Highwayman Husband

By Helen Dickson

HIS WIFE WAS ENGAGED TO HIS FOULEST ENEMY

Held at gunpoint by a highwayman, Laura Mawgan is shocked to discover that the charming masked stranger is none other than her husband believed to have been killed by pirates two years ago, only days after their wedding. Languishing in a French prison, Lucas Mawgan has dreamed of returning home to his young wife and of taking revenge on Edward Carlyle, the man who separated them. The man who is now his 'widow's' betrothed. Will Lucas prove that Carlyle is no gentleman, and get back in his wife's good graces and back into her heart?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9781460856383

Helen Dickson

Helen Dickson lives in South Yorkshire with her retired farm manager husband. On leaving school she entered the nursing profession, which she left to bring up a young family. Having moved out of the chaotic farmhouse, she has more time to indulge in her favourite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, travelling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical romantic fiction.

Book preview

Chapter One

How the mind played strange tricks the moment darkness came to the moor and the traveller passed the lone gibbet at four land ends. The clanking and creaking of rusty chains as they moved in the wind encased the lifeless, decaying body of some poor wretch who had fallen foul of the law. Murderer, thief, highwayman or smuggler…what did it matter now he was dead? But he hung there, carrion for the birds, and for the entire world to see, a sordid warning to others—a grim reminder of what to expect for those who chose to follow the same path. This was a test for any man’s nerves who crossed the moor after dark.

Night came quickly to this bleak, hostile landscape the night Laura Mawgan and her betrothed, Sir Edward Carlyle, travelled to Roslyn Manor on the south Cornish coast. They had been celebrating their betrothal at Edward’s home, Burfield Hall, with friends and neighbours. It had been an extremely grand affair and Edward had tried to persuade Laura to stay the night and return to Roslyn Manor the next day, but, young as she was, she had become used to making her own decisions, and had insisted on travelling home.

On the moor there was no transition between light and dark. Ghostly shapes of rocks were awesome, etched against the night sky. With just the flickering coach lamps giving off a dull yellow glow there was insufficient light, the moon hidden behind thick cloud. Coming to high ground, they became enveloped in a dark, misleading mist in which one could get hopelessly lost, even those who believed they knew the moor.

Amos, the driver, was determined not to be hindered by this sudden onset of mist, and the coach continued to travel at breakneck speed, rumbling and lurching over the rough Cornish roads. He had a natural horror of the moor, and had no desire to linger for longer than was necessary. The shadows about him, giving the impression of skulking figures among the rocks, turned his bones to water. He was bedevilled and imagined the whispers and echoes of a past long since gone had become the present. With a primeval fear in his heart he quickened the horses, darkness making the road even more treacherous.

Secure within the confines of the coach, Laura gazed out into the night. On the hem of the mist the moor was like some petrified sea in a silent world. The ground was strewn with rocks, and for miles around it was littered with ruined druid temples and ancient stone circles, darkness infusing itself into the rocks rising like sharp blades into the sky. She was drawn out of her reverie when Edward reached out and took hold of her hand.

‘Marry me soon, Laura,’ he said, in his firm, cultured voice, ‘and make me a happy man.’

Laura turned and looked at him, her luminous eyes meeting his in the dim light. How attractive he is, she thought, and extremely prepossessing in his fashionably cut clothes. His dark brown hair was drawn back from his face in a style most becoming to his near-perfect features. The blue eyes were more often than not cold and unemotional, but his smile could be full of charm when he chose to exercise it.

How she wished she loved him, but she didn’t. She greatly respected his ability and skill at managing his estate and his mine, Wheal Rose, and, while she often chafed at his high-handed conduct towards her, she was fond of him and immensely grateful to him for having taken her under his wing when her husband had died two years ago. But were fondness and regard enough to build a marriage on?

‘You are too impatient, Edward. We have only been betrothed one week. I would like a little more time to get used to the idea,’ she said in answer to his question.

‘We have known each other almost two years,’ he responded sharply, irritated by her resistance. ‘Time enough to get to know one another, I would think.’ He gave her a studied, half-lidded look. ‘There isn’t anyone else, is there, Laura?’

‘You know there isn’t. But you—you do care for me, don’t you, Edward?’ she asked tentatively, wanting reassurance.

‘Of course I do—I’m not in love with anyone else. I do believe we have it in our power to make each other happy. Besides, it’s time you thought of your future and realised that you can’t go on as you are—and stopped rattling around in that great, draughty old house.’

Laura bristled, resenting his remark. ‘Edward, it is my home you are speaking of.’

