Embrace The Dawn
Jackie Summers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to my husband, Tom, who never doubted. I love you, Bear.

My special thanks to a great writer, Linda Warren, for her friendship and unflagging enthusiasm. Thanks to Donna Martin, Trudy Zothner and Kelly McClymer for the compliments when I needed them. And to our daughter, Ellyn, for always being there.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Chapter One

England, September 1651

She felt someone staring at her.

Anne Lowell peeked through the leafy branches of the alders and studied the silent bank of the river. Too silent. The mallards had taken flight and a hush had fallen over the forest. From a nearby stand of oak, her mare whinnied. She drew back, clasping her arms in front of her. Someone was there!

Perhaps her own presence had quieted the woods, Anne reasoned, forcing the jittery feeling away. Aye, it was only her fear of being discovered that plagued her mind with devils.

At that moment, church bells pealed to signal the beginning of noon prayers. Dear God, she had no more time to behave like a poltroon. She must find her mother’s locket—God rest her soul—and sneak back to her chamber before her uncle discovered she had gone.

With trembling hands, she scuffed off her slippers and woolen hose and tossed them aside. Next, she untied the blue ribbon lacings of her bodice. She yanked the loose-fitting day dress over her head, dropping it in a billow of white muslin on top of the slippers and hose. An unexpected breeze whipped the thin remaining undergarments about her young body. She shivered, feeling naked.

The rough grass felt harsh to her tender feet as she stepped to the bank, gathered her shift close to her body and inched her way into the cold river.

The slimy bottom oozed between her toes and she shuddered. By the time she had waded to the spot where Lyle, the scullery boy, had tossed the locket, the water reached above her knees. Damn that pesky little whelp! She’d nail Lyle’s ear to the buttery door when she saw him.

Anne waded deeper into the rushing river. Taking a gulp of air, she dove beneath the river surface, stifling a gasp as the icy water engulfed her.

She forced her eyes open. Frightful images of water monsters bubbled up in her mind like witch’s brew as her hands searched the swaying reeds and fanlike plants that danced along the river bottom. With shaking fingers, she scratched at the loose silt and pebbles, her mind willing the murky demons away.

Despite the illumination of the sun, nothing glittered on the river bottom. When her lungs demanded it, she stood up and inhaled deeply of the crisp September air. Blinking, she shook the streaming rivulets from her face and wiped her long red hair back from her eyes. Her teeth chattered, but she ignored her trembling. As she prepared to dip beneath the water, a branch cracked and a horse’s whinny stopped her.

She whirled in the direction of the noise, her heart thumping wildly. A branch of oak leaves separated. A Roundhead soldier stared down at her from astride the largest stallion she had ever seen. The horse’s white forelegs and blaze on its head flashed against the black sheen of its coat. Her heart doubled its rhythm when the soldier rode out of the shadows and stopped in a patch of sunlight near the shore.

Anne froze for only a moment. She plunged into the river and crouched low, only her head above water.

“What have we here, Shadow?” the soldier asked his horse while dismounting. Sunlight glinted from his round metal helmet and when he lifted his visor, she saw that his eyes were bold and dark. “I think she’s a mermaid, and a pretty one, she is.”

Her uncle’s warning to keep away from the soldiers camped at Wycliffe Manor played back in her mind, although Anne didn’t need to be reminded what black-hearted devils all Roundheads were.

The dark eyes flashed and brazenly assessed her with a gleam of satanic curiosity. “Who are you, mermaid, and what are you doing in the river?” His rich baritone voice with its blatant masculinity frightened her more than his question.

She wanted to run, but what if there were more soldiers with him? Her mare could never outrun his steed. Ignoring the shiver that passed through her, she answered with a defiant lift of her chin, glared back and clamped her mouth shut. She saw his angular jaw tighten in response as he released the stallion’s reins, freeing the horse to drink.

All her instincts warned her that he was dangerous. She stepped back, the water rushing below her ears. “Be off with you.” Her voice trembled as she hunched lower, water lapping at her chin. “You have no right to be here.”

“No right to be here?” His deep voice feigned surprise, but his bold eyes glinted mockingly. “An officer of the Commonwealth not welcome at Wycliffe Manor? That’ll make hearty laughter tonight when I sup with George Lowell and his guests.”

God’s bones! He would be at her uncle’s dinner party! “You can’t!” Anne’s hand shot to her mouth. She saw genuine surprise light his eyes. “I—I mean...of course, you can, but...” She could see him thinking, measuring her. “But you’re not welcome here...with me, that is.”

He gave her a disbelieving glance, then concluded his assessment with a crooked grin. “I mean you no harm, lass. But these woods aren’t safe. You might meet a straggling Royalist, limping home like a whipped dog from last week’s battle.”

Anne sprang to attention. How she wanted to shout back at this black-hearted enemy that she’d welcome the chance to meet one of the king’s soldiers. Praise God, the poor soul might have news of her father. Instead, her mouth formed a tight line in answer; she dared not trust herself to speak out. He met her silence with interest.

“Could it be that the lovely maid hasn’t heard of our victory over Charlie Stuart?”

Haven’t heard, indeed! Her uncle had boasted of nothing else since word came that King Charles had barely escaped from Cromwell’s armies and was fleeing for his life. If only she dared ask him if he had news of her father. Possibly, an officer in Cromwell’s army might know if one of the most wanted Royalists, next to the young king, of course, had been captured.

But she dared not risk any action that might give away her identity. If this officer were to report seeing a red-haired maid in the river, even her uncle’s feeble imagination would tell him she was the only soul who would dare do such a thing.

Silently, the soldier studied her like a fox waiting to spring at the henhouse door. “Tell me who you are, lass.”

The sheep bells tinkled beyond the meadow and, with them, an idea sprang to mind. “I’m a shepherdess at Wycliffe Manor.” Hopefully, the fib might keep her identity safe.

He gave her a skeptical look while he carelessly raked back the lock of hair that fell across his forehead. When he moved, she noticed the gold cords dangling from the wide shoulders of his jacket, signifying an officer’s rank. “The other servants don’t mind tending your sheep while you idle away the day?”

“What the servants do is none of your business, Private,” she added, hoping the snub would wipe away his confidence.

The corners of his mouth quirked up. “Lieutenant,” he corrected, “but why don’t you call me Nat,” he said softly.

The bold familiarity of his intimate suggestion left her a little breathless. “If you must know,” she managed, “a servant threw a trinket of mine in the river. I—I refuse to leave here until I find it.” She hoped he hadn’t heard her teeth chatter.

“Why would he do such a vile thing to a sweet maid as yourself?” His dark eyes seemed to ignite as he gazed at her.

“B-because I wouldn’t k-kiss him, that’s why.” Despite the chilly water, Anne felt her cheeks flame with anger as she recalled what Lyle had done.

His mouth lifted slightly in a crooked smile. “And you didn’t kiss him because your heart belongs to another?”

“Of c-course n-not.” She rubbed her arms to warm herself, the water splashing bubbles to the surface. “I didn’t kiss Lyle because he’s an oaf and I—I hate him.”

His smile broadened and her gaze lingered on his full, chiseled mouth and the white, even teeth that contrasted with his suntanned face. He looked no more than a few years past twenty when he smiled like that.

He strode to the edge of the grassy bank and stopped, booted legs spread apart, large square hands on hips. God’s bones, he was going to wade in after her. Instead, he removed his helmet, revealing a face much younger than most of the officers who visited with her uncle. Younger and surprisingly handsome, for a Roundhead. Dark brown hair brushed his collar, a sharp contrast to the short, bowl-cut style of the officers who supped with her uncle. His straight nose and well-shaped mouth meant he could be gentle, Anne knew. She had overheard Daisy, the kitchen maid, talking about men. His thick dark brows and square chin meant he could be stubborn, if he had a mind. Aye, Daisy and the other maids would be all aflutter when they saw this turkey cock!

He peered out at the river, as though surveying the flow. “There’s a dangerous look to the current,” he said, his face serious. “There’s a mean look about those dark swirls over there.” He pointed toward the middle of the river. “An undertow if I’d have my guess.”

“Nonsense,” Anne tossed back, angry at herself for her girlish reaction to him. “I—I’ve no more time t-to talk to you,” she added. “If I lose the sunlight, I’ll n-never be able to find my trinket. I—I’ve known this r-river all my life and th-there’s no undertow.” She could tell by the way the soldier studied the current that he wouldn’t be leaving soon. “I wish you’d go on about your business, and leave me to mine.” With that, Anne peered down through the water where the sun glinted and flickered.

The officer remained on the bank, arms crossed, watching her. “You’d best come out of there, at once.”

Ignoring him, she took a deep breath and plunged into the water. This time, she moved farther from shore. Trying to judge her bearings, she looked about the murky bottom. She remembered Lyle had been standing on the granite outcrop when he tossed the locket into the river, the same place where the lieutenant now stood. Her fingers carefully threaded through the soft ooze with steady motions. A flash of a shiny object beneath the silt caused Anne’s heart to hammer. It was her locket! It had to be!

She reached out to grab it when a sudden rush of movement nearly toppled her over. A giant swell of bubbles pulled at her. She felt a tight constriction across her chest as if caught up by the relentless arm of a sea monster. The river demons had snatched her, just as her uncle had warned! God’s bones, she was being yanked into the bowels of the river, down, down, down, toward the serpents of Neptune!

No, she wasn’t! She broke the bubbly surface and gasped as she discovered it wasn’t the serpents of Neptune, but the lieutenant. The powerful arms that fixed tightly beneath her armpits held her fast. He leaned low from his saddle and swept her out of the water. She sputtered and coughed as his sturdy hands clamped her sides and dragged her across his lap, then propped her against his chest, facing him.

Anne gulped a deep breath of air and coughed again. “Wh-what are—?” she choked. She struggled against his commanding grip. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Saving your sweet neck, chit.” His arms bulged with muscle as his grip tightened about her. With a jingle of spurs, he urged the stallion toward shore. High bursts of water splashed at their sides, spraying them as they lunged forward.

The horse leapt over the bank, its mane streaming like black silk ribbons in the breeze. Anne fell back against Nat’s hard chest. Her heart skipped madly as she pulled the streaming curtain of hair from her face.

“Y-you’ve n-no right!” She drew a shaky breath. “There was no undertow. If you hadn’t...” Her words trailed off when her gaze met his dazzling brown eyes sheltered beneath thick dark brows. Luxuriant black lashes fringed eyes the color of the dark, secret places of the forest. The wind snatched a lock of unruly chestnut hair, swirling it against his sun-browned forehead. The high cheekbones and strong jaw brought power and authority to his face; the full mouth brought sensuality. His closeness sent an unbidden thrill shooting through her. She felt as skittish as a newborn lamb.

His gaze lowered boldly to her breasts and her cheeks burned with indignation. Her hands flew to her bosom in a desperate attempt to cover herself.

He flashed a rakish grin before reaching behind the saddle and throwing a horse blanket over her. When he shifted, she felt his hard thigh muscles beneath her. Her flush deepened, and she was aware that her face must appear more scarlet than the crimson scarf tied about his waist.

Gratefully Anne covered herself with the scratchy blanket. She tried to speak, but no words came. Shivering, feeling deathly cold, she wanted to jump out of his arms, like a fish, and slide back into the river.

His arms tightened about her. “Stop fighting me, mermaid. I mean no harm, although I can’t speak for all of the soldiers posted here.”

She stole another glance at him, but his visor had slipped down about his face. She stopped struggling. She knew her efforts were futile.

His buff leather coat was unlaced at the throat. He didn’t wear the gorget, or metal armor that officers wore around their neck while on duty. In its place she noticed crisp whorls of dark hair pushed up from his open collar. For an instant, she forgot her own embarrassment and flushed deeper at the strange sensations she felt at his nearness.

When they reached the small clearing on shore, he slid to the ground with her. She saw the mare toss her head, then whinny, as if in a relieved greeting.

“Is that what you went after?” he asked roughly.

“Wh-what?” Her eyes never left his.

“This?” The lieutenant squeezed her hand and she looked down into her own small fist to see her gold locket and chain.

“My locket.” Clutching it to her breasts, Anne gave a little cry. “I did grab it when you came crashing in after me.” She held on to the blanket with one hand while she slipped the locket around her neck and embraced it.

“Now that you’ve got your trinket, you’d best get dressed and return to your flock.” Nat gazed into her wide blue-green eyes. Aye, those eyes, fringed by wet, long, spiky lashes—she looked like a water nymph sprung to life.

He watched as she wrapped the blanket about herself. “Turn around while I get my clothing,” she ordered.

Nat raised an eyebrow. “Your sudden modesty is a bit late, wouldn’t you say, wench?” He saw the blush stain her cheeks—more from anger than shame, he’d wager. Nonetheless, he turned his back as she scrambled toward the outcrop where her crumpled garments lay.

Frowning, Nat crossed to a rock and sat down, ignoring the sloshing at each step he took. His boots were soaked, his wool breeches drenched, and water splotches stained his leather coat.

She marched back toward him, her hastily gathered clothing over her arm. “It’s your own fault you’re wet,” she said, her eyes sparkling with self-satisfaction. “There was no undertow, I tell you.”

“If I hadn’t come along when I did, you’d be food for the minnows, by now.”

“Nonsense!” She strode past him on her way toward a copse of willows away from shore.

He pulled off his left boot and emptied the water from it, stealing a glance at her over his shoulder. She lifted her shoulder in an arrogant gesture despite her shredded dignity, before disappearing behind a small willow to change her clothing.

Nat chuckled and crossed his legs in front of him while he considered the tempting wench who had gotten him wet. Tempting liar was more like it. Damn, but she was as much a shepherd maid as he was a lieutenant in the bloody Roundhead army!

