughing and disheveled.

Her hair had pulled loose from its tight coils and fell to her shoulders in honeyed waves. Her gray eyes twinkled, and she looked so fresh and young that Anthony again felt the curious twist inside his chest. “We’ll have to arrange a race sometime,” she said with a little laugh.

“You’d best me, I fear. You ride like the wind, Mistress Sarah.”

“‘Tis the horse. No one can beat him.”

Anthony nodded. “I’m beginning to believe it.”

They had come to the edge of the stream. He jumped from his saddle, intending to help Sarah dismount, but she was on the ground before he could approach her. Anthony shook his head and observed, “The horse is twice your height, mistress, yet you jump from his back as easily as a cat.”

He moved toward her, trailing his horse’s reins behind him. “You’ve the eyes of a cat, too, sometimes,” he said. “Gray. I’ve never seen their color before.”

With his black eyes intensely focused on her again, Sarah felt the same agitation of the previous evening. In the space of a day, this fancy London courtier had made more observations about her person than she had heard in her entire life. Of course, at Charles’s court such talk was probably the fashion. But for a girl raised pure and Puritan in the countryside, it was hard to answer.

Part of the time she thought that her discomfiture served her well. Her uncharacteristic loss for words must make her look a fool in the baron’s eyes, and that was probably for the best. However, part of the time, she admitted to herself, she felt an overwhelming desire to impress the man.

Her father had shared his love of learning and books equally with her and Jack. She was educated far beyond what was considered desirable for a woman, and not just in the Puritan teachings of William Prynne and the like. With her father’s encouragement, she’d read Shakespeare and Donne, even Hobbes. And she’d come to hold her own in conversations with many of her father’s friends, who had been among the most learned of the land. She had a ready tongue and quick wit, and, for the life of her, she could not understand why both seemed to forsake her so utterly when in the presence of Lord Rutledge.

“I’ve been jumping off and on horses all my life,” she answered, for lack of any other response. But Anthony preferred to stay with the topic of her eyes.

“A cat’s eyes. But they turn storm-cloud gray when you’re angry.”

“I don’t believe you’ve seen me angry, my lord.”

“Not angry, then, but...incensed. As when you stood up for your uncle last night. I sensed that there was more behind your words. ‘Years of battle and betrayal,’ I believe you said. And there was anger, deep down.” He moved even closer and lifted a finger to point at her face. “And storm clouds there...in those lovely gray eyes.”

“The Civil War was hard on everyone,” Sarah answered carefully. “It’s not something I like to think about.”

“But when a king’s man arrives at your home, you have no other choice, is that it?”

She shook her head slowly. He was very near again, but this time she had no urge to step back. In fact, she felt almost compelled to draw even nearer. “Perhaps I was ready to dislike you, Lord Rutledge, for being a king’s man. But I find that you are not as I would have expected.”

Anthony’s hand had lowered to settle along her arm. Gently he pulled her an imperceptible space toward him. “And how do you find me, mistress?”

Sarah’s heart hammered in her throat and ears, making it hard for her to speak. “Not...disagreeable,” she rasped.

A glint lit the darkness of Anthony’s eyes. “Agreeable, then?”

She nodded.

“I find you very agreeable, Mistress Sarah,” he said in a voice that had grown husky. He bent toward her, his other hand at her elbow, closing the distance between them. Sarah swayed, her knees suddenly weak.

“Mistress Fairfax!” a shrill female voice called from the road.

Sarah stiffened and Anthony’s hands tightened on her arms. They turned in unison toward the sound of the cry. An attractive young woman was approaching them on a lumbering horse with no saddle. She was barefoot and her cotton skirts were hiked up around her thighs.

“It’s one of the village women,” Sarah said, a lump of disquiet lodging painfully in her throat. She had recognized at once the shapely form of Jack’s new friend, Norah Thatcher.

“What does she want with you?” Anthony asked, irritated by the interruption.

Sarah shook her head. Norah slipped from the broad back of the horse and ran toward them, breathing heavily. She stopped in some awe when she got close enough to take a good look at the baron, but recovered quickly and turned to Sarah. “Your...er...Master Partridge sent me to fetch ye, mistress.”

Sarah felt a stab of fear in her middle. “What’s wrong, Norah?” she asked, her voice rising with apprehension.

“Ye’s to come to the village right quickly, mistress.” She stopped and took a deep gulp of a breath. “It seems that the sheriff has arrested Parson Hollander.”