‘Not for much longer. You will have no need of Roslyn Manor when you are married to me—which is good enough reason to avoid delaying the ceremony. You have done an admirable job running it for the past two years, but you will have to relinquish control when we are married and turn it over to your husband. I’m not sure what I’ll do with such a rambling old place, but I’m sure I’ll think of something,’ he retorted harshly.

‘Roslyn Manor is a beautiful house,’ Laura remarked, coming quickly to the defence of the house she had grown to love in the two years she had lived there, and she was deeply concerned about what Edward would do with it and the servants when they were married. It was a matter that still had to be discussed between them and both their lawyers. ‘I shall miss not living there.’

‘I am certain when the time comes you will be relieved to surrender the burden and apply yourself to running Burfield Hall instead.’

Laura averted her eyes and reined in her tongue to keep from saying something that would anger him—something she would regret. Her brother Philip, who lived in London with his wife Jane and two small children, had expressed his desire to see her settled and favoured the match with such an estimable gentleman. When he had brought Jane and the children to Roslyn Manor recently, he had pressed her to accept Edward’s suit—harshly telling her that if she wanted to drag herself through the years ahead as a soured widow that was up to her, but she would live to regret it. Always willing to consider her brother’s wishes, she had seen the reason behind his directive, and so she had accepted Edward’s proposal, although it was a decision she was already beginning to regret.

It was only in recent days that she had become aware of her late husband’s dislike of Edward, a close neighbour whose land ran adjacent to the Mawgans’, and the idea that she had consented to marry him made her uneasy. Suddenly her relationship with her betrothed seemed a mockery and a dishonour to her husband’s memory.

Having lived all her life in London, on finding herself a bewildered young widow in a strange place, with no friends or relatives close by she could turn to, at first she had been touched by Edward’s quiet solicitude and attention, but it was only after a decent period of mourning that she had allowed him to call on her.

No gossip had ever reached her ears about him—and she was not one to take much notice of it if it did, but on a recent visit to St Austell to do some shopping she had overheard him being discussed by total strangers and had lingered over the purchase of a pair of gloves while she listened. Since then the more she found out about the man she was committing the rest of her life to, the more she realised she didn’t know him at all.

He was the owner of two small tin mines in the district—one, Wheal Rose, still operating, and the other closed years ago. To settle debts, his late father had sold a large portion of his land to the Mawgans, land Edward would like to repossess—particularly one piece of land that swept down to Roslyn Cove, which was an ideal place for landing contraband from across the Channel.

Edward’s wealth had mysteriously increased over the last two years. On the occasions when he visited London he had begun to lead an exotic life, playing for only the highest stakes at the gaming tables, buying a fashionable house in Kensington, where he entertained on a lavish scale, and here in Cornwall his stables—as Laura had seen for herself—were filled with only the finest horses.

There was no accounting for his sudden affluence, which, because production was low, could have nothing to do with his mine, as many people up in London believed. Of late, she had heard it whispered that he was the leader of a well-organised smuggling ring—an illicit yet highly lucrative trade prevalent on the south coast.

At first she had discounted the truth of this, for no one seeing Edward Carlyle—a highly respected pillar of the community—would take him for a criminal, much less one hugely involved in bringing contraband from France or the Channel Islands and landing it in secluded creeks and coves on the Cornish coast. However, through the thought process by which Laura’s sensitive perceptions worked, taking everything into account, including Edward’s frequent trips across to France, despite the violent unrest in that country, she came to the conclusion that there might be some truth in these rumours.

Her sharp eyes had recently observed the comings and goings of men in the middle of the night, and the dark, sinister shapes of boats and men down in the cove, of wagons stacked high and packhorses weighted down with barrels and packages disappearing onto the moor before dawn. She could have confronted them and forbidden them to cross Mawgan land, but, fearing reprisals, she thought it prudent to do as everyone else seemed to do in Cornwall and turn a blind eye to the activities of the smugglers. To inform on them would mean certain death.

Having inherited her husband’s estate, it was only natural that Edward should want to marry her, but with these grave doubts about him now clouding her mind she was reluctant, which was why she played for time as the only ally in her favour.

‘I have to go away tomorrow morning,’ Edward announced in a more tolerant tone, although his features were set in an unsmiling expression as he regarded her. ‘I shall be gone one week, no more. It will give you ample time to think about our wedding. I would like you to be more decisive when I return.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Laura replied stiffly, averting her eyes once more.

Edward stared at her profile, tracing with his gaze the fine, classic contours of her face, the brush of her long ebony eyelashes on her cheeks, the hollow at the nape of her neck where a mass of blue-black curls came to rest. He had never seen the like of her, not in London nor in Cornwall. She was quite extraordinarily lovely, but it was not for these qualities that he wanted to marry her, it was more for who she was and what she would bring him when she became his wife.