He absently rubbed the dark stubble about his face as he remembered reading Babson’s smuggled report that mentioned George Lowell’s young ward, Anne. But nothing had prepared him for the beguiling vision of the lass in the river. The sight of those soft feminine curves had nearly undone him. And that mouth! How tempting her heart-shaped lips had looked—as sweet as a sun-warmed peach. And those eyes! Their blue-green color captivated him, changeable and turbulent like the first time he had seen the Mediterranean Sea during a tempest.

Nat pulled off his other boot and removed a sock, wringing it as dry as he could. He took a deep breath and frowned. How long had it been since he had been with a woman? If he’d had anything on his mind besides his own secret mission to meet up with the king, those bright eyes and generous mouth might be just too tempting to resist.

But when the dangers of these next few days were over, he’d have plenty of time to slake his desires with one of the lusty tavern wenches at the Pied Bull Inn. Until then, although she was a tempting lass, he’d best keep his mind on business.

Nat’s jaw tightened when he remembered the gold locket. Had that bauble she had risked her pretty neck to find been a gift from Colonel Twining? he wondered. If so, Anne would be expected to wear it this evening, no doubt, when her betrothal to the colonel would be announced. No wonder she had been in such a bother to find it.

Babson. How lucky he was to have a loyal informant in such a crucial position as valet to Colonel Twining. Although Nat would ordinarily relish any information, however trivial, about the powerful Roundhead, the fact that Anne would soon become Twining’s bride caused an unsettling feeling through him. How he’d like to taunt Twining with the fact that he’d held his betrothed’s near-naked body close against him. And a very tempting body it was, too.

His mouth twitched. Too good for the likes of Twining.

Another of the items in Babson’s report came to mind. Anne was the daughter of the Royalist, Jonathan Lowell. No doubt the wench followed her uncle’s politics, Nat decided, since she was about to marry one of Cromwell’s puppet officers. No wonder she had been so fearful of being recognized and the retelling of her actions getting back to her betrothed, Colonel Twining.

The bushes rustled again and Nat turned to see her snatch up the blanket, toss it over her shoulder and storm toward him. Her long red hair was knotted on top of her head. She wore a rumpled muslin gown that was at least two sizes too big, and by the damp marks already appearing across her bodice, it was evident she hadn’t removed her wet undergarments.

She whipped her eyes back to his. “Are you still here?”

Nat shaded his eyes from the sun as he watched her approach him. “I’m waiting to hear you say thank you to me for saving your life, mermaid.” He chuckled as he saw her shoulders stiffen and her hands ball into tiny fists in response.

He stretched his bare feet lazily in front of him and leaned back against the rock. “I’ll see you to your flock, if you wait while I put my boots back on,” he teased, knowing the last thing she wanted was for him to follow her.

When she neared, he saw the thought struggle in her blue-green eyes, just as he hoped. When she came to within a foot of him, she dropped the horse blanket over his head without breaking stride and marched toward the mare cropping grass nearby.

“I don’t need an escort to find my way.”

“You’re not very friendly, considering you owe me your life,” he shouted back, tossing the blanket to the side. “I’ve enough misery without ruining my uniform and boots trying to save the likes of an ungrateful chit.” He tried unsuccessfully not to grin as he wrung out the other sock. “Remember, if you sprint about as a water nymph again, the next man you meet may not be a gentleman.” He saw her cheeks redden and her eyes flash.

“You’re not a gentleman,” she replied. “A gentleman would have left the minute he noticed a maid in the water.” She glared with undercurrents more dangerous than those of the river. Grabbing the reins of her mare, she trudged back toward him.

Nat squinted up at her. “You’re a bale of trouble, wench.”

Anne reached out and grabbed one of the boots he had discarded, then quickly mounted her horse. Narrowing his eyes from the sun, Nat stretched out for it, but a second too late. He heard her smug laugh as he scrambled to his feet and hopped after her, but the sharp stones and rough ground slowed his pace.

Without so much as a look back she goaded the mare into a gallop toward the river.

“Bloody hell!” Nat shouted. “Don’t you dare...!”

She flung his boot into the water with all of her might. With a throaty chuckle, she whipped her horse around and faced him with a triumphant grin. “Watch out for the undertow, Lieutenant!” She wheeled her mare around and gave him a parting salute as she set off at a gallop along the hedgerow in the direction of Wycliffe Manor, her silver laughter ringing out after her.

* * *

Chickens squawked and flew in the air as Anne ran across the fowl yard toward the buttery, her black skirts flying behind her. At the garden post, she paused, her fingers toying nervously with her locket as she peered around the shrubbery before making a beeline for the servants’ stairs at the rear of the kitchen.

It had taken her less than a half hour to sneak along the hedgerow to the milking barn and change into the proper dress which she had previously stashed in the hidden space behind the boards of her mare’s stall.

Before scurrying toward the manor house, Anne stopped and looked back across the rolling autumn fields beyond. Her heart beat a little faster as she thought of the handsome lieutenant.

“Call me Nat,” he had said.

Clutching her locket, she bit her lip. But of course the lieutenant hadn’t followed her. He had believed her story and, by now, would think she had returned to her sheep. A warm blush swept over her as she remembered how his eyes darkened when he stared at her while he held her on his lap.

She had never been so near to a Roundhead, nor had she ever wanted to be. Of course, Uncle George was a Roundhead, but that wasn’t the same. The lieutenant was a...soldier. Soldiers killed other Englishmen in the name of duty—Englishmen like her father, who had a bounty of gold sovereigns on his head.

Her dear father. Had it already been a year since he had risked his life to sneak into Wycliffe Manor late one night to see her? How handsome he had looked, dressed in his royal blue velvet cloak, the cavalier-lace sprinkling like crystals from his throat and wrists. He had risked capture even then, when he crept through the priest’s hole—the hidden passageway—that led from the milk barn to the second-floor landing of the manor. She would never forget the moment when her father had promised to send for her, once Charles Stuart, God keep him, was restored and the despicable Oliver Cromwell driven into the sea.

“How much you resemble your mother,” her father had said. “You have her beauty, Anne, but you must strive for her patience and understanding.”

She had nodded, knowing her father wanted her compliance, but God’s bones, she would never learn how to be patient. Besides, she really never wanted to understand the madness of politics that branded a man like her father a traitor. Still, instead of speaking her mind, she had stoically watched him go.

A cold shudder crept down her spine despite the fact the afternoon was unseasonably warm. What was the matter with her? She had been whisper close to her father’s enemy, yet she had felt something so extraordinary it had taken her breath away.

Outside the buttery door the kitchen maid, Daisy, sat peeling apples and batting her eyelashes at several admiring soldiers. Anne gave a short huff. Apparently Uncle George or anyone of importance must not be around, or those soldiers would never dare loll away in such a manner.

She straightened her prim white collar, brushed the chaff and weed seeds from her skirts and gingerly strolled across the cobbled path toward the darkened buttery. Humming softly, she made her way, as though she hadn’t a care in the world. Without glancing at Daisy, she knew the servant would be much too involved with her own pastimes to pay her any mind.

Anne pushed open the buttery hatch. Smells of fermenting ciders and acrid pickles in brine rushed at her. She ducked around the table filled with covered crocks, cringing as she always did at the huge flies humming at the windows.

In the hall, boot steps clanked along the floorboards. Her pulse quickened as she waited, ear to the door, until the footsteps faded down the hall. Quiet. She drew a deep breath, hiked up her skirts and dashed toward the stairs. Grinning with success, she bolted up the steps, two at a time.

“Mistress Anne?” Uncle George called from the doorway of his study, down the hall. His ruddy face appeared more crimson than usual. Anne’s spirits sank like a rock. She stopped dead still, her eyes wide.

“Mistress Anne. You’re late. Come here this instant!”

Her mouth felt dry as she answered, “Yes, Uncle George.” She patted the damp tendrils of hair that threatened to spill from under her cap, straightened her creased apron and turned to meet her fate.

Chapter Two

Fear and apprehension mixed in the pit of Anne’s stomach as she strode toward her uncle, who scowled from the doorway.

Her mind scrambled for an excuse while she prepared herself for the violent tirade she knew was coming. “I’m sorry I’m late, Uncle George,” she said as she came before him.

“I’ll be interested to hear your explanation later, but I’ve something much more pressing to discuss with you.” Although his tone was amiable, the hard lines of disapproval in his face betrayed his intent.

Anne eyed him suspiciously as she swept past. No sooner had she crossed the oak-timbered threshold of the study than she understood why her uncle had put off meting out her punishment. There, in front of the crackling hearth, sat Mrs. Jane Herrick, her uncle’s goddaughter. Of course he’d never discuss his niece’s errant behavior in front of company, she thought wryly.

Her relief for the slight reprieve mingled with curiosity. Usually, when George had important guests, Anne was excused from attending. She knew he believed that her presence would remind her uncle’s friends that his older brother was an enemy of Cromwell’s Commonwealth.

“Mistress Jane, you remember my niece, Anne Lowell?”

Jane dimpled beguilingly, the black silk fan in her hand fluttering in response. “Of course, Master Lowell. How could anyone forget your charming niece?”

Charming? Anne exchanged glances with her uncle. Although his eyes were unreadable, she guessed he thought Mrs. Herrick too refined to regard the gossip that blazed across Parliamentarian hearths about his rebellious niece, abandoned by her father like an unwanted kitten, for him to raise.

Anne bobbed a curtsy and took a seat as far away from her uncle as she could. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched George gaze with adoration as Jane charmed him with small talk that Anne usually found wearisome.

Anne pushed back a defiant red gold curl from under her cap as she studied the young woman. According to George, Jane exemplified everything a young Puritan woman should be. A few years older than herself, Jane had married a physician several months ago. A pristine cap covered Jane’s silvery blond head. Her white skin with a pink rise to her cheeks contrasted becomingly with the Puritan black gown she wore. Her pale gray eyes and narrow chin spoke of an obedient nature, George had remarked more than once. For once, Anne had to agree with him. The woman was as perfect as an April crocus.

She felt like a toad by comparison. Anne nibbled her lip as she considered her attributes. Her mouth was too full to be considered comely, she knew. Her skin might be worthy except for the spill of freckles, Satan’s tiptoes, George had called them, that peppered the curve of her cheeks and upturned nose. Who could blame her uncle for being ashamed of her?

“I was commenting to your uncle,” Jane cooed, “how splendid the autumn foliage appeared this morning when we rode through the woods. The beech woods have turned a bright gold and the oaks—”

George pounded his fist on his knee. “I fail to understand how your husband thought it safe for you to ride without escort,” he blustered, ignoring Jane’s shocked surprise.

“Master Lowell!” Jane sat up with a start and touched her cheek with the tip of her fan. “I was perfectly safe. Besides my husband, our two menservants accompanied me.”

“Humph! You are to be commended for your faith, dear lady, but your husband should have had the good sense to accept my offer of a military escort. The roads are teeming with ruffians, not to mention that... that...highwayman, the Black Fox.”

“The Black Fox!” Anne’s voice held a reverence that caused her uncle to shoot her a quelling glance. She had overheard Daisy, the scullery maid, say the outlaw robbed Roundheads of their gold and gave it to the Royalists for their fight to restore King Charles to the throne.

George snorted. “Enough of your dreamy thoughts, mistress. He’s the highwayman who had the audacity to lighten the purse of Colonel Twining and his valet, Babson, only last week.”

Anne stifled a laugh behind her hand. How she wished she could have seen that. The thought of a common rogue getting the better of that arrogant Twining was exhilarating. She despised the colonel, contrary to most females, if Daisy could be believed. Anne felt her cheeks flame with outrage as she remembered how Twining had leered at her whenever he had thought her uncle wasn’t looking. But what truly irked her was that Uncle George had refused to take her complaints seriously.

Jane smiled reassuringly at Anne. “There’s no need to worry, my dear. You can be sure the Black Fox is far from Wycliffe Manor since Colonel Twining and his soldiers have arrived.”

Anne’s gaze shot to her uncle. “Colonel Twining? You didn’t tell me he’s been invited to dinner.”

A strange look passed between her uncle and Jane Herrick. Finally George cleared his throat while his gaze dropped to his lap. “Mistress Anne, I’ve something to tell you. Mrs. Herrick has kindly answered my request to coach you in the proper deportment for your appearance this evening.”

A flash of foreboding skittered up her spine. “If you’ve paired Colonel Twining as my dinner partner again, then I’d prefer to remain in my chamber and go without food for a week.”

George’s ruddy face darkened. “Don’t tempt me.” He craned his neck and rubbed his finger along the inside band of his shirt, then glanced with pleading at Jane.

Jane dimpled back at him, then turned the dazzling smile on Anne. “Your uncle only wishes that you make your finest impression on his guests this evening. I thought we’d practice some polite phrases you may wish to use during dinner, and perhaps we might subdue your hair—”

“Aye, do something with her hair.” George scowled back at Anne. “God’s teeth! She looks like the devil’s own spawn with that wild mane.” His black brows knotted together. “Look how it threatens to unfurl from her cap like Lucifer’s red banner fluttering on a windy Sabbath morn.”

Jane smiled. “When I’m finished managing your niece, she’ll be the paragon of acceptability. I assure you, sir.”

Anne curled her fingers into the tufted ends of the chair. “Uncle George, I demand to know what’s going on.”

“You’ll demand nothing!” George answered. “You’ll do what Mrs. Herrick says. For once, you’ll behave without embarrassing me when...when I announce your betrothal at dinner.”

Nothing could have prepared Anne for the shock that coursed through her. She shook her head numbly. “Betrothal? To whom?”

“Colonel Twining has offered for your hand,” her uncle continued, “and I’ve accepted for you.”

Anne gasped, unable to get her breath. She could only stare at him while she tried to take in what he was saying. Her uncle continued speaking, but her mind blocked out his words. Betrothal? She was to wed Colonel Twining?