Chapter Three


Sarah rode stiffly alongside Anthony. Their huge mounts had long since left behind the poor farm horse with Norah Thatcher clinging to its back.

“Is it far to the village?” Anthony shouted.

Sarah shook her head. All at once things seemed to be spinning out of control. Gentle Parson Hollander had been arrested. Anthony had insisted on accompanying her to the village, and she didn’t know what they would find when they got there. She hoped that Jack would have enough sense to stay out of sight, and that he had had time to enlist the parson’s help in making sure the villagers knew about the “Henry Partridge” deception. She was confident that they would cooperate with the ruse. There was little love for the king in the town with the taxes being increased regularly to finance the Dutch war. And Jack and Sarah had been treated kindly since arriving at their uncle’s after their father’s execution four years ago. Most of the residents of Wiggleston knew how protective Sarah had been of Jack over the years. She could count on their help, as long as Jack and the parson had had time to spread the word.

“Mistress Sarah, are you close to this village parson? You look distressed.” Anthony was watching her with a thoughtful look on his face that did not help Sarah’s unease.

“He’s been the family parson as long as I can remember.”

“He’s a Puritan, then?”

Sarah hesitated. King Charles had proven remarkably tolerant in allowing Puritans to freely practice the religion that had figured so prominently in the overthrow of his father. But Sarah could not let go of her mistrust. Her father had been killed for his beliefs, and she did not feel comfortable discussing such matters with a representative of the crown. “Parson Hollander is the most godly man I know,” she replied at last. “It’s absolutely ridiculous to think of him being put under arrest.”

Anthony noted the evasiveness as well as the vehemence of her reply and decided to keep his questions to himself. After their near embrace in the meadow, he was more determined than ever to take Mistress Sarah to his bed before he left Yorkshire. He was even prepared to overlook the fact that she obviously knew more about the goings-on in this area than she was willing to let on to him. His mission would be greatly simplified if this Parson Hollander was the moonlight bandit. They should know soon—he prided himself on having an instinct about such things. For the time being he would let Mistress Fairfax keep her secrets.

Wiggleston was nestled at the base of a series of limestone crags that led down to the sea. Unlike bustling Kingston-on-Hull to the north, the village’s coastline was too rocky to be a commercial port. Except for an occasional poor fishing coble, the Wiggleston coves were occupied only by gannets and razorbills that soared in and out with complete sovereignty. To the west of the village, the cliffs turned into gentle Yorkshire wolds and eventually stretched out as vast moors, which still had a purple cast even in their winter dryness.

Sarah usually loved the moment when the sea came into view as she rounded Bratswick Scar on the road into town. But today she barely glanced out at the water. Her mind was too busy with the complications of the current situation.

“The sheriff’s house and gaol is not far. I can make my way by myself from here,” she said to Anthony. “Why don’t you go on back to Leasworth and spend some more time with the horses?”

Anthony shook his head. “I wouldn’t think of it. You’re upset. I’ll go with you and see what this is all about. Perhaps I can be of some help.”

Sarah gritted her teeth and gave a slight pull on Brigand’s reins to tell him to head around the big gritstone smithy and proceed along the neat row of brick cottages that made up the most prosperous part of town. At the end was the larger brick structure that housed the town gaol. A number of townsfolk were congregated in the village green just in front of it.

Sarah surveyed the crowd anxiously and let out a long breath when she saw no sign of Jack in the group. She stopped in front of an iron hitching post and jumped from Brigand’s back. Anthony was at her side almost at the same instant. He took her arm as they made their way through the crowd.

“Mistress Fairfax, thank goodness you’re here.” A reedy fellow with thinning hair pushed his way toward them.

Roger Spragg had been the town mayor for as long as anyone could remember, keeping his post by virtue of his untarnished record of absolute inaction. Sarah was surprised to see him so uncharacteristically agitated.

“What’s going on, Mr. Spragg?”

The mayor twisted his hands and smacked together the edges of his mouth, which seemed to be devoid of lips. “Perhaps we should send for your uncle, Mistress Fairfax. There’s king’s men in town and your...” He stopped and looked nervously over at Anthony. “Well, and now they’ve gone and arrested Parson Hollander.”

Sarah put a slender hand on the mayor’s sleeve to calm him down. She had the feeling he had been going to say something about Jack, which she couldn’t let happen. “I’ll go in and talk with Sheriff Jeffries, Mr. Spragg. Why don’t you tell these good people to go on about their business? They can’t be of any help here.”