His highly developed hunting instinct and quick grasp of opportunity were the reasons he had presented himself at Roslyn Manor shortly after her husband’s death, leaving her as sole beneficiary of his will, and she had been so engrossed in her grief and recent loss that she failed to notice how manipulative he was being. Reaching out, he took her hand once more. Lifting it, he placed it to his lips.

‘You will be mine very soon, Laura,’ he murmured in softer tones. ‘We both know it.’

Laura turned and looked at him once more, meeting his gaze. His eyes told her nothing—they were as clear and calm as they always were, but his grip on her hand was firm and held no promise of release. She struggled to free herself from the haunting darkness of the moor, and the closeness of the man next to her.

Leaving the desolation behind, the coach passed through a wooded area. The wind was strong enough to keep the trees in a constant stir, masking the sound of the coach wheels on the road. Laura shuddered. It was the sort of wild night that made one believe all manner of spirits and demons might be abroad.

However, it wasn’t a spirit that suddenly appeared on the side of the road—sprung out of the ground as if by magic—but two horsemen.

At the sudden appearance of these ghostly apparitions looming large and menacing, Amos trembled with fear and icy water trickled down his spine. They were both wearing redingotes, and their tricorn hats were pulled well down. The lower halves of their faces were covered by handkerchiefs. Amos’s terror was transmitted to the already frightened horses and they screamed and bolted, hurtling the coach along the rough road so the wheels were lifted clear of the ground.

Desperately Laura and Edward—who was savagely cursing and saying something about footpads while he fumbled at his waist for his pistol—clung to anything their fingers could hold as they were tossed about inside the coach. Conscious of the horsemen, flying hooves and the clatter of the wheels, Laura felt that she was in the power of demons. After what seemed like hours instead of minutes, the two horsemen managed to bring the maddened beasts to a skidding, shuddering halt.

‘Whoah! Whoah, now. Steady, now.’

The muffled words of someone trying to calm the horses came to Laura inside the coach. Peering gingerly out of the window, she saw one of the horsemen riding towards her. She stared transfixed at the apparition, his horse’s breath snorting out like a dragon’s in the cold night air. An icy shiver passed over her and an indescribable terror seized her when she saw a long-barrelled pistol pointing unwaveringly at her.

The men were highwaymen, that was obvious. Daring robberies by armed men took place frequently on the highways at night, and people were cautioned not to travel. Laura was beginning to regret refusing Edward’s suggestion that she wait until daylight to travel home.

The lamp on her side of the coach had gone out, and now it was so dark that the figure had no face. Her immediate instinct was to shrink back into the dark interior of the coach in a childish effort to shut out the threat of danger. But some power within her made her retain her calm and anger took hold of her, giving her courage.

‘Who are you?’ she cried. ‘What do you want? How dare you frighten the horses in this way? You could have killed us all.’

‘Please accept my humble apologies,’ the man said, his voice deep and without contrition, muffled in the folds of the handkerchief across his mouth. ‘I have a tremendous respect for horses. It was not my intention to cause them any distress.’ With a touch of his spurs he drove his mount to the side of the coach and leaned forward, peering inside. ‘Ah, just the two of you. Step down, if you please,’ he said with mock-courtesy.

The effect of this assault upon Edward—who was always calm and in complete control—was explosive. ‘Go to the devil, you thieving blackguard,’ he spluttered, roughly pulling Laura away from the window, while cursing his clumsiness, which had caused him to drop his pistol onto the floor of the carriage. If he tried to retrieve it he was in danger of being shot. ‘This is disgraceful! I am Sir Edward Carlyle and I have powerful influence in these parts. Allow us to go on our way or by God you will pay for this appalling outrage with your life.’

‘I know perfectly well who you are, and I would be obliged if you would heed my request,’ came the highwayman’s soft, ironic tones. ‘I’d as soon not blow your head off. I never show violence to those who comply.’

‘That won’t stop them hanging you when you’re caught,’ Laura retorted sharply.

The highwayman made a small sound that might have been laughter. ‘You’re right. Most highwaymen regard it as inevitable that they should end their days on the gallows, and I am no exception. But you have only yourselves to blame for the situation you are in. There are too many scallywags abroad at this hour for decent people to be crossing the moor after dark. Now, come along. Step down. You are wasting my time.’

With a pistol pointing at them, there was nothing for it but to comply. Reluctantly the two occupants of the coach stepped down onto the highway. The highwayman’s accomplice had dismounted and was guarding Amos, who had already clambered from his perch.