Shock and panic mixed with betrayal. Anne sprang to her feet, her knees shaky. “Uncle George, certainly y-you can’t m-mean to wed me to that...that...”

“It’s well time you’re wed.”

Anne rushed to him and knelt at his knees, her gray skirts billowing out behind her. “Please, don’t do this. I promise I’ll never disobey you again.” She swiped at another rebellious curl. I’ll do anything—”

George stood and jerked her to her feet. “Anne, calm yourself. Your behavior is unseemly.”

Jane leaned forward in the chair, the black fan in her hand flitting like a wounded bird. “There are worse fates than to marry a handsome, wealthy man such as the colonel, my dear.”

Anne jerked free and turned to face her, aware suddenly that not only Mrs. Herrick, but everybody must have known of the betrothal except herself. She felt like a fool, as well.

“Twining is a lecher and I’ll never marry him!”

George glowered down at her. “Oh, yes, you will!” Then he turned and forced a smile at Jane. “Forgive me, my dear, but would you allow us a few minutes alone?”

“Of course, sir.” Her gray eyes slanted toward Anne, her expression sympathetic. Then she folded gracefully into a curtsy before closing the door behind her.

George’s blue eyes snapped with anger. “Your wedding will take place six weeks from tomorrow, and that’s final. Now follow Mrs. Herrick and do everything she says. For once, you’ll behave as your position dictates.”

Anne squeezed her fingers on the edge of the chair. “What would my father say if he knew you’ve betrothed me to a—”

“Hold your tongue!” George’s voice rose as his attempt at constraint dissolved before her. “I hold no loyalty to your father and you’re old enough to have loyalties of your own. You’d best appreciate a man like Colonel Twining, not a dandy like your father, a fop who’s disgraced himself and his family, flying his plumes against the Commonwealth.”

Anne returned her uncle’s fiery gaze with one of her own.

“How can you say that about your own blood?”

“A sorry fact I’d like to forget. He would rather chase romantic rainbows than be a father to you. He never wanted you or your mother. He’s never coming for you, and the sooner you understand that, the better you’ll be.”

“How dare you speak of him so!” Anne squared her shoulders and faced him down. “He’s been fighting side by side with the king at Worcester. For all you know, my father may be dead—”

“I pray to God every day that he is!”

A wash of renewed anger coursed through her. For the first time, she realized how vast was the well of rage and resentment that festered beneath her uncle’s reproach. Her eyes stung with frustrated tears, but she blinked them back. “Nothing I do will make you accept me, because I’m your brother’s daughter. You can dress me as a Puritan, threaten to bend me to your will, but I’ll always be a Royalist’s daughter. Unlike you, I’m proud to know my father is a man who had the courage and vision to stand with King Charles against the tyranny of Parliament.”

Anne picked up her skirts and whirled toward the door to find Colonel Twining, resplendent in a crimson wool uniform, blocking her way. His granite gray eyes bored into her and she knew immediately that he had heard everything.

She felt like a chick with a hawk circling overhead.

Well, so be it! Maybe if he knew of her repulsion for him, he’d break the marriage contract. The idea gave her hope.

Anne pushed past him, but Twining grabbed her arm and half dragged her back into the room.

“My dear, what has upset you?” His stare glittered with feigned expectation.

“You know very well!” Anne’s chin rose defiantly. “I’ll never marry you!” She tried to wrench from his hold, but his grip tightened on her wrist like a vise.

“I wouldn’t be so hasty, if I were you,” he replied silkily.

“Let go of me, you...you...weasel-faced lecher.”

Twining’s thin lips lifted in amusement. “I’ll overlook your passionate expression, my dear, as long as we understand each other.” He pulled her closer, his voice as final as a death knell. “By Christmas, you’ll be my bride.” She grappled against his grip. His mouth twisted in what appeared to be enjoyment. “You may take your leave, my dear, but return to the study within the hour, when I’ll escort you into the great hall for dinner.”

Anne stopped struggling. His hawklike sweep of the nose and the square jaw quivered as if he were in pursuit.

“And if I refuse?” His smoky eyes sparked as though fired by her challenge. She almost thought he hoped she’d defy him.

“You’ll obey,” he said finally. “Because I’m planning a very special wedding present for you, my dear.” His hard gaze raked over her. He was so close she could smell the tobacco and what she thought might be brandy. She was afraid if she didn’t hurry and leave she might be sick.

“I don’t want anything from you,” she managed to reply.

His black eyebrows flicked up. “Very well, if that is your wish.” His gray eyes glittered. “But I’ve already submitted a petition to Lieutenant General Cromwell to pardon your father from the charges brought forth by the Commonwealth.” She heard a stifled gasp from her uncle sitting nearby.

Twining’s face lit with amusement. “That’s right, my dear Anne. When we’re married, your father will receive a full pardon. That is, if you comply with your uncle’s wishes.”

Words failed her as she took in what he had said. The very generosity of his offer demonstrated his power. Would he truly grant his political enemy a pardon? His expression reminded her of a weasel crouched in the bushes waiting for the stray duckling. Certainly her father was too proud to take favors from the enemy—especially if he knew the cost.

His thin smile grew wider as she considered him. “And if I refuse?” she said finally.

The smile faded. “Then I’ll see you immediately shipped off to the Bay Colony where you’ll live with the Reverend and Mrs. Skylar.” He leaned his face to within an inch of hers. “And I promise you,” he whispered, his hot breath brushing her face, “you’ll never see your father again!”

She gasped, fear tightening her words. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears as her mind fought back the one thought she could never bear. For how would she endure if she were to lose the hope of seeing her father?

Anne caught the look of satisfaction on Twining’s face and realized he knew he had won. He released his grip.

She squared her shoulders before she glared back defiantly, then clutched her skirts and ran from the room.

George came beside Colonel Twining, who stared after Anne. “I’ll send for Mrs. Herrick. She’ll know what to say to her—”

“It won’t be necessary, old man.” Twining faced him, his thin brows arched with triumph. “You see, Mistress Anne is like a beautiful, high-spirited filly. Reckless, perhaps, but she has a fine head on her shoulders.” Twining flicked at an invisible fleck on his crimson sleeve.

Even the small gesture, George noted, the colonel did with a self-styled assurance. The coarse black hair styled in the bowl cut of the Roundheads gave him a striking demeanor, and did nothing to dispel the man’s aristocratic bearing. Maybe it was that haughtiness some women found attractive. For a man of forty-five, his virility was well-known. Rumor had it several married women had risked their reputations with him, and it was fact that the colonel kept several mistresses in London.

“Your niece realizes what’s at stake,” Twining said with conviction. “That proud filly will come back of her own volition.” He crooked an eyebrow. “Care to wager, old man?”

The thought of the dire consequences of denying this man anything brought a well of dyspepsia to George’s throat. “I’m not a betting man, Colonel,” he managed, his damp fingers pressing against his white collar. “But I’m certain my niece will do exactly as you foresee.”

Twining responded with a smug lift of his shoulder, then turned and strode out the door.

After he had gone, George sank back in his chair and let the relief flow through him. God’s teeth, Twining still wanted to marry his niece and he was pardoning Jonathan to boot!

For as long as he could remember, his older brother had been a bane upon his life. In one fracas after another, Jonathan’s reputation would have been ruined if their father’s influence hadn’t squelched the gossip. There had been some gossip involving Twining, now that George thought about it, but he never knew the details. God’s teeth, but what did it matter now?

And another question struck him, just as it had when the colonel first offered for Anne. Why would such a powerful man as Twining desire a hellion for a wife?

* * *

Nat crept around the corner of the manor house and paused in the shadows of the dense ivy that clung to the outer stone wall of the buttery. The last of the afternoon sun slanted across the diamond-shaped panes along the gabled front, mirroring the courtyard in its golden likeness. He glanced at his reflection in the windows, then he pulled the helmet down across his forehead, straightened the crimson sash across his chest. Finally satisfied, he stepped out upon the worn path toward the kitchen.

Ahead, the sound of spurs jingling alerted him to the two Roundhead privates before they approached from around the corner. Nat returned their hasty salutes as he marched past them.

The tantalizing aroma from a dozen meat pies cooling on the open windowsill filled the air. Nat’s mouth watered, but he brushed aside the thought that he hadn’t eaten since daybreak.

Parting the thick vines, he peeked inside the window. At least ten servants bustled about the vast room. A side of mutton sizzled noisily as it turned on the jack above the fire. Several black iron cauldrons bubbled softly.

Nat crept to the next window. In the small storage room, he saw Twining’s valet, Babson, hunched over a table, unpacking candles. Nat tapped on the leaded glass.

Babson’s snowy head shot up and his eyes widened with recognition. “Quickly,” he whispered, waving him inside. “Soldiers everywhere.”

“Don’t worry.” Nat gave the old man a crooked smile while he climbed through the window. “In this lieutenant’s uniform, I’ll fit right in.”

Babson’s worried frown melted into a wry grin, as though appreciative of Nat’s boldness.

“Do you have the maps?” Nat grabbed a shiny red apple from a wooden crate beside the table and crunched a bite.

“Aye,” Babson whispered, “an’ news, too.” He glanced over his shoulder before continuing. “The maps an’ notes are ‘ere.” He pulled the folded parchments from his green tunic.

Nat took them and rolled the papers inside his jacket.

Babson lowered his voice. “Last night, while I served brandy to Twining an’ ‘is aides, I ‘eard ‘im say that Cromwell believed the king would probably be ‘eadin’ back to France through Scotland.” Babson’s face beamed with satisfaction.

“Good they think it.” Nat took another bite out of the juicy fruit. “Anything else?”

“Aye. Twining said Cromwell ‘ad agreed to the requisition for extra troops. ‘E plans to stretch a trap to catch the Black Fox.” Babson’s eyes twinkled. “Later, I snuck back an’ copied the marked locations of the roadblocks from ‘is charts.” A smile crossed his thin lips. “‘E thinks I can’t read or write.”

“Good work, my friend.” Nat patted him on the shoulder. “It would seem the colonel hasn’t forgotten the night I lightened his purse in the name of Charlie Stuart,” he added.

Babson chuckled. “That pompous ass speaks o’ nothin’ else.”

“The added note I found in your purse, Babson, was well received. The list of the locations of their ammunition depots were clearly marked.” Nat’s expression became serious. “It’s a brave thing you’re doing, as well as a dangerous one.”

Babson beamed with pride. “I’m honored to serve our king any way I can, Nat.”

Nat nodded, feeling the familiar tug of kinship for the people who risked their lives for their king. “It’s almost time for me to leave. If you need to get in touch with me, you know how.”

“Aye, Nat, an’ God be with you.”

* * *

Nat had no sooner crept around the rear of the manor on his way to the stables than he heard footsteps pounding along the path. He darted back into the shadows and flattened himself against the shrubbery. The footsteps grew louder. Suddenly a young woman hurried past toward the rose bower nearby.

Anne Lowell! Nat frowned as he watched her dash across the leaf-strewn lawn, her gray skirts billowing behind her like a bell. Reason told him to ignore her. He had a job to do, and he didn’t believe in allowing personal feelings to get in the way of duty. Yet something he couldn’t quite explain drove him, instead, to want to follow her. It was more than the liking for clouds of coppery hair and blue-green eyes. She had gotten the best of him, and he couldn’t help admiring her for that. He glanced across the courtyard at the stables nearby. Aye, he had a few minutes before it was time to leave. Enough time, surely, to satisfy his longing to see her for one last time.

A sweet fragrance drifted from the last of the summer roses and invaded Nat’s senses as he approached the heavily entwined bower. The sound of muffled sobs came from the hidden bench; his heart went out to her, but he fought back the unreasonable response. She hadn’t heard him approach, and for a brief moment, he watched her weeping, before he spoke.

“Rather far from your flock, aren’t you, lass? Your sheep must be scattered all over the hillocks by now.”

Anne lifted her white-capped head. “You?” she gasped, straightening. Her cheeks pinked at the realization he knew by her proper dress she was obviously not a shepherd maid.

Her eyes darkened and he noticed how the dappled foliage heightened the emerald shards of light in her eyes.

Nat reached for her hand. “The lady weeps as though her heart were broken.” He brought her dainty fingers to his lips. “Agh!” He made a face. “How I hate the salty taste of tears.”

Anne jerked her hand back. “What an ungentlemanly thing to say,” she snapped, obviously forgetting her discomfiture. But when she saw his grin, she knew that he had made the joke only to take her mind off her troubles, and she rewarded him with her lovely smile.

“I’m glad that you’ve retrieved your...boot,” she said finally, the memory lightening her eyes.

“Are you?” He felt pleased to see a spark of her former spirit.

“Aye,” she answered, her fingers dabbing at her eyes. “And I’d be grateful if you said nothing to anyone of what happened this afternoon.”

He leaned over her. “Would anyone perhaps be your uncle? Your uncle,” he repeated with mock exaggeration, “Master George Lowell?”

He watched her pink blush deepen as she realized he’d known her identity all along. “Rest assured, Mistress Anne, you have my promise not to reveal our...adventure. However, to seal our bargain, little mermaid, there’s a price.”

She squinted her eyes knowingly. “You’re a gull if you think I’d allow you to take any liberties with me. I’ve heard the kitchen maids whisper of what you soldiers do to a maid who forgets to keep up her guard.”

Nat reached out and caught her by the waist with his left hand while he cupped her chin with the other. “I’m not some randy soldier...” His dark brown eyes flashed. “I’ve never had to beg a lady’s favor, and I’m not about to begin with you.”

Ignoring his boast, she jerked her chin free, then her gaze dropped to his hand at her waist. “Perhaps, but please let me go, should you decide to change your technique.”