Spragg gave a little whining sound. “I should go inside with you, Mistress Fairfax. These charges against the parson are outrageous.”

“I know.” Sarah bit back her impatience with the annoying little man. “I’m sure it’s all some kind of misunderstanding. But your duty now is to your townspeople.”

Spragg looked around at the gathering and nodded his head several times. “Perhaps you’re right, Mistress Fairfax. Duty comes first. I’ll try to calm these folks down.”

Sarah gave a forced smile and pushed her way past him. Anthony watched her with amusement. She wasn’t one to put up with foolishness, that much was obvious. He was looking forward to seeing how she handled the sheriff...and Oliver, if, as he suspected, his friend was behind this arrest.

In deference to the vocation of the prisoner, the questioning was taking place in the parlor of the sheriff’s roomy house. By far the fanciest home in the village, the floor had carpets instead of rush mats, and the furniture in the room they were entering was upholstered with tooled leather.

As Sarah and Anthony entered the arched doorway, the occupants of the room turned simultaneously. Anthony’s eyes skimmed over the stalwart figure of Oliver, who stood nearest them. He did not let even a flicker of his eye betray recognition. A large man was standing near the stone fireplace, bending over a clergyman who sat stiffly in a straight wooden chair.

Anthony almost laughed aloud when he saw him. This frail, gray-haired cleric was supposed to be the masked robber who rode like the wind and wielded a sword like a pirate?

“Sheriff Jeffries, what’s going on here?” Sarah’s voice carried none of the mellow tone Anthony had found so pleasing. He looked down at her in surprise.

The man by the fire straightened and then made a slight bow in their direction. He shifted his leather baldric to fit more comfortably over the bulge of his stomach. “We’ve had an accusation, Mistress Fairfax, against Parson Hollander. And I’m honor-bound to investigate.”

Sarah pulled her arm out of Anthony’s grasp and briskly crossed the room. “What kind of accusation?”

The sheriff nodded his head at Oliver. “Captain Kempthorne, here, says the parson’s been involved in clandestine activities.”

Sarah positioned herself behind the parson and looked fiercely at the sheriff. “That’s absurd,” she said.

“I daresay, Mistress Fairfax. But we have to check on Captain Kempthorne’s story.”

Sarah glared across the room at Oliver, who was leaning against a trestle table, his arms folded. “And just what is Captain Kempthorne’s story?”

Without straightening, Oliver gave a brief nod of introduction. “Oliver Kempthorne of his majesty’s guards, at your service, mistress. It appears that your parson has been involved in a series of robberies that have taken place in this district.”

“And on what do you base these preposterous charges, Captain Kempthorne?”

“My men have been charged with cleaning up the smuggling in these parts now that we’re at war again with the Dutch. Last week up in Hull we had a...er...discussion with a Dutch contrabandist we caught red-handed. The man swore he got the jewels he was carrying from your parson. When we searched the vestry over at the church, we found this.” Oliver reached casually into his doublet and pulled out a glittery necklace.

Sarah’s mouth went dry. She recognized the piece as one she had taken from the Bishop of Lackdale. She put her hands on the parson’s shoulders, as much to support herself as him. “There has to be some mistake,” she said, less forcibly than before.

Anthony was watching the proceedings with some dismay. Obviously, this tiny old man was not the robber. But it appeared that he was involved in the crimes. And Sarah was disconcerted and upset by his arrest. He hoped that didn’t mean that she was involved, too.

“Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen,” he said smoothly. “I’m Lord Anthony Rutledge. I’ve recently come from court and am, of course, interested in any matter involving the king’s business.” He addressed the words to Oliver, who nodded impassively, then crossed the room to offer his hand to the sheriff.

“Much obliged, uh, your honor, er, Lord Rutledge.” Jeffries gave the impression that two king’s men in one day was too much for him to handle.

Sarah turned her direct gaze on Anthony. “If you can do anything about this, I’d be very grateful. Obviously, there has been some kind of terrible mistake.”

Anthony looked around at the other occupants of the room. “Perhaps we should let the good father speak for himself.” He walked over to stand directly in front of the parson and Sarah. “Tell me, Father,” he said pleasantly. “Do you ride the roads at midnight, robbing innocent people of their fortunes at the point of a sword?”

The very absurdity of the statement hit everyone in the room. Parson Hollander looked as if he were having a good deal of difficulty maintaining a seat in the flimsy chair. It was inconceivable to think of him thundering down a lonely highway on a powerful stallion. He gave a gentle smile and shook his head. “No, my son.”