‘You are a conscienceless outlaw, who will be hanged for your thievery and violence against innocent travellers,’ Edward repeated, incensed, his expression so savage that he looked as if he was about to have an apoplexy.

‘That is so,’ the other agreed cordially. ‘But I have to be caught before I can be hanged.’

Backing his horse away, he dismounted. He was extremely tall, taller than Edward by a head, who was by no means short in stature, and when he moved it was with the lethal grace of a predator. His manner bore a threatening boldness. He held himself aloof, and yet with his mere presence he dominated the scene around him. He tipped his hat to Laura, and she almost expected him to click his heels in a mocking, courtly bow. With his free hand he drew a knife smoothly from its sheath secured to his belt, twisting it delicately.

The blood drained from Edward’s face, leaving him white in the shadowy light. He drew himself up straight and, squaring his shoulders, stepped back. ‘So—you intend to kill us.’

The highwayman nodded thoughtfully. ‘I might,’ he replied, watching in silent fascination as a blue light danced along the blade, seeming to bring the lethal weapon to life. Stepping forward, he pressed the blade hard under the angle of Edward’s jaw.

Laura gasped. ‘No,’ she cried, shocked almost beyond bearing.

Keeping his eyes fixed on Edward, the highwayman addressed her coldly. ‘This is no concern of yours, madam.’

‘Stay where you are,’ Edward rasped when Laura would have thrown herself at his attacker. ‘What do you want from me? I carry nothing of value.’

The highwayman stood there a moment longer, then, with a shrug of indifference, stepped back. ‘Come, now. You say you are a gentleman—although I suspect there are many who would dispute that,’ he mocked. ‘You must be carrying a wallet—and trinkets. A timepiece, perhaps, a cravat pin—rings—a snuff box. You must have something of value. Throw them on the ground, or it will be the worse for you.’

Edward glanced at the black muzzle aimed at his stomach, and slowly and reluctantly removed his diamond and ruby cravat pin and watch and threw them on the ground. They were followed by a rather splendid ring and a beautiful silver snuff box, a gift to him from Laura as a token of her affection on their betrothal.

The highwayman looked down at the objects and shifted them about with the toe of his boot, before saying slowly, ‘You’re right. You have nothing that interests me—only this.’ Without taking his eyes off Edward, he bent down and picked up the snuff box. Not bothering to examine it, he shoved it into his pocket.

‘You thieving scoundrel,’ Edward hissed, his hands bunched into fists at his sides. ‘I don’t know what game it is you are playing, but it’s most peculiar for a footpad. The timepiece is worth much more. I have nothing else of value.’

The highwayman’s eyes shifted to Laura. ‘That may be so, but the lady might have.’ In a flash the blade of his knife had severed the fastener securing the cloak at her throat with masterly precision. It fell in a circle about her feet. The sudden action brought a startled gasp to her lips. As he sheathed his knife his eyes became fastened to the large sapphire and pearl necklace resting just above the creamy swell of her breasts, peeping over the bodice of her blue velvet gown.

Laura’s heart missed a beat, and instinctively her fingers closed round it protectively. ‘No—you will not take that. Anything but that, I beg of you.’

‘Beg all you like, but ’tis a pretty bauble and should fetch a tidy sum.’

‘No. It—it was given to me by my husband on our wedding day…before he died. Please, please, don’t take it.’ She thought he hesitated for a moment, but that was all it was, just a moment, before he recollected himself.

‘This is not the time for sentimentality. Besides,’ he murmured, his eyes raking over her, drawn to the seductive allure of her gown and the curve of her breasts, ‘you look ravishing. You need no jewels to enhance your beauty, madam. Take it off.’

‘Give him the damn thing,’ Edward spat. ‘And then let him go to hell.’

Stubbornly Laura refused to surrender it. ‘No. I will not.’

‘Hand it over, before I take it by force.’

‘You would not dare,’ she said scornfully.

‘Try me.’

Swallowing her outrage in deference to his daunting height and the pistol levelled at her heart, Laura took judicious note of his soft, menacing tone and the taut set of his shoulders, and felt the first tendril of fear coil in the pit of her stomach. With trembling fingers she unclasped her treasured necklace and handed it to him. Laura knew he was grinning infuriatingly behind his disguise, and, holding her precious necklace in his palm, he threw it in the air several inches, caught it, and shoved it inside his jacket. He then advanced towards her once more with lounging insolence.

Laura’s throat dried when he gave a low whistle of appreciation behind the handkerchief, and she felt hot colour flood her cheeks when his gaze wandered over her body in the most indecent manner. Unable to bear his taunting gaze any longer, she bent to scoop up her cloak, but with a soft laugh he quickly placed his booted foot on it, pinning it to the ground. Reaching out, he raised her chin with his finger. Laura felt uneasy.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded firmly. She thought that a hint of a smile lurked somewhere about his mouth, but she could not be sure.