He chuckled as he released his hand and watched her spread out her skirt becomingly on the garden bench. “You’re a tempting morsel, little mermaid,” he drawled. Brushing aside her skirts, he sat down beside her. “All I had in mind was to ask you what happened to make you cry.”

Anne gazed up at him with those incredible eyes. For a disorienting moment, he felt bewitched by their promise—huge liquid jewels fringed by dark sooty lashes. It must be the heavy scent of the roses that was weaving a spell over him, he decided.

Her delicate brows furrowed, her lips pursed as he watched her. She looked so vulnerable that, for a brief instance, a surge of wanting to protect her shot through him.

“It’s a private matter,” she said. Then, as though reconsidering, she added, “It’s... that sometimes...I—I miss my father.”

Nat remembered that Anne’s betrothal would be announced later tonight. No doubt she was torn by her desire to marry Twining and being disloyal to her father. He felt a flash of regret at her judgment, but he cast it aside. It was no business of his, he reminded himself. “Your father is Jonathan Lowell?”

“You’ve heard of him?”

He caught the flicker of wary surprise on her lovely face. “Every Roundhead knows of the fearless Colonel Jonathan Lowell,” he said in truth. “His name strikes fear into his enemies’ bones whenever the king’s men yell his name like a battle cry. With a price on his head, your father must be far away from England.” No need to worry her if she was unaware of the many Royalists who had fallen by their swords at last week’s battle at Worcester.

She shook her head. “Nay, he’ll never stop fighting until Charles Stuart returns to the throne.” Fresh tears glistened in her eyes.

“I see,” Nat said gently. “It’s natural for you to miss him.” A pang of regret washed over him again as he thought of all the separation and suffering of innocent lives since the civil war. Yet he couldn’t help thinking that if Lowell had died at Worcester, it might have been more merciful than to discover his daughter was betrothed to as cruel an enemy as Twining.

She brushed an errant copper tendril from her cheek. “When I was little, my father would listen to my childish troubles and offer his wise advice,” she said wistfully.

He remained silent, watching her. After a while, he took her small hand in his large callused palm. “Now, you’re a young woman. If your father were here, I’m certain he’d encourage you to make your own decisions.”

Anne met his eyes. Her lovely face appeared so profound it nearly took his breath away. “Aye, I think he would,” she said finally.

He considered encouraging her to go on, in fact, he would have enjoyed listening to her dulcet voice all evening, but it was time for him to leave. He knew he should offer her a simple solution: Forget her father and remember the solid future with one of the most powerful men in the Commonwealth. Besides, it would prove dangerous, if not impossible for Twining’s wife to hold overt loyalty to the king.

“When I have a weighty matter to decide and I’m not certain what to do, I find that if I...” He watched her expectation grow, and for some strange reason, he couldn’t encourage her to forget her father. Instead, he offered her what was in his own soul. “I find that if I listen to my heart the answer will always be there for me.”

“But what does that mean?”

“It means the answer is within you, along with the courage to carry it through.”

“But how?”

“You’ll know.” He stood and pulled her to her feet. Her hand felt warm and soft in his and she made no move to release it. “It’s time I must leave.”

“You’ve given me much to think about,” she whispered. “Much to think about.”

Nat smiled. “I’d escort you back to the manor, but my orders are to...to stay with my troops. They’re expecting me.”

“Of course.” Anne stood for a moment, her heart fluttering beneath her breast like a captured bird. What a strange man! This handsome lieutenant was her enemy, her father’s enemy, yet he had spoken of her father with respect, without judgment. She might never see this lieutenant again, but she’d always be grateful to him for that.

Impulsively she stood on tiptoe, only thinking to brush her lips to his. But the moment their lips touched, a jolt slammed through her and his mouth seized hers with an urgency that caused her heart to thunder. She went still with shock as a strange sensation poured through her.

His mouth felt firm and warm. Her heartbeat quickened when his lips moved over hers, deepening their kiss.

She drank in the smell of him. It reminded her of a cedar forest filled with sunshine. Her arms rose timidly around his neck, her fingers lacing the dark hair at his nape.

She felt her cap loosen and her hair cascade down her back. His hands roved up and down her spine, his fingers tightening the rebellious curls. She felt her breasts yield against his hard chest and her body trembled with delightful sensations she had never experienced before. She should beg him to let her go, but she didn’t want to move. She wanted to remain like this, forever.

Her hands timidly explored his face. She heard him moan softly when her fingers lingered on the scar along his cheek. His breath shuddered as he lifted his mouth to kiss a line across her cheek, down toward her neck.

“I’ve wanted to taste those lips ever since I saw you at the river, little mermaid.”

Her head buzzed with a light-headed feeling. Then suddenly, he released her. “And now, I’ll always know your taste of honey, warmed with sunshine.” His dark eyes glinted with something she didn’t understand. “But if I don’t leave immediately...”

Anne’s swirling senses returned and she felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She lowered her lashes at his warm stare. Her fingers shook as she brushed her collar, straightened her skirts and snatched her cap from the bench.

A song thrush flew to an overhead vine. The throaty warble was answered by its mate nearby.

Nat reached up and plucked a rose from the bower and placed it in her cupped palm. “Farewell, little mermaid.”

She clutched the rose and, with bittersweet longing, watched him disappear into the shadows and out of her life.

She sat back on the bench, not trusting her shaky legs to support her if she were to stand. Besides, for a few more minutes, she needed to gather her wits.

Never had she imagined a kiss could be so thrilling. She smiled, drinking in the fragrance of the roses as she trailed the blossom along the path of his kisses, across her cheek, down to the soft hollow of her throat, and her heart skipped a beat.

But never had she been so bewildered by her conflicting emotions. He was a soldier of Cromwell’s New Model army. What would her father say if he knew? God’s bones, it would kill him, as readily as if she fired the shot herself.

But she must be honest with herself. She had wanted to touch his sun-bronzed face, feel the shine of his tousled hair, the sinewy, corded muscles of his arms. She had wanted the enemy officer to kiss her.

Even though he was the enemy, Nat had helped her work through a difficult decision, without even knowing it. Without his gentle coaxing, she might have made a fatal mistake.

The acknowledgment gave her the jolt back she needed. Aye, she had made the decision. The answer had been in her heart all along, just as the lieutenant had said. How could she have forgotten that her proud father would never want her to bargain for his life? “Twining be damned!” he would have shouted.

For the next few minutes, she clutched the rose while she planned her escape from Wycliffe Manor, the first step in her journey to find her father.

And her only regret was she’d not be there to see Twining’s pompous expression fade to surprise when he discovered she would refuse him, after all.

Chapter Three

By the time Anne returned to her chamber, she had decided how to put her plan into motion.

She smiled as she carefully pressed the pink rose in between the pages of her favorite romance novel. Her fingers lingered over the faded book cover for a moment before tucking it inside her bulging traveling valise.

“If you listen to your heart, the answer will follow,” Nat had said. It was true. Her father would want her to follow her heart and search for him. To remain at Wycliffe Manor and cave in to Twining’s threat was the coward’s way out.

Her fingers shook with excitement as she tied the straps on the valise and lifted it from the bed. She would hide upstairs in one of the vacant bedchambers until dinner, then she’d sneak through the back stairs to the barn where her mare waited.

But first, she had to slip the note she had written to Mrs. Herrick under her door. Once Jane read that Anne had developed a megrim and had taken to her bed, even the callous Colonel Twining would realize his odious threats had made her ill. At dawn, when the maids would discover her missing, she’d be far away, searching for the king’s scattered army and news of her father.

Surely someone would have heard of Jonathan Lowell. Then once she found him, they would sail for France with the other exiled Royalists until Cromwell’s armies were driven into the sea and they could return to England. Hope surged through her.

A few minutes later, Anne arrived at the back stairs landing. She peeked down the passageway. No one was in sight. She tiptoed along the creaking floorboards toward Mrs. Herrick’s room, the third doorway on the left. As she knelt to slip the note beneath the portal, she heard a hushed voice coming from inside the chamber.

“...searching the roads for her,” Jane whispered. “Hurry, we must leave.”

“Curse the luck,” a male voice growled. “What if we’re found before your husband gathers the horses?”

Anne stared, dumbfounded. What was Jane Herrick doing with a man in her chamber who was not her husband?

Anne pressed her ear closer to the door.

“...might prove too dangerous to warn him,” the man continued in a low whisper. “Maybe Wilkens and I should...”

Unable to hear every word, Anne shifted against the wood. The board beneath her foot creaked loudly. She froze.

In a flash, the door flew open. A bald, barrel-chested man in a green uniform frowned back at her, then he grabbed her arm and pulled her inside the room.

Jane Herrick leapt from a corner chair and stared in astonishment, her face pale.

A young manservant, not much older than Anne, sat cross-legged upon the bed. “Who’s this pretty thing?” His hooded black eyes twinkled as his gaze raked her up and down.

“She’s Anne Lowell, the young woman I told you about.” Jane folded her arms across herself and scowled at Anne. “How long have you been eavesdropping outside my door?”

“I—I wasn’t eavesdropping.”

“Sweeting, tell the truth and no one will harm you,” offered the impertinent manservant, his black eyes glinting.

Anne felt herself redden at his insolent manner. A servant speaking to her like he was...an equal! She shot him a haughty look and directed her attention to Jane Herrick. “I came to your chamber to slip a note under the door.”

The bald-headed man picked up the folded parchment from the floor and waved it in front of her. “This note?”

“Yes.”

Anne reached for it but he handed it to Jane, who began to read it. After a moment, she glanced up.

“I can explain, Mrs. Herrick. I had only wished that you inform my uncle that I have a megrim and—”

“We can’t take the chance that she might ‘ave ‘eard somethin’,” interrupted the bald man.

She gave Anne a long deliberate stare. “If we let her go, she might try to haggle a bargain from Twining to let her out of the betrothal in exchange for what she’s overheard,” Jane said finally, pursing her lips together. She crumpled the parchment into a ball and tossed it into the roaring fireplace.

The black-eyed servant folded his arms. “She offers us no choice. The lass will come with us.”

Anne’s small fists flew to her hips as she regarded Jane Herrick and the two men. “Will you please stop speaking as though I’m not in the room? Go where?”

Jane crossed to the bed and sat down. “Very well, Anne, but first, there’s something I must ask you.” She motioned for Anne to sit beside her.

Without a choice, Anne obeyed.

Jane put her hand to Anne’s shoulder. “Is it true that you’re devoted to your father’s cause?”

A charge of excitement coursed through her. “Have you heard something of my father?”

“Shh! Lower your voice.” Jane’s gray eyes narrowed. “Your father has risked his life for his beliefs, as many of us have.”

Anne swallowed and tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Could it be that a Puritan like Jane Herrick could hold sympathy for the Royalist cause? Her father had often told her of the secret followers of the king: farmers, weavers, hoopers, you never knew who might be among them. Hope welled inside her. “Mrs. Herrick, do you support our exiled king?”

Jane’s only answer was her smile. “For now, you’ll have to trust me. Can you do that, Anne?”

Anne nodded eagerly.

“And do you believe in your father’s crusade to restore a Stuart to the throne? Or do you merely flaunt his quest to rankle your uncle?”

“I’m devoted to my father’s cause.”

“Would you fight for those beliefs?”

“With all my heart,” Anne answered. “I’d give my life for the young king. My heart breaks when I think of how he’s forced to live in exile while that hateful Cromwell grips England by the throat.”

Jane smiled. “You’ll have your chance to prove it, my dear. You’re going to help us save our king.”

“The—the king?”

Jane swung her around to face the scraggly looking servant who sat in the middle of the bed, grinning at her. “Anne, it is my pleasure to present His Royal Highness, Charles Stuart.”

Anne’s mouth dropped as she stared at the servant. Her glance swept over the tattered leathern doublet, the coarsely woven shirt, the cloth breeches above the travel-stained stockings. “Charles Stuart?” she cried with disbelief when her gaze lifted to his swarthy face.

His black eyes twinkled with obvious amusement at her disbelief. “My fair and lovely subject.” He reached for her hand and kissed it.

Anne snapped back and wiped her hand on her skirt. “Anne!” Jane gasped, horrified. “By divine Providence, this is our king! The sovereign every true subject serves.”

Anne stared in shock while Jane pushed her into a curtsy.

“It’s quite understandable, Mrs. Herrick.” The king stood and touched Anne’s chin with his fingers. “It’s best she behaves as though I’m a servant. In fact, our very lives might depend on it.” The hooded eyes glinted. “But what is to become of her once we reach Bristol?” The gleam in his eye reminded Anne of a ferret.

“I’m more concerned that we reach Bristol,” Jane said.

The king’s black gaze lingered reflectively on Anne. “She might make a lovely addition to the French court,” he said. “What would you think of that, sweeting?”

Anne tried to comprehend that this unkempt servant was the one man she had always fancied would restore everything right in her world once he regained the throne.

“My cousin, King Louis, and his court would certainly be enlivened by your sparkle...and so would I,” the king added.

“Your grace,” interrupted Jane. “May I remind you that each moment we dally endangers your safety.”

“Right you are, my dear. But please, remember to call me Will Jackson.” His swarthy face became serious. “It might save our lives if another curious ear be pressed to the door.”

Jane’s face flushed. “Of course...Mr. Jackson.”

“But you don’t understand. I—I can’t go to Bristol,” Anne said. “I’m running away to find my father.”

Jane turned slowly and drew a deep breath before she spoke. “Either way, you must leave Wycliffe Manor. The woods will be teeming with soldiers once they discover you’re gone. With us, you’ll have a greater chance to succeed than by yourself.”

“How will you explain your disappearance, Mrs. Herrick?” Anne asked. “Won’t my uncle wonder why you’re not at dinner, too?”