Anthony looked at Jeffries. “I think you’re going to have a hard time proving your case, Sheriff.”

Oliver pulled himself up slowly from his slouch against the table. “He may not be the highwayman, but he’s involved up to his holy little neck. Perhaps a few days in the gaol will loosen his tongue.”

Sarah’s cat eyes glinted like the tips of two drawn swords as she turned to Oliver, her hands on her hips. “How can you take the word of an admitted smuggler against this holy man?”

Anthony gave a half smile as he watched Oliver face Sarah’s fury with utter nonchalance. His friend gave a shrug and walked across the room to where a heavy manacle was draped over a bench. He picked up the chains and walked over to the prisoner. “Your hands, Parson,” he said calmly.

Sarah’s normally fair skin flushed dark red. She moved from behind the parson to plant herself in front of Oliver. “Don’t you dare put those things on him!”

Anthony was torn. He was curious to see if she would betray some knowledge of the crimes in her angry state. But at the same time he felt an inexplicable urge to protect her from becoming more involved. The latter won out as he went over to her and put his hand against the small of her back. “Let’s go, Sarah,” he said softly. “There’s nothing you can do here until the evidence has been examined more thoroughly.”

Sarah’s hands shook as she watched Kempthorne place the heavy manacles around Parson Hollander’s white, bony wrists. The cleric twisted to look at her with his serene smile. “Don’t worry about me, Sarah. You go on home and take care of yourself. You’re the one who’s important here.”

The emphasis in the parson’s words was odd, but they seemed to soothe Sarah for a moment. She stood stiffly as the sheriff, who had also winced at seeing the parson locked into chains, helped the old man out of his chair and led him toward the door.

“You won’t be there for long, Parson,” Sarah said, her voice firm again. “I’ll see to it.”

Parson Hollander gave one last smile before he turned and meekly followed the sheriff out of the room.

There was a long moment of silence after the two men left. Finally Anthony said, “Mistress Fairfax, perhaps you’d be kind enough to give me a moment with this gentleman. I may be able to get to the bottom of this matter.”

“If you’re going to talk about Parson Hollander, I’m staying right here.” Sarah shifted her feet slightly apart as if to root herself more firmly to the spot.

Anthony could see the amusement behind Oliver’s impassive expression. It was not often that a woman refused one of Anthony’s requests. He leaned down and spoke low in her ear. “I’ll tell you what we talk about later. I might be able to get more information out of him dealing—you know—man-to-man.”

Sarah looked from Oliver back to Anthony, then gave a curt nod and left the room with a haughty swish of her skirts.

Oliver resumed his resting place against the table. “I might have known, Anthony,” he drawled. “I can’t leave you alone for a week without you tangling yourself up with a she-lion.”

Anthony was still staring at the door. “Isn’t she astonishing? Who’d have thought it...out here in this backwash of civilization?”

Oliver barked a laugh. “You’re the astonishing one, my friend. If there’s a beauty within twenty shires, you’ll land at her doorstep.”

Anthony turned his gaze to his friend. “I’d wager there’s none in twenty shires to match her, perhaps in all of England.”

“Hell, Anthony, you’ve the look of a lovesick puppy dog. Who is she, anyway?”

“Old Fairfax’s niece. My hostess. Charles must not have known about her or he would have come on this mission himself.”

“You and the king make a fine pair. England can rot all around you as long as there’s a pretty face to watch.”

Anthony ignored the barb. “Tell me she’s not a beauty, Oliver.”

“Her features are fair enough, I guess, though I’d have been better able to judge if she hadn’t been eyeing me like a piece of meat she wanted to skewer.”

Anthony laughed. “You’re just upset because I got to her first. And because you’re the villain of the day, while I—” he gave a mock bow “—may yet prove to be her hero.”

“Aye. I forgot to thank you for all your bloody support in the interrogation just now.”

“Sorry, I figured I’d be better off not to take sides yet.”

“Not until you talk the beauteous Mistress Fairfax into your bed, you mean.”

“I can’t say the idea hadn’t crossed my mind.”

Oliver picked up a pewter mug from the table alongside him and heaved it at Anthony’s head. “It’s not your mind it crossed, you blackguard.”

Catching the mug easily with his left hand, Anthony scowled at his friend. “We’re not here to talk about Mistress Fairfax. What have you learned about the highwayman?”

