Call of the Wild Wind (Waterloo Heroes Book 2) (5 page)

He smiled.

With dimples.

The bastard.

A firm resolution rose within her.

To hell with the Heinous Earl of Wick. To hell with her brother. To hell with her father’s pronouncements.

She was going to Scotland if she had to walk.

And no one could stop her.

Charles watched Britannia flounce from the room and a wave of regret swamped him.

Though it would have been highly improper, the prospect of traveling with her had tugged at his soul. If he were being honest, there had been other improper thoughts as well. Ones of pulling her into his arms and kissing her. Ravaging her. Making her his own.

He’d never met a woman who so intrigued him, aroused him, exasperated him.

It had been a year since his return to Scotland from the continent. He’d spent the time making peace with his experience and helping other war veterans was a large part of that. But seeing his friend, Daniel, find the love of his life in Fia had started Charles thinking about the future of his dynasty, about marriage.

He’d decided to wed a nice Scottish lass, one of good breeding, but when he’d set eyes on Britannia, all thoughts of other women had faded. The more he knew of her, the more she intrigued him.

It was a damn shame he had to leave.

It was a damn shame the duke had forbidden him to escort her to Scotland.

A few weeks on the road would surely have been enough to win her. To make her forget poor, dead Peter. He was certain of it.

His mood dipped as he thought of John St. Andrews. Perhaps it was for the best that Britannia not travel to Scotland.

Because if John was, indeed, her Peter, it would break her heart when she discovered the truth about him.

Chapter Three

It had seemed like a brilliant idea when she’d first thought of it in the comfort of her luxurious bedroom in Axminster house in Mayfair. But now that she was here, on the mail coach rumbling north, Britannia was having second thoughts.

Oh, not about running away to Scotland.

About the mail coach.

As the pampered daughter of a powerful duke, she’d never once had to deal with discomfort. She’d certainly never rubbed elbows with the more common folk. And Mr. Cole-Winston had rather sharp elbows. He also had an annoying tendency to spread, his bulk taking up more and more of Britannia’s precious breathing room with each bumpy mile.

She resolved to ignore his body odor.

Which was decidedly difficult when the coach lurched and he reached overhead to grasp the strap by her window, firmly wedging her face into his armpit.

Ye gods. Did the man never bathe?

The other occupants of the coach were obviously used to traveling in such a manner. They had made themselves comfortable—at her expense—and drifted off to sleep. The young man across from her had stretched out his legs, tangling them with hers, and issued occasional and somewhat alarmingly snorty snores.

It was unthinkable in her world that a man treat a lady with such disrespect.

But then, on this coach, she wasn’t a lady.

To their mind, she wasn’t even a woman.

So she could hardly complain.

She’d thought it a stroke of genius to disguise herself as a boy. If her father was searching for her—which he undoubtedly was—the short hair and the costume she’d stolen from the groom living in the Axminster mews would throw them off the scent.

It caused a waft of regret to think of her shorn hair, but she rather liked it like this. The close-cropped curls framed her face and made her seem even younger than she was.

No one looked twice at her. Not when she’d boarded the coach. Not when they stopped for the occasional break to switch out the horses. Not even when she belched.

Not that she made it a habit of belching. It was frowned upon by the dragons of the ton. But when the other occupants of the coach had felt the need after one particularly gaseous meal, Britannia had joined in.

And she’d enjoyed it.

It was wonderful being a man, free to do whatever one wished.

All things considered—even the bilious Mr. Cole-Winston—this was an exciting adventure, wonderful and wild. A far cry from the constrained circumstances of her life up until now.

But as much as she was enjoying her charade, she couldn’t wait to reach Scotland. Couldn’t wait to make her way to Wick and set eyes on John St. Andrews. She knew—simply knew—she would find him to be her Peter. Each time she thought of it, her elation swelled.

It would be a joyous reunion. And if Peter didn’t remember her, she would remind him. She would soothe him. She would nurse him back to the fullness of the man he had once been.