Jane smiled. “We’ve already thought of that, my dear. My husband will deliver an urgent message to your uncle very soon, calling me to my mother’s sickbed.” Her smile broadened. “Don’t look so puzzled, Anne. My mother, who’s in very fine health, wrote the note long before we left for Wycliffe Manor.”

The bald servant named Wilkens glared at her. “Besides, you ‘ave no choice. You’re leavin’ with us, tied and gagged like a goose, if need be.”

Anne bit back any further argument. She had no choice but to obey, and as sure as the sun rises, she’d be better off with them than to remain.

Wilkens gave her a sharp look before he hoisted the saddlebags and carried them to the door.

“If I’m a servant, then that’s my chore, Wilkens,” said the king. He swung the bag over his shoulder.

Jane lit two tapers from the burning candle on the table. “Take the back stairs and go behind the barn where my husband waits with the horses. Remember the story we’ve agreed upon if you’re stopped. Anne and I will follow in a few minutes.”

Both men nodded. Jane pressed her ear to the door before opening it, then peeked quickly into the passageway. “Godspeed,” she said, giving each man a candle as he slipped out the door.

After the men left, Jane reached under the bed and pulled out a small bundle of clothing. Within minutes, she had selected a pile of assorted garments and tossed them to Anne. “Slip these on, and hurry,” she instructed.

“But I’ve already packed a valise of my things. It’s in my room. I’ll get it,” Anne offered.

Jane shook her head. “There’s no time. Besides, it’s safer if you’re dressed as a man.” She helped Anne pull an enormous muslin shirt over her gown.

Anne’s fingers shook with excitement as she removed her unyielding underskirts before stepping into a pair of men’s linen breeches that hung to above her ankles. The breeches were so baggy she could only hope the sash tied about her waist would hold them up. Next came the stiff leather jerkin. Finally, the disguise was completed with a red cap pulled down over her ears.

Jane frowned. “I’m afraid it will have to do.”

After Jane tossed a black woolen traveling coat around her shoulders, she glanced about the chamber. “Put this on,” she said, tossing the woolen blanket from the bed to Anne.

Anne wrapped the scratchy blanket about herself and followed Jane to the door. The latch creaked open, and she felt a rush of air as Jane nudged her into the hall. Her heart was in her throat while Jane led her toward the back stairs, their heels clacking along the creaking wooden planks.

In what seemed like the longest ten minutes of Anne’s life, she and Jane arrived without incident at the outside entrance of the manor. The evening air hung heavy with the familiar animal odors drifting from the milking barn nearby.

A few minutes later, after they had crept around the back of the barn, Jane paused, her eyes searching the fields beyond the pasture. “There!” she whispered, pointing to a grove of willows beside the hedgerow path. Jane took Anne’s elbow and hurried her along. Only when they reached the hedges did Anne see the three riders hidden in the shadows—the king, Wilkens and another man whom Anne assumed was Jane’s husband, Dr. Herrick.

Clasping the blanket with her right hand, Anne yanked up the baggy pants with the other and ran the final few yards toward the waiting horsemen, her heart thumping wildly.

* * *

The full moon cast silvered light about the countryside as Anne and the riders charged along the high road that led from Wycliffe Manor toward the town of Bristol. Anne sensed that Jane had chosen the longer route rather than the shorter middle road because of the soldiers’ camps fortified along the more widely used route. The horses’ hooves splashed through mud puddles from yesterday’s rain, tossing up mud clods along the way.

Dr. Herrick rode as scout and had a five minutes lead of the group. Anne rode double, behind the bald-headed servant, Wilkens. For what she thought might be an hour, she jolted back and forth, bouncing against the pillion that fastened behind the saddle. Wilkens lashed the reins in a futile attempt to keep up with the powerful bay stallion racing ahead, carrying Jane Herrick and the king.

As Wilkens spurred the horse faster, Anne held on with a ferocity that matched his and fought back the thought she might catapult off her seat and be left in the road. Good riddance, Wilkens would think and not even glance back.

Anne peered above his shoulder at the dark uncertainty of the road ahead and she felt torn between fear and exhilaration. She’d always known that someday she would leave Wycliffe Manor. It was one of her favorite daydreams to imagine her father’s magnificent high-lacquered coach clattering up the driveway. Six white horses would prance impatiently while the footman helped her into the coach where her father waited. Together, they would bound away toward their new life, far from the strictures of Wycliffe Manor.

Instead, she was holding on for dear life, plunging headlong into the unknown. What if soldiers stopped them and forced her to return to her uncle? Colonel Twining would make certain she was punished and she knew she’d lose her father.

But if Jane Herrick was to be believed, each pounding hoofbeat brought her one step closer to her heartfelt dream. How she wanted to believe it, but her thoughts twisted in misgivings. Mrs. Jane Herrick, the fine Puritan woman Uncle George idolized, was nothing like he had imagined. Although the fact pleased her, it also provided a very dubious structure on which to build her hopes, Anne mused.

Suddenly a golden halo of light appeared up the road. Wilkens reined back on his horse and trotted alongside Jane and the king. Uneasily they waited for the lone rider to arrive.

“It’s Dr. Herrick,” cried Wilkens. Anne drew a sigh of relief as she peered out into the soft glow of the lantern the doctor held above his face.

“Roundheads,” he warned, drawing rein. “A full squad riding off the middle road and they’re coming straight on us!”

“We can’t hide the horses,” Jane said, twisting around in the saddle. “The trees aren’t thick enough along this stretch.”

“Aye,” the king agreed. “It’s too late for that.” He pulled his wide-brimmed hat low over his face. “We’ll talk our way out of this.” Anne thought she heard him chuckle. “If our tongues fail us, we’ll give them a taste of our metal.”

Anne spied a small group of bushes a few rods from the road. “No, wait!” Anne cried. Four surprised faces turned her way. “If soldiers are riding from the middle road, they’ve been sent by my uncle. They’re searching for me.”

“She’s right.” Wilkens interrupted, shifting uneasily in the saddle. “The middle road cuts north through Wycliffe Manor.”

“I’ll hide in that copse over there.” She started to slide down from the pillion.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Wilkens reached out and caught her wrist. “We’re on to yer tricks. You’ll run out when the soldiers git ‘ere and tell ‘em ‘bout the king.”

“Release her, Wilkens,” Jane ordered. “I’m sure Anne realizes if the soldiers take her back to her uncle, she’ll never see her father again.”

Wilkens grumbled but withdrew his hold.

Jane rode her horse beside Anne. “My dear, I give you my word, if you remain hidden and do nothing to give yourself away, I’ll help you find your father. I have powerful friends who know the whereabouts of wounded and captured Royalists.” Beneath Jane’s black hood, Anne saw her wide eyes glitter with trust and assurance.

Anne desperately wanted to believe. “You can trust me, Mrs. Herrick.”

Jane smiled. “I know I can, my dear. Remember, whatever happens, stay hidden in the bushes.” She paused and her expression grew serious. “Don’t be frightened, just think of your father.”

Anne forced a brave smile, then hiked up the loose trousers and scooted across the deep rutted road. She tripped, but righted herself before splashing into a muddy puddle. When she finally reached the tall bramble of wild plums, she crawled inside the cover of low branches. A limb poked her head, pushing her woolen knit cap off. She grabbed the hat and stuffed her thick, unbound curls beneath the coarse band.

The sound of cantering hooves grew louder and six Roundhead soldiers, riding single file, came into view. Their armor clanked noisily as they approached.

A cool breeze lifted the loose tendrils of Anne’s hair, and she shivered. Parting the branches, she held her breath and peered through the quivering leaves.

The first soldier trotted his horse beside Dr. Herrick’s mount and raised the lantern. Before he had a chance to speak, Jane’s dulcet voice carried on the night air.

“My prayers have been answered.” She fluttered her hands and smiled becomingly at the soldier. “When we heard horses, we feared you were that highwayman my godfather, Master Lowell, warned us about.”

Anne watched the soldier as he sat a little straighter on his mount. “I’m Sergeant Stone, at yer service, milady.” He touched his helmet in the customary salute. “‘Ave no fear of the Black Fox and ‘is kind. ‘E won’t dare come near these shires, milady.” He chuckled to his men. “Not with Colonel Twining’s troopers garrisoned nearby at Wycliffe Manor. Aye, men?”

The soldiers cheered in unison. They were as pompous as their leader, Anne thought.

“George Lowell’s niece is missin’. My orders are to bring all riders in the area back to the manor for questionin’.” The stocky soldier held the lantern higher. “May I see yer travelin’ passes?”

Anne’s heart raced as she watched in trepidation while Dr. Herrick rode forward and handed the soldier the folded parchments. The trooper eyed him a moment, then examined the passes before returning them. “What brings ye to travel these roads so late, Doctor?”

“My wife’s mother has been taken ill. We’re on our way to be with her at her estate, Rosemoor.”

Jane’s face brightened in the sputtering light. “We’ve just come from Wycliffe Manor. I was visiting with my godfather.” She pulled out several folded documents from her saddlebag and handed them to the sergeant. “These passes are for our servants.”

The soldier inspected the parchments carefully before returning them.

“We’re free to move on?” Doc asked hopefully.

“Aye. Yer free to go as soon as ye return with me to Wycliffe Manor for Colonel Twining’s interrogation,” he answered firmly. He waved his troops forward into escort position.

“But, Sergeant!” Jane fluttered a handkerchief in a demure gesture. “I—I’d never ask a soldier of Oliver Cromwell’s to betray his duty...” Her voice trailed off while she batted her eyelids. “B-but my late father, a member of Parliament, was a close friend of Oliver Cromwell. Why, Uncle Oliver, as he insisted I call him, bounced me on his knee when I was a child.” She laughed lightly, pausing, as though waiting for the effect of her words to settle.

In the lantern light, Anne saw the soldier’s brow furrow in thought. Anne watched in amazement. How can Jane be so serene and collected when her own heart thundered?

Jane brushed a gloved hand along the soldier’s forearm. “I’m sure Colonel Twining would understand if you could see beyond the usual enforcement of your office and oblige my sick mother this one small request.” Her voice faltered and she lowered her gaze. “You see, if my husband and I don’t hasten to her sickbed, she may...” Her voice faded as she bowed her head dramatically.

The sergeant scratched his neck, then turned toward the other troopers, as though hoping for an answer to his dilemma.

Anne watched, her apprehension growing by the minute. Unconsciously her fingers tightened into knots.

Finally, the sergeant’s gaze fixed back to Jane. “Mrs. ‘errick, under the circumstances, I’m certain Lieutenant General Cromwell, ‘isself, would insist ye speed to yer mum’s bedside without delay.”

Anne saw Jane’s shoulders relax and heard Jane’s audible sigh. “You’re a credit to your country, Sergeant Stone. When next I see Uncle Oliver, I’ll remember your kindness to him.”

“Thank ye, Mrs. ‘errick,” he said, touching his helmet. “It’ll be me pleasure to escort ye to Rosemoor, meself.”

“But—” Jane’s eyes widened in the lantern’s brightness. “That’s—that’s not necessary. We don’t—”

“Aye, I’m sure Lieutenant General Cromwell would insist.” Sergeant Stone turned to his men. “Attention!” he shouted. His spurs jingled as his horse bolted forward. “Flank position!”

Anne froze in terror. They were leaving without her! She’d be left out here for days before anyone would find her! She stood on tiptoe and folded the blanket about the leather jerkin. Shivering, her heart sank while she watched Jane and the others turn to leave.

Suddenly Anne heard a pounding of hooves and a loud rush as another group of horsemen thundered across the fields from out of nowhere.

The soldiers fell silent, listening.

Through the trembling leaves, Anne counted at least a dozen horsemen charging from the darkness toward the astonished huddle on the road. Moonlight glinted off their poised swords as the hooves sliced the turf all around them.

“The Black Fox,” announced the soldiers, and Anne heard the fear in their cries. Sergeant Stone and his troopers drew their blades and waited.

From out of the night rode the most fearsome horseman Anne had ever seen. Her hands flew to her face and she gasped. Surrounded by masked men in Cavalier dress, he loomed larger than life.

A thrill coursed through her. It was the Black Fox, and he had come to rescue them!

He was dressed in black, from the wide-brimmed Cavalier hat with full black plumes cocked at a rakish angle, to the gleaming leather boots. Although his face was fully concealed by a silken mask, she knew he was the most handsome highwayman of all. A long cape billowed from his broad shoulders as he sat atop the majestic black horse draped in black skirts. The brace of pistols he held glinted in the moonlight. The steed reared back as the man’s rich laughter rent the night.

“What have we here?” he yelled back to his men. “A party of wealthy Pilgrims escorted by ol’ Noll’s men?” He spurred the charger to circle the group. “You must be carrying valuables, my good woman,” he addressed Jane.

Sergeant Stone’s back flexed, his sword drawn. “A pistol against a sword isn’t honorable, rogue.”

“How very perceptive of you, Sergeant,” mocked the Black Fox. “My compliments to your mum for raising a bright lad!” A titter of laughter rang around the group and Sergeant Stone swore under his breath.

“Be a good fellow and drop your weapon, if you value your life,” the Black Fox warned. “Besides, you’ll need both hands to dig into your pockets and hand over your coin for the king’s cause.”

The sergeant swore again, then tossed his sword to the ground, his men following his lead.

“Now, dismount and stand over there,” the Black Fox ordered, motioning with the barrel of his pistol. Grumbling, the Roundheads formed a line, hands raised, while the highwaymen dismounted and emptied the pockets of the soldiers.

Anne’s eyes widened when the Black Fox slid from his mount and strode beside Jane, Dr. Herrick, the king and Wilkens.

“We have no money,” cried Jane. “Please, let us be.” Her hand flew instinctively to the brooch at her throat.

