But instead of turning back, she rode along the crest of the hill a spell, then turned away from the lane. And there, perhaps a hundred feet distant, was a very mysterious mound.
It wasn’t sculpted by nature, Kendra realized immediately. Its shape was angular, its surface dirt, not grass.
A grave. A fresh grave.
Her hands tightened on the reins as she approached the tomb. Who could be buried there? The highwayman? A victim of his? Either one was unthinkable. She bit the inside of her cheek, worrying the soft flesh with her teeth.
A single raindrop fell on one of her clenched fists, and a gust of wind whooshed as she reached the mound. From her perch atop Pandora, she saw the loose dirt blow across it, revealing a sheet of canvas underneath. Her heart hammered at the sight. Was the body not buried properly, then—just covered with a spot of fabric?
She slid off Pandora and led her forward to investigate. Leaning down, she took a corner of the canvas, just a corner, in two shaking fingers and lifted it…
If her brothers had been here, they’d have told her, as usual, not to jump to conclusions. And this time, they’d have been right. Her shout of laughter rang across the Downs as she threw back the canvas.
Twelve blocks of wood. Twelve narrow pipes of various gauges. Twelve hats with different colored plumes and a variety of hatbands.
She tethered Pandora to a tree. Atop a nearby hill, she set a hat on a block of wood with a pipe sticking out from under it. When she ran back down and glanced up, it looked for all the world like a man lying on his stomach, pointing a gun at her.
He was clever, this highwayman. Very clever.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
She froze. She hadn’t heard anyone approach, and for the barest second she thought the voice was in her head. But he was standing behind her. She could feel his presence, maybe three feet away.
“I’m…” Words failed her. “I’m…”
“You’re letting my hat get wet.”
“Oh.” Kendra put a hand to her head, feeling the mass of her hair curling with dampness. She hadn’t noticed the increasing drizzle. “It’s raining.”
“Very observant of you.”
She turned then and gazed up at him, and he looked exactly the way she’d known he would. His hair was golden—thick, silky, and straight. It was cut short, not chin-length like a Puritan’s, nor cropped like a wig-wearing Royalist’s, but somewhere in between, and the front was hanging in his eyes. She wanted to reach out and sweep it off his forehead, but she seemed rooted in place, and she wouldn’t have dared to touch him anyway.
His snug black breeches were wool, not velvet, and his shirt was white, not black. He wasn’t here for business, then.
“I’ve come to save my props from the rain. Will you help me, seeing as you’re here?”
Help him? She ought to be bolting for Pandora at this very moment. “Of course.”
Had she said that? She knew she shouldn’t have. He ran up the hill and snatched up the three props, then turned and strode back to the rest of them. Windblown, his golden hair bounced in time with his steps as she followed.
She concentrated on his broad back, watching the play of muscles beneath his thin shirt as he flipped over the canvas and piled the hats on top, bundling them up and tying the four corners in a neat knot to make a parcel. He hefted it, testing its weight, then turned to her. “You can carry this, aye? Before you, on your horse?”
He didn’t sound angry at her, more like he was simply resolved to complete his task in the most efficient manner possible. Kendra was somewhat relieved, but she moved in a haze of unreality.
She managed to find her voice, however. “If you’ll hand it up to me, yes, I’m sure I can carry it. Where are we taking it?”
“A cottage over the next hill, not too far.” He gathered the pipes under one arm and lifted the bundle by its knot. “Let’s be off, before it starts raining in earnest.”
His horse was tied by hers—amber, of course, his glossy coat a tawny tan color. Pandora’s hide was a deep chestnut, and Kendra thought they made a handsome pair.
It was difficult to see over the bundle in front of her, but it was a short ride.
The cottage was unlocked, and the highwayman made short work of tethering their horses before depositing the pipes inside and returning for the bundle. After handing it to him, Kendra slid off Pandora slowly…so slowly…and a second later he was back, and his large, strong hands were spanning her waist as he eased her to the ground.
His fingers lingered on her waist a little longer than necessary, and she felt their warmth through her habit. She looked up at him. He looked older than her, but not as old as most of her suitors. He had a wide mouth, the full lower lip perfectly straight across the center bottom edge. She wanted to touch him, just there.
Her eyes locked on his, and her breath caught in her throat.
A crash of thunder rent the air, and big raindrops began pelting to the earth. He jumped back, motioning her to follow him inside.
She should leave. Now. But it was pouring…
The cottage looked more like a well-appointed hunting lodge, warm and cozy and very masculine. He shut the door behind them and wandered to a leather-upholstered couch, throwing his long form onto it with a surprising grace. “Close, aye? Five more minutes, and my hats would have been ruined. I thank you for your help.”
“You’re welcome,” Kendra said from just inside the door where she still stood in a daze. She couldn’t believe she was in a hunting lodge with this dangerous man. It was incredible—and, all of a sudden, incredibly scary. She couldn’t remember ever having been alone with a man, save her brothers. And she didn’t