They would marry—Scotland was a lovely place to be married, she’d heard—and then she would return to London, victorious and redeemed. Everyone who had ever doubted her or pitied her would finally realize…her and Peter’s love was a timeless thing. Nothing could tear them apart. Not even war.

It was, perhaps, a bad omen that a shot rang out on the tail end of that very thought. Everyone in the coach jerked awake, eyes wide and mouths agape.

“What was that?” Mr. Cole-Winston burbled.

A deep, ominous voice responded. 

“Stand and deliver!”

Britannia froze. She’d read about highwaymen in the papers and once or twice in a novel, but she’d never met one before.

In all honesty, she’d never had any kind of adventure before, so she was torn between fear…and a strange elation. It was probably unwise to find such a predicament exciting, but somehow it was.

A highwayman. Imagine that.

Thank heaven she’d hidden all her money in her shoes. No one would think to look there.

The coach rolled to a stop and after a moment, the door whipped open and their assailant poked his head in.

Britannia’s exhilaration deflated as though it had been pricked with a pin. The highwayman was not at all what she had expected. Somehow she’d imagined he would be tall and dark and mysterious, but he was not. He was rather short and stout, with troll-like limbs and a scarred, scruffy face half-covered by a beard that probably held remnants of a weeks’ worth of meals. Oh. And his breath… It was noxious.

How disappointing.

He closed one eye and peered at the occupants of the coach, then grunted and said, “All right. Out. All of you.” He waggled a pistol to underscore his command.

Because Britannia was closest to the door, she slipped out first, which was a good thing, because as the others filed out, she was able to position herself behind them. It seemed sensible, for if this brigand decided to shoot, a bullet would have to pass through the considerable bulk of Mr. Cole-Winston to reach her. She tugged the brim of her hat down as well. Though she knew it did not make her invisible, it made her feel less conspicuous.

“Empty your pockets,” the highwayman said with no preamble. He moved from one man to the next, collecting their purses, and the occasional pocket watch. When he came to Britannia, who had nothing but pennies to offer, he snorted and looked her up and down.

She had a moment of terror that he might see her for what she was, but he did not. When he turned away, she nearly collapsed in relief.

Until, of course, he issued his next command.

“All of you,” he barked. “Strip.”

Oh dear.

Oh mercy.

Britannia cast around wildly searching for some escape. She could not strip. That would expose her disguise. Expose her utterly. And lord knew what this beastly highwayman would do to her then.

Terror, real terror, prickled on her skin. She went hot then cold. Her muscles seized.

As though all that weren’t bad enough, the other occupants of the coach—to a man—sighed and began removing their clothing.

This was something of a mercy, because the sight of Mr. Cole-Winston in the altogether distracted her from the raging fear.

She’d never seen a man naked before.

It was a perturbing sight.

He had stork-like legs, which somehow held up his rotund body. His chest was a vast landscape of pasty skin flecked with anemic hair and his large belly hung down over parts south. Which was also a mercy.

The other men, in their altogether, were no less unappealing.

A sudden and incongruous thought filled her mind.

Naked men are not attractive in the least.

“You there!”

Britannia jumped as the highwayman shouted and waggled his pistol at her.

“Um, yes?”

“Take off your clothes, boy. Let’s see what you’ve hidden under them.”

Egads.

Egads!

This was, indeed, a disaster she had not anticipated.

However would she escape from this dilemma unscathed?

It was a beautiful day for travel, Charles thought as he spurred Seneca into a trot. Now that he’d passed York and was into the countryside, it was even pleasanter. The woods were shadowed and cool and he loved the way the sun filtered through the leafy canopy. While his coach followed behind, he’d insisted on riding. A man could not be expected to spend a day like this in a cramped carriage.

There was something about the feel of the sun on his face, the breeze in his hair that freed him from his dark thoughts, darker memories. They haunted him at times, the scenes from his past. From one day in June, to be specific. Sometimes he envied John, that he had been able to forget it all.

And then…blast. Thoughts of John quickly heralded thoughts of Britannia Halsey, and ignited again that flare of regret. He had been sorely tempted to accede to her request and bring her with him to Wick, despite the fact that it would have destroyed his relationship with her father, which was a prosperous one.