Anne watched Dr. Herrick, who appeared as cold as a steel trap. His hand went to his hilt, but the Black Fox saw the motion, took his weapon and ordered his Cavaliers to search the Pilgrims.

Shocked, Anne watched as a burly highwayman removed a small dagger from the king’s vest pocket and tucked it inside his own belt. Anne was outraged. This was nothing like she had imagined. Didn’t the Black Fox realize that Jane and Dr. Herrick were loyal to the Royalists’ cause? How dare he take their valuables and arms?

“Your gold and jewels, fair lady,” ordered the Black Fox. “Be quick or I may take more.” His demonic laugh gave weight to his threat. Laughter from the other men made Anne wonder what sort of loyalty these men really served.

“Please, this brooch was my grandmother’s,” Jane pleaded, unfastening the glittering pin from her collar. “It’s of little value except to me.”

The Black Fox caught it in his hand and examined it before he passed it to his men. “But, dear lady, one of my women might take a fancy to it.” He swept her an exaggerated bow and thanked her before turning to Dr. Herrick.

“Your purse or your life,” he demanded.

The doctor scowled defiantly while he threw several coins to the ground. “I’m only a poor servant of the Lord, but take this, too, you despicable lout.” Doc spit on the ground.

Anne froze in fear. This was the first sign of anyone disobeying the Black Fox.

With his hand on his sword, the Black Fox threw back his shoulders and strode purposely toward the doctor. “You’ve got starch, Pilgrim.” He glanced back to his men while they shouted encouragements. After a moment, he faced Doc Herrick. “We’re all poor servants, my good man. Only you and I serve different masters.” The Black Fox reached inside the doctor’s vest pocket and yanked off the gold watch and chain. “This will aid my cause quite nicely.” Several of the masked men cheered when he tossed it to them.

“You black-hearted devil!” Dr. Herrick balled his fists at his side.

“That I am.” The Fox swung around and from under his mask came a low chuckle. “As black hearted as you’ll ever meet.”

Anne stood horrified. This wasn’t how she’d imagined the Black Fox. She was startled to see her hand shaking as she spread the leaves to afford a better view. Could her uncle have been right? Could the Black Fox be a cutthroat who robbed in the name of the king, yet held no loyalty to anyone but himself?

The Black Fox strode beside Wilkens and the king. They turned their pockets inside out in proof that they had nothing of value while Jane explained that they were only servants who didn’t hold coin.

“Even the poor must give to Charlie Stuart’s cause.” He stroked his chin in feigned thought. “Take off your boots, lads. Your wealthy mistress will buy you another pair.”

The king appeared dumbfounded, but quickly followed Wilkens’ lead and removed his boots, tossing them to the amused men.

One of the highwaymen held up a fat bag of gold coins. “‘Ere’s what we gathered from the soldiers.”

The Black Fox grabbed the bulging purse and peered inside. “It’s not enough, I’m afraid.” He tightened the cord on the bag and tucked it into his saddlebags. “Not nearly enough.”

The highwayman shouted to several of his men. “Take the Roundheads down the road a modest piece from the eyes of the lady.” He tossed his head in Jane’s direction. “Then bring me back their britches.” The robbers jeered as all but two of them flanked the Roundheads and prodded them down the road.

Although appalled by his antics, Anne watched the rogue with fascination. When the soldiers were out of sight, the Black Fox grabbed the reins of Sergeant Stone’s sprig-tailed bay and brought it alongside the king. “Mount and follow me,” she heard him say.

The king climbed atop the horse but cast a nervous glance toward Anne in the thicket.

The Black Fox called to the burly masked man beside him. “Tom, see them safely on their way,” he ordered, motioning to Jane, Doc and Wilkens. “Hurry and be off with you.”

Jane and her husband glanced nervously in Anne’s direction then back at each other.

Anne’s throat constricted in fear. She was going to be left! If the soldiers returned, they would find her and take her back to her uncle, or if the Black Fox found her... A shudder curled down her spine. Nay, she wouldn’t think of that.

Doc Herrick assisted his wife in the saddle, then mounted his seat quickly. Jane wheeled her horse around. “There’s another in our party...over there.” She pointed in Anne’s direction.

The Black Fox whirled around, his cape billowing in the wind. His hand flew to his hilt. Anne heard him ask, “Is he armed?” Before Jane could reply, the Black Fox drew his sword and swaggered over to where Anne hid in the bushes. She hunched deeper into the thicket. Her heart stopped as he drew near.

The highwayman circled the copse. Trapped, Anne crouched lower. Suddenly the branches above her head sliced apart and the masked face of the devil loomed over her.

Chapter Four

“Bloody hell. It’s a tad.”

A scream caught in Anne’s throat. “I—I have no coin,” she managed in a tiny voice.

His deep baritone laughter broke the tension. “What have we here?” He lifted her by the waist and pulled her from the brambles like a hare caught in a lair. She gripped both hands on her breeches, her blanket left behind, snagged on a limb. “Men, see what I’ve found in the briar patch.”

The men’s bellowed laughter infuriated her almost as much as this big peacock who enjoyed making sport of his victims. When he put her down on the road, she stumbled back, painfully aware of the comical sight she presented. She yanked up her breeches, then her stockings pooled down around her ankles.

The Black Fox held up a gloved hand to silence the laughter. “You must give something to the cause, lad.”

“I told you I have no coin,” she spat.

He tossed back the flap of his cape over his shoulder and studied her. “Then, I’ll have to take something.” He strutted about in obvious enjoyment while his men shouted encouragements. “I think I’ll take this handsome hat of yours—”

“No!” Anne’s hands flew from her breeches to her cap a second too late. He yanked off the hat and she heard a low gasp escape from under his silken mask when her long red gold hair tumbled around her. She shoved her hair from her face and glared up at him. “You son of Satan!” Anne yelled. Careful not to trip on the baggy stockings at her feet, she marched toward him, her fists gripping her breeches for dear life. “You want something else from me, eh?” Anne trudged to within a foot of him. “Take this!” She kicked the Black Fox squarely in the leg with the heel of her boot, just above where his wide cuff pulled down, to aim a square shot on his exposed shin.

“You vixen!” The Black Fox yelled in pain. His men hooted in merriment. He glared over his shoulder at his men, then down at her. She couldn’t read his expression under the full black mask, but she heard his heavy breathing, like a charged bull, while his gloved fists knotted at his hips.

She faced him squarely, her chin clenched, her fists balled in perfect replica at her side. But she found it impossible to hide the triumphant smile that started to spread across her lips.

“Tom, tell the men to give the Roundhead soldiers back their britches so they can escort this hellcat back to where she lives. It must be past her bedtime.”

“No, wait!” Jane called out. She urged her horse beside him, then leaned to whisper in his ear. No doubt Jane was informing him that Anne knew the real identity of Will Jackson, and she couldn’t be trusted to be returned to her uncle. When Jane finished, the Black Fox jerked his head back to study her. When she heard his deep sigh, she knew she had guessed correctly.

Dr. Herrick and the king formed a small circle around them. “Well, what shall we do with you?” the rogue asked, the glittering eyes behind the mask fixed on her.

“I’m going with the Herricks,” Anne whispered, careful to keep her voice within the small group. “Mrs. Herrick promised to help me find my father.”

“You can’t. If more soldiers stop them, how will you explain why you’re traveling with the Herricks? Besides, I doubt if you have a traveling pass.”

“I have an idea,” the king offered. “She’ll come with the Black Fox and me.”

Anne’s gaze flicked toward him in surprise. So the Black Fox had known the unlikely servant was Charles Stuart, after all.

“Nay. She’ll slow us down,” the Black Fox said. “Besides, by dawn, every Roundhead will be searching for her.”

“Then there’s no choice.” Jane’s face was serious. “She’ll ride with Doc and me. We can’t have the king endangered.”

“If the soldiers find her, she’ll endanger us all,” Wilkens warned, scowling. “We can’t trust her to keep our secret.”

“We can’t argue here on the road all night,” the Black Fox said. “For tonight, the king will ride with Jane and Doc.” He waved to a stockily built masked man. “Tom, guide them to the inn. Keep a close eye on them until morning, then I’ll catch up with you and escort the king to the next safe house.”

“What about me?” Anne stammered, her mouth dry as powder.

“You’re coming with me.” His voice held such a chill Anne was glad she couldn’t see his evil face.

“Then it’s settled,” the king replied. He leaned toward Anne, his voice silky. “It’s been my pleasure, sweeting.” He blew her a kiss. “If you ever decide to come to France...” In the moonlight, his eyes were as black as stolen coal.

Anne pulled back a wisp of hair from her face and stared at the man who claimed to be Charles Stuart. Out of a confused sense of loyalty, she bobbed him a quick curtsy, just in case, she told herself. He responded with a crooked grin.

“Make haste,” the Black Fox ordered the others. “I’ll send word along the usual route,” he added.

Jane waved to her, then gave that same dazzling smile she had bestowed upon Sergeant Stone. A sinking feeling washed over Anne as Jane, Dr. Herrick, the king and Wilkens galloped away with the masked outlaw named Tom in the direction of Bristol.

The Black Fox clamped his arm about her waist and carried her to his horse.

“I can walk.” She squirmed beneath his grip. “Put me down!”

He mounted the huge animal with one easy stride and pulled Anne up onto his lap. She writhed beneath his grip, but the more she wriggled the tighter she felt his arm constrict around her. She tried to kick and beat her fists against his chest, but he caught her wrists in such a way as to leave her helpless.

“Throw me a blindfold,” he ordered the last man. “I’ll not risk a poor Royalist’s loyalty for this she-cat’s loose tongue.” Aware that there was nothing she could do, Anne quit fighting.

The tall robber reached up and handed the Black Fox a silk scarf. The Black Fox grabbed it. “Cover your eyes with this,” he ordered. Anne pursed out her lips and took the blindfold. With an indignant huff, she did as she was told.

“That’s more like it.” She felt his warm hands pull her closer. “Be still, or I’ll stuff a gag in your mouth.”

“I’ll meet up the others tomorrow,” he said to the robber. His commanding voice pierced the darkness. “Scatter the Roundheads’ horses, then hide the soldiers’ breeches in the woods.” Blindfolded, Anne could hear the amusement in his voice.

The other man muttered a reply, then she heard the clink of spurs, and felt the horse’s thrust throw her against the outlaw’s chest as the animal beneath them broke into a gallop.

Behind her ear, she heard his heart pound, filling her with a strange sensation. The wind whipped her hair as the thundering hooves beneath them beat to an even rhythm. Wind tore at her face and she shivered. He must have felt her tremble, because he pulled his cape around her. When he did, she felt the heat from inside his cloak envelope her. Her heartbeat quickened. The smell of the soft wool reminded her of apples, and it triggered a familiar memory—one she couldn’t quite put her mind to.

The wind whirled in Anne’s hair while they flew through the rough fields. It was nothing like the jostling ride behind Wilkens when they rode blindly away from Wycliffe Manor. She could feel the power and strength of the man who held her, and the mighty animal beneath them.

She swallowed hard, fighting to keep her wits amid her fear. What if this outlaw murdered her, leaving her body in the deep forest, never to be found? Her insides twisted at the thought. Well, she’d fight him to her death, using the courage she knew she had. Hadn’t the lieutenant named Nat meant that very thing when he spoke of the courage to follow her heart?

Well, she had the courage, and somehow she’d find her father. But first, she’d have to escape the fiend who held her.

* * *

For the next hour, Nat rode like the wind over the moonlit fallow land he knew from childhood, goading the stallion to the limit. Only a little farther through the overgrown woods ahead and the shape of the old, abandoned cottage would rise into view. Frustration raged in Nat’s blood. He should be riding alongside the king, not minding this winsome bag of tricks who had fallen asleep in his arms. Bloody hell! Who was he trying to fool? It was his own fault! Why had he gone soft at the sight of that fresh-faced beauty acting so bravely in the face of the dreaded Black Fox? Why had he allowed her feisty charm to tug at him, just as it had earlier in the rose arbor? What was there about her that made him want to enfold her and comfort her? But he couldn’t ignore the baser need—his growing desire to taste the sweetness of her innocence. It’d been a long time since he’d known lust burning in his loins for such a woman. Was she as full of fire in bed as out, he wondered?

Anne stirred in his arms, and he glanced down at the sleeping temptress against his chest. Only her head and one hand peeked out from his heavy cape. The blindfold had slipped from her face and rested softly below her chin. How he longed to touch her cheek, feel the softness of the silken hollows of her throat. He smiled to himself. How angelic she appeared in sleep. So peaceful, so serene, so—

Without warning, Anne reached up and yanked at his mask.

“You little—” Nat reined up and grabbed her wrist, snapping it back with his free hand. “Try that again, vixen, and I’ll leave you here with the wolves!” When he straightened his mask, he noticed that two of the three ribbon fasteners had come loose. “Bloody hell!”

“What are you going to do with me?” she demanded.

Nat heard the brave note in her voice. She must be frightened to death, he thought, admiring her pluck. “You’ll be taken care of. That is, if you don’t try to rip off my mask again,” he warned.

She huddled back against his chest, the black cape tightly wrapped beneath her chin. “Are you going to kill me?”

He grinned beneath his mask. “Although you tempt me, wench, I told you, no harm will come to you.” He glanced down at her, but the high canopy of oak branches shaded the moonlight from her face.

He spurred Shadow onward. “We’re almost to the farm cottage where we’ll stay. Tomorrow, I’ll sort out what to do with you.”

He felt Anne stiffen in his arms, and although she said nothing, he knew that mind of hers wouldn’t stop until she thought of a way to escape him and locate her father.

Nat urged the horse along the bank of a stream almost hidden by overgrown ferns. He chose the circuitous route purposely rather than ride through the overgrown weeds. Surely Anne would try to search out their trail the following morning. She’d find no tracks to follow along the riverbank, he mused.