Oliver crossed his burly arms. “The priest’s in it somewhere, I’m sure of that.”

“But he’s not the bandit.”

“No.”

Anthony began pacing the room. “I don’t like this. The town is obviously behind their parson. Why did you have to shackle the old man?”

“For effect. You don’t get information out of someone by treating him like a bloody prince.”

Anthony nodded. Oliver was right, of course, and it bothered Anthony to think that his own interest in Sarah was already fogging his judgment in this matter. “Well, if he doesn’t talk soon, we’ll have to move him to London. It will cause too much trouble to have him imprisoned here in his own town.”

“And it won’t help your relations with Mistress Fairfax any, either.”

Anthony disregarded his friend’s sarcasm. “Oliver, do you think the highwayman could be Fairfax himself?”

“General Fairfax?”

“We know the bandit is a swordsman. Looking around this village, I’d say there can’t be too many here with that particular skill.”

Oliver looked doubtful. “The general’s not a young man anymore. And somehow it doesn’t sound like his style. You don’t go from being a leader of thousands of men out on a battlefield to skulking around at night behind a mask.”

Anthony sighed. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll do a little poking around at their manor house, just in case. In the meanwhile, have your men continue investigating, and keep after the parson. Maybe he’ll break down and give us the information we’re looking for. Just be sure you don’t kill the poor devil.”

“Are you sure you’ll be all right poking around by yourself at the Fairfax manor?” Oliver asked with a perfectly straight face.

Anthony grimaced. It was the kind of double entendre humor that was rife at court, but somehow it sounded out of place out here in the fresh Yorkshire countryside. Especially when it concerned Sarah Fairfax. “Don’t be crude, Kempthorne.” Anthony decided it was time to go on the offensive. “Just because you’ve always preferred your horse to a fine lady.”

Oliver’s mistrust of women was well-known at court. During the exile years he had fallen so badly for a French countess that he had abandoned his friends for weeks. When he returned to their company, he informed them curtly that, unbeknownst to him, the countess had had a count, and she was not about to lose either the riches or the title he gave her merely for the sake of a fugitive Englishman with uncertain prospects. A few days later somebody had ventured to tease him about his lost countess. The tormentor had ended up with part of his ear sliced off. After that, no one said anything when Oliver refused to join their parties with the ladies.

“Horses are loyal,” Oliver said. “They’re happy with one master, and they do what they’re told.”

“Some women are loyal, too, my friend,” Anthony said gently. “And I haven’t given up on convincing Mistress Fairfax to do as I bid her.”

“You just may have met your match in this one, Rutledge. After all, her uncle was one of the men who defeated the most powerful king in the world. And your Mistress Fairfax looked none too docile to me.”

Anthony grinned. “It’s going to be an interesting challenge.”

Oliver straightened up with a snort and started out the door. “Go on back to your courting, Rutledge. I’ve work to do.”

* * *

Sarah was outside with several of the villagers who had refused to return to their homes. Her slight form dominated the group, though Anthony could not say if it was her bearing or the regal simplicity of her black velvet riding habit. Her expression was grave as he approached.

“What are they going to do to him?” she asked.

Anthony scanned the anxious faces in front of him. “He’s obviously not the masked rider they’re looking for. But there does seem to be some link with the stolen goods. If any of you know something more about the thief, you could help your Parson Hollander greatly by speaking to the authorities.”

There was utter silence. Anthony could not detect even a particle of guilt in their solemn expressions. He sighed. If the parson really was involved in the crimes, it meant that they were the work of more than a single miscreant. It might even mean that the whole village was involved. And the good people looking at him so earnestly at this moment knew exactly who the robber was.

Anthony looked back at Sarah with something like regret. He had the feeling that she, too, had the answers he sought. Who would hold the village’s respect enough to carry out such a conspiracy? Her uncle, surely, but as Oliver had said, he was not a very likely candidate. Perhaps it was the young suitor he had seen with Sarah earlier.

After several moments of silence, Mayor Spragg cleared his throat and said, “We don’t know anything about it, Lord Rutledge.” Several heads bobbed up and down in agreement.

Anthony turned to Sarah. “You’re all willing to let the parson molder away in prison?”

“It doesn’t appear that we have any choice,” she snapped.

“They ain’t going to hang the parson, are they, Mistress Sarah?” The tiny voice came from a boy of about ten years with a dirty cherub face and a thatch of thick brown hair.