There was a part of him that would have done anything to spend more time with her.

But it was a foolish part.

A woman raised in the heart of London, a duke’s daughter, would have no interest in a Scottish laird. She would certainly never want to live in the wild reaches of Caithness County, so far from the glittering balls and soirees and excitement of Town. And Charles could never live in the south. His heart was in the Highlands.

Aye, it was probably for the best that he’d left her where she belonged.

She’d marry some London lord.

He’d marry a Scottish lass.

It was the way such things went.

He made an attempt to banish that annoying prickle of remorse. He had no use for it. It was pointless, indeed.

He rounded a corner on the road and slowed as the strangest scene played out before him—a mail coach surrounded by a huddle of naked men. There was another man there waving a pistol and bellowing at a boy.

It took a second for the meaning to percolate in his brain.

He’d been robbed on the King’s Road before—or at least an attempt had been made. One did not rob a member of the Scots Greys with impunity. There was little Charles deplored more than predators, unless it was the boredom of travel. This tawdry vignette was just what he needed to break the tedium of a long trip.

With a grin, he pulled out his pistol, along with the saber he kept strapped to his saddle—because he liked the look of it. This was the first time since Waterloo that he’d felt a need for it, but it felt fine and familiar in his fist.

“Ho, there,” he called as he approached.

The scraggly man with the weapon whirled on him. He took in the sight of Charles on his grey, sword aloft, and his mouth dropped open. He shot a glance at the naked men he had been robbing, then, with an
eep
, charged into the woods.

Charles frowned.

Well, that was disappointing. He’d been hoping for a fist fight at the very least.

No doubt the villain had already expunged his one shot and hadn’t thought to bring a second pistol. Hardly a surprise. These brigands were not career criminals. Most were veterans of the war who had come home to penury and turned to crime to survive.

But still. A fist fight would have been stimulating.

He dismounted next to the coach and smiled at the huddled men. Only partly because they were all completely naked and desperately attempting to cover their privates. His gaze flicked over their faces and stilled when it reached the boy.

His heart gave a lurch.

Though her eyes were down and she attempted to hide her face with her hat, he knew in an instant who it was.

How could he not?

His
body
recognized her, even before his mind did.

Well hell.

Britannia.

Horror and fury coiled in his gut as he realized she’d cut her hair.
Cut her hair.
That beautiful, thick mane of sable curls that had featured so prominently in his imaginings.

It was criminal. That’s what it was.

Beyond that, what on earth had she been thinking? How had she imagined such a disguise would work? What man with red blood in his veins would not see her for what she was?

Blinding rage and some scalding hint of fear for her welfare rocked him.

The woman was a menace.

She needed a keeper.

Hell, she needed a spanking.

A lesson, at the very least.

And he was the man to give it to her.

Britannia shook with relief at the sight of Charles charging toward them on his beautiful grey. But once he had chased off their assailant, it was quickly replaced with trepidation. Should he recognize her, he would immediately send her home. She was certain of it.

She pulled her hat down over her face and tried to position herself behind the convenient bulk of Mr. Cole-Winston. Fortunately, Charles’ attention was stolen by the thanks of the men as they all hurried to re-don their clothing.

She eased herself toward the coach, thinking to slip in before he noticed her. To her horror, he stepped in front of her and put his hands on her shoulders. She flinched at the touch.

“Are you all right, boy?” he asked.

Keeping her head down, she nodded.

“These are dangerous times.”

He seemed to expect a response, so she nodded again.

“You seem young to be traveling alone.”

Oh, bother. Why didn’t he go and talk to someone else? “Not so young,” she said in a low voice, one she was certain did not sound like herself at all.

“How old are you, lad?”

Oh bloody hell. How old would a boy of her size be? She hardly knew. “Old enough.”

“Hmm.” His gaze seemed to burn through her and, against her best intentions, she glanced at him. To her relief, there was no flare of recognition in his eyes. “And where are you heading, may I ask?”