Within minutes, the dark outline of the familiar thatched cottage of his childhood rose from the shadows. He swung down from his horse, pulling Anne with him to the ground.

Anne blinked and rubbed her eyes. The tiny cottage stood silhouetted against the moonlit sky, its thatched roof hung so low it almost touched the top of the latticed windows. “It looks ready to fall down,” Anne muttered warily.

The Black Fox ignored the comment as he led the horse past her to the hitch. “Don’t think about running away, wench,” he warned while tying the reins to the post. “We’re in the middle of a deep forest. If you run away, there will be nothing left after the wolves finish with you.” His mouth quirked behind his mask at the gasp she couldn’t quite hide.

He swung his cape over his shoulder and lifted the saddlebags with one hand. “Follow me.” He strode toward the cottage door. “You start the fire,” he ordered, “while I get water and tend to the horse.”

“I won’t spend the night with you, alone in that—” she turned a timorous glance toward the cottage “—that hovel. I’d sooner sleep under a tree than—”

“Suit yourself.” His boot steps crunched along the stone path toward the cottage. He stepped over the stoop in one long stride, slamming the door behind him.

Anne bit her lip and strained her eyes against the dark canopy of trees that surrounded the cottage. The wind wailed low through their branches. Servants’ tales sprang to her mind of horned, grinning beasties who dwelt in the forest, watching, waiting. The horse neighed and she inched closer to the animal.

Something hooted nearby and she jumped. The horse whinnied and pawed the ground. Something was out there! Horses sensed such things. She shuddered, pulling the jerkin about her.

Damn the Black Fox! He was as evil as her uncle had said. He held no loyalty to Royalists or he wouldn’t be mistreating the daughter of one of the king’s finest. More than likely, once the king was safely out of England, she’d be ransomed back to her uncle. Providing there was enough left of her for him to find!

What was she to do? She saw a candle flicker in the cottage window. Shivering, she watched his shadow dart in front of the warm light. Her stomach growled, reminding her she hadn’t eaten since morning. Her body ached from weariness. How she longed to lie down, but the thick grass hung heavy with dew. The rogue had taken the horse blanket, leaving her no covering.

A faint smell of wood smoke drifted on the wind. He had lit the fire, no doubt. She pursed her bottom lip and stared at the warm, comforting glow in the window. On second thought, she’d rather be inside, but she’d die first than let him know it.

The stallion tossed its massive head and she noticed the animal was still saddled. If he thought she might be foolish enough to escape, he’d be forced to bring her inside. With a furtive glance at the cottage, Anne crept up to the animal and raised her right foot to almost reach the stirrup. When her fingers grabbed for the pommel, the stallion whinnied a bloodcurdling warning and reared up, throwing her back to the ground with a jolt.

Before she caught her breath, the Black Fox bolted out of the cottage and stood looming over her, his cape billowing in the wind. “Never give up, do you, wench?”

She bit her tongue to keep from replying that if he thought she was such a goose to try to escape, he shouldn’t have left his horse saddled. But what did she care what he thought? Her plan had worked, and he’d have to bring her inside. “Your beast is as savage as you,” she spat instead. “He nearly killed me.”

“Don’t give me any ideas, you little hellcat.” He grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her to her feet.

Before Anne could fire a retort, he picked her up by the waist and tossed her over his shoulder like a sack of oats. Anne twisted in his iron grip. “You can’t just carry me off—”

He gave her backside a hard whack. “The hell I can’t.”

“Y-you low-life...bastard!”

He kicked the door open, stormed into the cottage and flung her down upon a feather bed in the corner of the room.

“I’ll do anything I want with you, understand?”

“I’ll tell the king! I’ll tell my father! I’ll see you hanged!” She rubbed her backside, still feeling the sting of his hand on her bottom.

The Black Fox threw back his head and laughed. The rich, deep baritone reminded her of someone, but who?

“Don’t laugh at me!” She floundered a moment before regaining her balance in the billowy feather bed.

He lit another candle and placed it in a holder. The soft glow illuminated his glittering dark eyes from behind the slits of his mask. He seemed oblivious to the loose ribbons dangling down behind his head mask. So, she had pulled the bottom ribbons loose. Her hands positively itched to snatch the black silk from his face, not only to see the devil beneath it, but to strip him of his arrogant manner.

“I’m leaving to bed down the horse,” he said. He walked to where he had dropped the saddlebags next to a large trunk. “When I come back, we’ll eat and have a glass of the finest French brandy.” He reached in and pulled out a dark shiny bottle. “Compliments of your uncle’s impressive wine cellar,” he said as he placed it on the table. He strode to the door in two long strides. Framed by the doorway, he glanced back at her. “Mind yourself while I’m gone or I’ll chain you to the hitch for the night.” His dark eyes glittered with such intensity, she knew he meant it.

After he had left, Anne glanced about the tiny room. Modest, clean and tidy, it contrasted sharply with her first thought that the cottage had been abandoned. The plaster walls sparkled with whitewash. Fresh rushes had been strewn across the wide plank floor. The wood in the hearth had been laid in anticipation for their arrival, she noted, and now a fire crackled cheerfully in the stone hearth.

This was the Black Fox’s hideout. But there was a decidedly feminine touch that piqued her curiosity: the delicate hand stitching of the muslin bed coverlet, the crisp lace that flounced above the window, the high beeswax polish on the plain wooden furniture, the dried bundles of herbs that hung from the rafters.

Her glance fell to a vase of pink gillyflowers on the corner table. She remembered what the Black Fox had said to Jane Herrick when he robbed her of her brooch: Maybe one of my women might take a fancy to it.

She sat bolt upright in bed, unsettled by the thought. What if he now considered her one of them!

Her gaze fell to the dusty saddlebags leaning against a large trunk. Anne knelt down beside the bags and lifted the flap. Inside, the plump sack of gold coins lay on top of loose papers and maps. Her heart hammered with excitement. Tucked alongside the pouch glittered Dr. Herrick’s gold watch and Jane Herrick’s brooch. Filled with elation, she glanced nervously toward the door. She’d return their keepsakes to the doctor and his wife when she found her way to Rosemoor. She’d return the gold to the Herricks, as well. They’d see that the coin would go to the king’s cause. Besides, stealing it from that insolent rogue would help settle her account with him, she thought smugly.

With a surge of satisfaction, Anne removed her leather jerkin and spread it on the floor. Carefully she emptied the coins from the pouch onto it, then folded the garment into a packet and hid it underneath the feather mattress. Before she pulled the blanket over the saddlebags, she thought to fill the slack pouch with something. Her eyes scanned the small room. Nothing. Then she remembered the pebbled walk outside the stoop.

She opened the door a crack and peeked into the darkness. He must be on the other side of the cabin. With shaky hands, she gathered the damp stones in her apron, elation and fear fusing within her. Within minutes, she had filled the pouch with the stones, then sat back to wait for his return.

A short time later, she heard his boot steps scrape at the door. Her heart raced as she lay back upon the pillows, feigning sleep. The door creaked open and she felt a deeper tug of excitement.

She shifted her head and watched him through her thick lashes. He carried an armful of firewood and dropped it beside the hearth. After he stacked it, he moved to the shelf above the table. His back was to her, so she couldn’t see what he was doing. Within minutes, he turned and she saw him place a trencher piled with biscuits on the oaken table.

He threw his leg over the seat of a chair, sat down and splashed a small portion of brandy in each of the empty tankards from the bottle. His mask hung loosely about his face by one ribbon, allowing him enough freedom to eat, yet concealing his identity. He took a sip from one of the mugs. “Fit for the gods.” Then with a small knife, he whacked off a triangle of cheese from the large wedge and plopped it into his mouth. Anne’s mouth watered and her stomach growled so loudly she was afraid he heard it.

“Mmm. What flavor!” He ate with slow, tantalizing relish. “I know you’re not sleeping, wench,” he said finally. “If you’re hungry, come to the table.”

Reluctantly she got to her feet and slid into the seat across from him. She bit into a biscuit, the flaky morsel almost melting in her mouth. Had the woman who baked his food provided the feminine touch about the cottage, as well?

Anne ate daintily, refusing to show how starved she was. Besides, his large masculine presence made her so nervous, she could hardly swallow. His man scent reminded her of her favorite glen at Wycliffe Manor, when the late afternoon sunshine permeated the air with the aroma of cedar.

He had removed his hat and his dark hair fell loosely about his mask. The sputtering candlelight shot deep auburn glints through the thick chestnut mane. He didn’t need blades or pistols—just the sight of the fearsome rogue would strike terror into the hearts of those he robbed, she thought.

“Drink the brandy.” The black silk fluttered about his chin when he spoke. “It will help you sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll snare a rabbit. You’ll be hungry by then.”

She took a sip from the tankard. The liquid burned a line straight down to her gullet. She blinked back tears, but forced another swallow. He watched her silently, the only sounds coming from the crackling logs in the hearth. She couldn’t help wonder what he was thinking and she would have given anything to see the expression behind that mask.

“More?” he urged, lifting the bottle, but she shook her head. He turned and the mask moved slightly about his mouth. She caught a brief glimpse of his chin. He wore no beard, she noted. Through the slits, his eyes glittered with something that strangely thrilled her, but terrified her, as well.

If only he’d say something to vex her again! His irritating words had taken her mind off her fear, her uncertainty, and the peculiar way he made her insides feel.

After they had finished, she watched him place the knife with the remaining cheese and return it to the shelf. She scraped her chair back and warily sat on the edge of the bed. He strode past her to the wooden trunk in the corner of the room. Anne dangled her legs over the bed and swung her long hair over her shoulder, watching him with interest.

He dragged the trunk into the middle of the room and creaked open the lid. Curious, Anne straightened for a better view.

After rummaging through the contents, he pulled out a gold-handled hairbrush, several folded undergarments, a blue silk gown and one more article before he sat back on his haunches and slammed the lid. “Buttercup is a bonny color for you,” he said, tossing a bright yellow night rail at her.

Anne gasped, staring at the delicate lacy confection as though it were a coiled snake. “I’m not...wearing this, and you can’t make me. It’s not proper.”

He chuckled under his breath, and she didn’t need to see his evil face to imagine his don’t-dare-me expression. “Proper?” He slammed the chest back against the wall with a booted foot. “It’s a bit late to worry about propriety, wench.”

Anne’s face flushed with self-consciousness as she examined the exquisite gown. Delicate embroidered yellow rosebuds decorated the soft gathers about the neckline. She wondered how he came by such finery. “Whose clothes are—?”

“A rich merchant’s wife, if I remember.” He laughed softly beneath the mask. “I came by the lady’s wardrobe quite innocently. She was so thrilled to meet the Black Fox that she kissed me boldly. I was so taken by her charms that I neglected to notice her husband’s growing jealousy until he tossed his wife’s trunks from the coach. I would have returned them, but I avoid possessive husbands whenever I can.”

“I bet you do!” Anne hated his arrogance. Suddenly a fearful thought crossed her mind. “You’re not sleeping with me!”

“You have nothing to fear.” His devilish chuckle deepened. “I prefer my women...clean.”

“Clean?” she repeated, aghast.

“Aye. You’re mud from head to foot. Take off that silly man’s disguise, at least. Tomorrow, I’ll heat some water for a bath. And if you balk, I’ll give it to you, myself.”

Anne pushed back the veiled threat that he would sleep with her then! Her hand rose to her throat. “I hope they catch you and you swing from a gibbet.” Anne tumbled forward and leaned toward him. “I’ll dance a jig at your hanging and help them tug on the rope.”

“My, my. Sounds like you’re going to be busy. I suggest you get some sleep to keep up your energy.” He unfastened his flowing cape and tossed it over the wood fireplace settle. “I’ll sleep here,” he said, pushing the bench nearer the hearth. “Don’t try anything foolish. I’m a very light sleeper.”

Anne tossed her head in stony response. She crept back to bed and peered at him warily. What could she do if he chose to ravish her? She was completely at his mercy. She watched him undo the ribbons at his wrist and neck. God’s bones! He was undressing in front of her!

She turned her head into the pillow and squeezed her eyes shut, dismissing the disturbing image from her mind. She heard him chuckle in that insidious way, and she vowed to get even with him, somehow. Damn the rogue. She’d think of something!

* * *

Birds chirped in the distance and Anne stirred, pushing a wave of hair from her face. When her eyes fluttered open, it took her only a moment to orient herself and remember where she was. Already, pale morning light spilled in through the lace curtain above her head.

She knew without turning in his direction that the Black Fox was in the room. She could feel his presence. She threw back the blanket and sat up.

Low embers sputtered in the grate. Sprawled out like a loose doll upon the bench was the Black Fox, snoring softly before the fire. Even dozing, he appeared menacing. He had fallen asleep, fully clothed, without so much as removing his fancy wide cuffed black leather boots. His head lay on his shoulder, slumped against the hard wooden slats of the bench, the plumed wide brimmed hat on his lap.

The remaining ties of his mask were knotted behind his head. If she could only see his face, maybe he wouldn’t appear so frightening. He wasn’t some black spirit who haunted the highways at night, was he?

Suddenly she remembered the small sharp knife he had used to cut the cheese. Her glance darted to the shelf across the room. Sharp enough, she thought, to cut ribbons!

In her stocking feet, she tiptoed past the sleeping highwayman. She moved stealthily toward the shelf, unwrapped the linen and grabbed the small dagger in her palm. She pursed her lips together in concentration as she inched silently behind him.

Moving into position, she took aim. With one straight motion, she cut the ribbon and yanked off his mask.

“Wh-wh—” Startled, he jumped up. Seeing Anne standing over him, the knife in her hand, he lunged for her. He caught her by the right wrist and threw her down on the floor.