Sarah took a step toward the child and knelt down to put an arm around his thin shoulders. “They won’t hang him, Benjamin. The parson’s no thief, and they’ll figure that out soon enough, I reckon.”

“He had chains on his hands.” The boy’s eyes were wide.

“It’s what they do to prisoners, Ben. But they’ll take the chains off when they set him free. Now, does your mother know you’re down here in the green?”

The boy looked down and shook his head.

“Then you’d best run along home so she won’t worry. You can’t help the parson any by staying here.”

She straightened and looked around at the group. “I guess there’s not much reason for any of us to stay. I’ll talk to my uncle and have him send word to his solicitor.”

Mayor Spragg seemed relieved to see the situation come to a temporary resolution. “Yes, indeed. As long as there are king’s men in town, we should all be safely back in our homes.”

After an encouraging push from Sarah, the boy, Benjamin, took off at a brisk run, and one by one the rest of the group dispersed until just Sarah and Anthony were left. Anthony had a puzzled look on his face.

“What did your mayor mean about being safely back in their homes? Surely the people of Wiggleston have nothing to fear from representatives of the king?”

Sarah gave a humorless laugh. “We never used to be afraid, but now that the king’s collectors have tripled the tax, people are wary. Most of them simply don’t have the funds to pay such amounts.”

“The tax has tripled?”

Sarah gave Anthony a look of exasperation. “You fine folk carry on with your parties and games in the palaces of London and think you are ruling the country, but you have no idea of what is really going on in the rest of England.”

Anthony looked around him. He could now see that many of the brick houses that had appeared so neat when he first rode into the village were in a ramshackle state of repair. “When were these new taxes imposed?”

“Months ago. They tell us that the king has run out of money to fight wars with the Dutch over slaving stations thousands of miles off in Africa and the New World. But what is that to us here in Yorkshire? We don’t have anything against the Dutch. We’ve traded with them for years.”

Anthony was silent. This mission was proving to be more educational than he had anticipated.

“I’m sorry to vent my feelings on you, Lord Rutledge. I realize that the arrest of Parson Hollander has nothing to do with you.”

He felt an uncharacteristic flush of guilt. “Perhaps we should be getting back to Leasworth. You said that you wanted to talk with your uncle.”

“Yes. I don’t want the parson to spend one hour more than necessary in that awful place.”

* * *

“Sarah, I can’t let you do this.” Jack’s normally smiling face was grim.

“I don’t have any other choice. I can’t let the parson stay in prison for something that I did. My only other alternative would be giving myself up to the tender mercies of King Charles’s justice. And you’ll remember, Jack, just how that ended up for our father.” Sarah was curled up like a kitten in the corner of a large sleeping couch. She looked to Jack like a girl of twelve. It was impossible to picture her mounted on a spirited stallion and brandishing a sword.

“I know you’re my big sister, but it’s time I took on some of my burdens as a man in this family. If it has to be done, I’m the one to do it.”

Sarah pushed herself up out of the deep cushions. Jack could almost see her hair stand on end as she glared at him. “Do you think I’ve kept you out of notice of the king these four years past just to let you give yourself up now? The king can extend Father’s death warrant to you with a snap of his fingers. And then what would I be left with?”

“That’s assuming I would be caught, sister dear. And though you may not have noticed, I now ride as well as you do, better perhaps.”

“I swear, Jack, if I have to get the servants to help me tie you to your bed, I’ll not let you do this thing. Uncle Thomas would agree with me. He’s always supported me in my attempts to keep you out of the king’s way.”

“Uncle Thomas doesn’t know that his niece is the moonlight bandit,” Jack reminded her sharply. “Besides, I thought you were going to get his solicitor to look at the case. Perhaps we won’t have to do anything at all.”

“Uncle Thomas has already sent word to Mr. Montague.”

“And...?”

Sarah’s head drooped. “He says he doesn’t hold out much hope when they caught the parson red-handed with some of the stolen jewels.”

Jack was silent for a moment, then said firmly, “Perhaps you are right that we’ll have to do something. But if there’s to be fighting involved, I’m the one who will be doing it.”

Sarah sank back into the cushions with a sigh. “My head hurts, Jack. It’s been a very long and unsettling day. Why don’t you go on back to your Mistress Thatcher and let me alone? We’ll talk about this in the morning.”

Jack wasted no time on sympathy. “There’s nothing to talk about, Sarah. You’re not going to ride in single-handedly and break Parson Hollander out of the gaol. The whole idea’s crazy.”




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