‘A highwayman,’ he answered amiably.

‘Take your hands off her,’ Edward hissed furiously. ‘The lady is my betrothed.’

Laura saw the highwayman’s tall frame stiffen. For a moment his gaze lingered on the elegant perfection of her face, before he dropped his hand. That was the moment a breeze stirred, and the clouds allowed a shaft of moonlight to sweep across them.

Looking up at him, Laura saw his eyes properly for the first time from beneath his hat—pale eyes, almost silver, glittering like glass and ice-cold. They fastened on her once more and searched her as they probed her soul. It was as if he knew her innermost thoughts. She felt herself drawn to him, as if by some overwhelming magnetic force, and for an instant something stirred inside her.

She experienced a strange, slinking unease—of shadowy familiarity. Although the night was reasonably warm, there was a chill in the air, and she shivered with a sense of deep foreboding. She could not have put the feeling into words, but it was as though some spirit had groped its way into her heart and made it beat harder.

‘You are to be his wife?’ the stranger asked.

His eyes compelled her to speak. ‘Yes—not that it is any concern of a common footpad.’

Suddenly the eyes boring into her own were cold no longer, but burning in his face like living things. She was puzzled as to why, for some curious reason, this declaration should arouse his anger. She blanched, edging away, but like a striking snake his hand shot out and grabbed her by the wrist and yanked her to him. Shooting a look at his accomplice, who had two pistols, primed and loaded, aimed at Edward and Amos, he dragged her stumbling towards the Stygian darkness of the trees.

‘Damn your soul!’ Edward shouted after them in outrage. ‘How dare you dishonour my lady? I command you to release her this instant.’

The highwayman ignored him. Only when they were hidden and out of earshot did he stop and release his hold on Laura. Calmly he removed his hat and placed it with his pistol on a conveniently placed log. Believing she was about to suffer a fate worse than death, with a thundering heart Laura watched him remove the handkerchief, and at that same instant she had her first clear view of his face without the concealing cloth.

Momentarily paralysed, she stared at that lean, hard face of his.

And she recognised it.

She stared at the man whose name she bore with the incredulous horror of someone who had seen a ghost. Her blood seemed to freeze in her veins, and she looked at him in a kind of hysterical disbelief that almost brought her to her knees. She wanted to cry out, to try and overcome the shock of it, but no sound came. She felt as though she were in a dream, or else going mad. It could not be true.

‘You!’ The word passed through her lips on a rush of breath.

Her husband, Lucas Alexander Mawgan, the man she had been told had been killed by pirates when they had captured the vessel carrying him to England from France, smiled cynically.

Chapter Two

‘I am glad to see you are not so enamoured of Edward Carlyle that you have forgotten your husband altogether, Laura.’ His voice was soft, but his eyes were knowingly chiding.

Without the handkerchief covering his mouth, there was no denying the familiarity of that deep voice, and Laura’s dazed mind finally accepted that her husband was really and truly alive. ‘But—but I thought you were dead,’ she whispered.

‘Clearly,’ he bit back with biting sarcasm.

‘But—Edward and I are to marry shortly. We are officially betrothed.’

‘Not any longer. You are married to me,’ Lucas reminded her harshly, ‘and nothing can change that.’ His jaw hardened and his anger increased as he suddenly realised she might have feelings for Carlyle. The mere notion that this might be so, that his grieving wife had been consorting with a man he despised while he had been in chains, forced to endure two mortal years of frozen limbs, the stink of the grave clinging to him day and night, of crawling vermin and rotten scraps of food his jailers supplied him with, made him livid.

‘Are you not happy to see me?’ he asked.

For what seemed an eternity, Laura stared up at the incredibly handsome, virile man who had imposed himself in her life again. His face was leaner than she remembered, though still proud and arrogant and stamped with ruthlessness, and there was an implacable authority in the strong jawline, and cold determination in the thrust of his chin. There was a time when she had thought his eyes as gentle as a summer breeze, but now she could see they were cold and unyielding, and as uninviting as south Atlantic ice floes, eyes without softness, without kindness or understanding. How did she feel about him? She didn’t know.

His gaze was narrow and assessing. Laura’s hand crept to her throat. The low cut of her bodice embarrassed her, despite the previous intimacies that had passed between them. ‘For-forgive me,’ she stammered. ‘I am shocked—justifiably so. My feelings are so confused.’

‘I can see your sorrow for my alleged demise has not prevented you