“Did you really think you could stab me, you hellcat?” He nearly took the air from her lungs while he shook the knife from her hand. Pining her to the floor, his hands squeezed her wrists so tightly she thought her bones would break.

From the flickering embers in the grate, she stared up into his dark, angry face. It was the lieutenant, her lieutenant from Wycliffe Manor! She gasped. “It’s you!” Her voice rose with astonishment. How could the compassionate friend be the same blackguard known as the Black Fox? The question caught in her throat.

“Answer me! He raked back the chestnut lock that hung over his forehead. Did you really think you could kill me?”

“K-kill you?” What was he talking about? She had only wanted to remove his mask! But of course. He had awakened to see her poised with a knife in her hand and mistakenly thought—

“Don’t think I wouldn’t have tried if I had thought of it,” Anne said, outrage adding to her shock. His face loomed inches from her lips. “But I only...”

“Go on!”

His grip tightened and she cried out in pain, but she refused to ask for pity. “I—I only wanted to see your face.”

“My—” His hand let go of her wrist and flew to his cheek. “Bloody hell!”

She took advantage of her freed hand and rolled out from his grip, but he caught her again, pulling her to him. “Don’t you know what you’ve done, you little fool?”

“Don’t call me a—!” His chest crushed on top of hers, his arms gripped hers again.

“It means I can’t send you back to your uncle, because now you can identify me as the Black Fox.”

“I—I told you, I don’t want to go back to my uncle.” Anne stopped squirming, aware of her helplessness beneath his muscular power. She felt strange sensations at his clamped grip about her wrists. “Please, take me to Jane Herrick—”

“It’s too dangerous. That fancy colonel of yours will search under every thatched roof until you’re found.”

“Twining might as well not bother. I’ll never marry that weasel.” Her breath came fast and hard. “Never!”

“He’ll never give up the chase.” His heavy-lidded gaze dropped to her lips. “I know if you were promised to me, I’d never stop searching for you.”

Anne’s stomach gave a tiny flutter. His dark brown eyes smoldered with something she’d never seen before. It both excited and frightened her. She stared back, unable to hide her fascination. Dawn’s pale light filtered in from the window above, caressing the dark shadow of beard along his jaw, the powerful mouth, the sheer might of his body. She let out a small, involuntary gasp of vague understanding, and at the sound his hands tightened on her wrists.

Their eyes held and for a brief moment she wondered if he felt the same sensations as she did. The velvet heat of his eyes raked her with an intensity that left her weak. When her gaze fell to his full mouth, her lips parted expectantly as a prickly warmth spread throughout her body at the memory of their kiss in the rose arbor.

He lowered his head until his lips were barely a hair’s breadth from hers. She trembled against him, aware of her own desire to touch him, to feel him against her fingertips...

Anne closed her eyes, her thoughts drawing back into the darkness. “Na—!” His lips caught hers before she finished saying his name. A shudder of passion ripped through her as his claim on her mouth intensified, pulling her deeper and deeper into the whirlpool of sensation she could never have imagined before. Now, enraptured by her own spinning desires, her breathing became as ragged as his own.

She felt his rough palm at the nape of her neck, his fingers tangled in her thick hair, all the while his mouth pulled at hers, drawing the heat from her very soul. She felt his strong hand slip inside the large waistband of her breeches. She gasped at the shocking realization that his other hand had parted her shirt as he caressed the sensitive skin along her rib cage.

She felt as though she were drowning in the onslaught of overwhelming intensity. Before she could cry out with longing, his tongue captured hers, his voice a guttural growl.

She thought to resist, but as their kiss grew more intense, these never-before feelings exploded with renewed passion, dissolving her struggle like a puff of smoke in a tempest.

Anne gasped when his hand cupped her breast. She began to tremble with an urgency she didn’t understand as his rough thumb and finger stroked her, the bud growing taut beneath his touch.

“Tell me you want me as much as I want you,” he whispered hoarsely in her hair. Then his mouth trailed a searing line of kisses along the smooth column of her throat, the sensitive hollow at her neck, down to the soft swells to seek the rosy nipples with his tongue.

As his hands possessively explored her, she felt his hardened desire press against her. A jolt of reality slammed through her mind. This man wasn’t the sensitive, handsome lieutenant who had gently kissed her in the rose arbor. Her eyelids fluttered open. A rush of despair invaded her. Nay, he was the Black Fox, the hunted outlaw who took women’s virtue as easily as he took their gold. Hadn’t he admitted as much? The lieutenant who had befriended her was an illusion, a lie. In fact, all of his words had been false.

“Let go of me!” She struggled from his grip. He jerked back, his dark eyes smoldering down at her with what she recognized as wild, insatiable desire; for those eyes mirrored what she had felt in her heart, as well.

Nat glared at her. His gaze, like burning embers, raked over her naked breasts and she felt herself flush crimson as she hastily covered herself with the crumpled clothing.

“You burn away my every thought of duty, my lovely nymph.” Without another word he got to his feet, picked up his hat and stormed out of the cottage, leaving the door ajar.

Breathless, Anne stared after him, her heart beating wildly. Remorse charged through her as she straightened her rumpled garments. She shivered as a breeze, damp with early dawn, brushed her flaming cheeks, still warm with his kisses. She wrapped her arms tightly about her knees and stared at the open door.

Never had she felt so abandoned in all of her life.

Chapter Five

He should have tied her up last night, as he had planned, Nat scolded himself, as he scraped the dark stubble from his chin with a knife blade. His mouth curved in a humorless smile. A little late to think of that, he thought wryly, feeling his body tighten at the idea of that tempting morsel who had turned his life topsy-turvy. Bloody hell, it had been half an hour since he had charged from the cottage and he wasn’t able to control himself any more now than he had then.

He nicked his chin. “Damn!” From an overhead limb, a wren twittered an angry retort and flew away. Nat scowled after the bird, then swiped at the spot of blood on his chin. Swearing again, he dipped his knife into the river, this time determined to concentrate on his shaving.

When he had finished, he splashed water on his face, shook his wet hair and finished dressing, noting that since she had unmasked him, his lust hadn’t abated one bloody inch.

Last night, when he covered her with the blanket, she had stirred, and in sleep turned her face to him. His heart melted. She appeared so helpless, despite her brave show. The firelight bathed her face, the long coppery hair fanning against the pillows, her thick lashes shadowing her high cheekbones. How he had wanted to cradle her in his arms and protect her...more than protect her, if he was honest.

Aye, she was too innocent to know the weapon she held. Those feminine charms would get her anything she had a wish for, when she learned how to use them. A rush of longing gripped him.

He should have taken her then, but it would be exactly what Twining would expect of the Black Fox. Nat kicked a stone with his boot, sending the rock into the air. He swore again while he filled both buckets from the river and lugged them back to the cottage, vowing with each step not to touch her again.

Nat kicked the door open. She knelt by the fire, quietly brushing her hair. He gave her a fleeting glance before he strode into the room. From the corner of his eye, he noticed she had changed into one of the frocks from the trunk—a high-necked, pink-striped long-sleeved gown that emphasized her full breasts and tiny waist.

A bowl of apples had been placed on the table. He shot her a suspicious glance as he set the water buckets beside it.

“I found an apple tree behind the cottage and I—I picked some fruit for breakfast.” Her eyes met his briefly.

Searching for a way to escape was more like it. “While you were outside, I hope you noticed there are no paths to follow, if you’re planning an escape.” He tried not to smile at her feigned look of indignation. “I’m sure you found the river. Aye, boats and skiffs go by regularly, but if you’re thinking of catching a ride with some kindly soul who’ll promise to help you find your father, be forewarned.” His eyes flashed with wariness. “Twining will have your description hammered to every oak in the shire. Show yourself at the river and that kindly soul will trade you for a few shiny coins without thinking twice.”

Nat pulled the chair around and straddled the seat. “Listen carefully, Anne, because I’ll only tell you once. I must leave you while I escort the king to the next safe house.” He ignored the flash of worry that darkened the blue-green shards in her eyes. “I could tie you up, but you’re a smart lass. You know, if Twining’s men find you, they’ll send you back to your uncle.”

“What will you do with me?” she demanded. Her anger forced a bravery he knew she didn’t feel.

“I’ve decided to keep you here until the king is safely out of the country. I’ll send someone from the inn every few days to bring you supplies. You’ll only be delayed a few weeks.”

“Why should I believe you?

Nat flinched inwardly at her accusation, but he knew he could never explain why he felt deceit could be justified if for political gain. But how could Anne understand? That lesson occurred from witnessing war, or in his case, who his father was: Nigel Adams, the man who zealously carried out Cromwell’s carnage against Ireland in order to satisfy his own vengeance against the bastard son he disowned. And until Nat could make up for what his father had done, he would lie or do anything else necessary to accomplish the task.

“Think what you will,” he said offhandedly. “I promise I won’t abandon you.” He could only pray he could keep his word.

“Ha!”

“Whether you trust me or not, you know the chances of finding your father are greater with me than by yourself.” He saw her lips part slightly and he knew his words hit their mark. Relieved, he added, “Help yourself to anything in the cottage you may need. During the day, don’t burn a fire. If a search party smells smoke, they’ll come to inquire. If I don’t return tonight, I’ll send a woman to stay with you.”

“A woman? One of your harlots, I suppose?”

He tried not to smile. “You’ll like Emma.”

Anne arched her eyebrows and gave a disdainful sniff. “You’re just saying that so I’ll cooperate with you!”

“Cooperate?” He tried to keep a straight face. “Is that what you think you’ve been doing?”

Anne felt her temper ignite. “How else would you expect me to act? You insult me, threaten me, and...” A flush of heat rose to her cheeks when she remembered his intimate kisses. She shot him a sidelong look and, by the hint of a smile playing about his mouth, she knew he guessed what she was thinking. “Oh, you!” Her feelings burst forth like a bonfire. “You’re a heartless, unscrupulous, mulish...bastard!”

“Unscrupulous, mulish, and certainly a bastard,” he said, indulgently, “but not heartless, surely.” He laughed in the same teasing way he had when he found her hiding in the bushes. “If I was heartless, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting here, indulging you in—”

“Indulging me!” Anne’s fingers squeezed into her palms. “You’re the most impossible man!” She drew in a deep breath. “Well, if you’re going to leave, leave!”

Nat strode to the saddlebags and hoisted them over his shoulder, then he glanced back at her as he opened the door. She refused to look at him. “What if something happens to you and you don’t come back?” she asked, staring at her fingers.

Nat smiled. “You’d best pray that it doesn’t.”

* * *

That night, Anne slept fitfully, her dreams fraught with vague and frightening visions. She awoke startled, blood pounding in her veins. Moon glow from the window near the bed flooded across the blankets and into the room. By the low embers in the fireplace, she had slept longer than she first thought.

Had a noise awakened her? She drew the blanket around herself and tiptoed to the door, listening. If someone had snuck up the stone path, she would have heard the crunch of footsteps. Maybe it was nothing but her tightly strung nerves that fired her mind with devils, she reasoned.

But what if Twining and his search parties had caught Nat and tortured him into revealing her whereabouts? Anne dashed for the iron skillet and squeezed the handle for reassurance. If someone was there, they’d not take her without a fight.

The door creaked open and before she could react, Nat stepped across the threshold, saddlebags slung over his shoulder. In the fireplace’s glow, she saw surprise, then appreciation in the glittering dark eyes as his gaze lazily swept over her. Suddenly aware of how she must look brandishing the black skillet above her head—dressed in the thin night rail, her thick braid hanging over her shoulder—she dropped the weapon and snatched the long-forgotten blanket from the floor to cover herself. She felt herself blush with his bold perusal.

He glanced at the skillet, then back at her. “Expecting company?” His mouth tilted in a crooked smile.

A prickle of irritation washed over her. Did he expect to see her grovel with relief because he had decided to return? She had pride, after all.

She hung the skillet at the hearth and tossed another log upon the ash-covered embers. Behind her, she heard his boot steps across the floor, then the saddlebags slump in the corner.

“I didn’t expect you back so soon.” She poked at the embers until they burst noisily into hungry flames around the dry, peeling bark. The room brightened in a rosy glow.

She heard a loud creak of the bed ropes. She turned and in the brightening fire glow, she noticed the dark circles of fatigue beneath his eyes, shadowing his face. Her gaze followed him as he swung his long legs over the side of the bed and removed his boots.

“The king is missing,” he said finally, the words sounding like a death knell.

Anne’s knees felt weak and she slumped to a chair. “What happened?” was all she could think to ask.

“From what my cousin Tom said, a squad of Roundheads charged the inn just before dawn, looking for you.” He cast her a sharp look as he dropped the first boot to the floor. “After they left, Tom returned to the king’s room. His bed hadn’t been slept in and he’d vanished.”

And you believe it’s my fault, Anne thought, but remained silent. “What are you going to do?” she asked instead.

“I’ll strike out tomorrow, and God willing, I’ll find him. He might have seen the soldiers and hid in the woods until they left. In the dark, he may have gotten lost.” He dropped the last boot with a resounding thud.

Surely he didn’t expect her to remain alone in this remote cottage while he traipsed all over the shire? “Before you leave, please take me to Jane Herrick. You can’t expect me to wait until you find the king—”

“I expect you to shut up. I’m tired and I’m going to sleep. We’ll talk in the morning.” He gave her a black look that quelled any further argument before he fell back across the bed.

“You can’t sleep in my bed.”

He lifted his head and squinted one eye. “Whose bed? Damn it, wench, I was born in this bed.”

Anne stepped back. “Very well, I’ll curl up on—” she glanced about the tiny room “—the settle.”

“I’ll warn you, it’s damned uncomfortable.” She heard him chuckle as his dark head settled back against the pillow.

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