My Lord Highwayman Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Letter to Readers

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Coming September 15, 2013: A Country Flirtation

  About the Author

  My Lord

  Highywayman

  Valerie King

  MY LORD HIGHWAYMAN

  By Valerie King

  Kensington Publishing Corp. edition 2001

  Copyright © 2001, 2013 by Valerie King

  All rights reserved. No part of this eBook may be reproduced in whole or in part, scanned, photocopied, recorded, distributed in any printed or electronic form, or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or hereafter invented, without express written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Formatting and cover by Bella Media Management.

  Published at Smashwords.

  First Edition eBook

  Dear Reader,

  MY LORD HIGHWAYMAN was first released in March of 2001 and I’m pleased to bring this wonderful story back to the marketplace!

  I’ve always enjoyed alternating my sweet Regency settings, moving them from London, to one of the Regency ‘watering holes’, like Bath or Brighton, to creating an entirely made-up community in a single British county. With MY LORD HIGHWAYMAN, I chose to take the story all the way to the West Country in Britain, to the English county of Devonshire with its wonderful moors, rivers, and vales.

  In doing so, I took the time to build the environs, starting with three rivers in a vale that I made up, thereby naming the town Three Rivers Cross. The pub I called the Mermaid because I decided that the story would take place near Plymouth, a coastal city with an ancient, seafaring tradition.

  MY LORD HIGHWAYMAN emerged from a series of questions, the most significant being: what if a Peer of the Realm posed as a highwayman? When would a lord, regardless of rank, ever decide to take up robbing travelers? In Lord Treyford’s case, he had a good reason since he wanted to build an orphanage and the surrounding gentry and aristocracy refused to help.

  In the meantime, Abigail Chailey arrives to take up her post as a governess to a strong-willed, incorrigible young woman and who does she meet on her arrival just at the outskirts of Three Rivers Cross, but the infamous highwayman, who steals a kiss and pretty soon, her heart.

  As many of you know, I write and have been published in several genres, including, Regency Romance, Contemporary Romance, Paranormal Romance, and Western Historical Romance, though the pseudonyms vary at times.

  When I first started thinking about releasing my backlist, I knew I wanted to add a few touches here and there to each story, nothing major but sufficient to modernize the style for a new readership. In the process, I ended up adding a brand new epilogue that gives us a brief glimpse into what Trey and Abigail’s happily-ever-after looked like after several years of marriage.

  I hope you enjoy this lightly edited version of MY LORD HIGHWAYMAN and the Regency world that I came to know and love so many years ago!

  Enjoy!

  To learn more about Valerie King and to sign up for her newsletter go to http://www.valerieking-romance.com/

  COMING SOON: A COUNTRY FLIRTATION, September 15, 2013. You’ll find an excerpt at the end of this book!

  One

  Devonshire, I8I7

  To be in love in Devonshire, that would be something new indeed.

  Abigail Chailey understood her thoughts to be ridiculous, but how else was she to endure the hard truth that she had left love behind her yet again, only this time in London instead of in one of the island’s furthermost counties.

  With a sigh, she turned to stare out the window of her coach. The moors passed by slowly with each plod of the tired horses’ hooves. The hour was past midnight, but a full, lustrous moon flooded the landscape so that the land appeared as though cloaked in snow even though the month was July and summer sat warmly upon the western lands of England.

  Behind her, a trail of broken hearts littered the major highways of Albion like autumn leaves on a country lane. Frederick Pomeroy had stolen her affections in Lincolnshire. Laurence Carter in Yorkshire. And Geoffrey Ferrers—dear Geoffrey.—in the metropolis itself. She had chosen a post in a westerly county in hopes that her three most recent beaus would be unable to follow her to such a desolate place as Three Rivers Cross, a place inconspicuous by design, for it was crammed against the moors like a fox cornered by a pack of hounds.

  The coach jerked awkwardly, displacing her thoughts. She heard the horses whinnying and the coachman calling to his team as he drew the conveyance to a halt. She sat bolt upright. The descent to the market town had not yet begun, and to her experienced traveling ear she knew something was amiss.

  She could hear the coachman speaking and strained to listen to what was going forward, though in the end she was a little shocked to hear a string of invectives burst from that good man’s lips. The coach began to rock in a familiar manner as the driver descended from his perch.

  “Hold their heads, senor.” came sharply through the air, the words turned warmly by a Spanish accent. “Let your groom remain behind, where I can see him.”

  A highwayman? How was that possible? Why ever would a highwayman ply his trade in Devonshire, of all places?

  Still . . . there was something quite wonderful, perhaps even portentous, about meeting a highwayman before even arriving in Three Rivers Cross. Her throat grew dry with mounting excitement. Cupid had used many ploys to tempt her heart in recent years—Laurence had been a promising poet, Frederick a passionate radical, and Geoffrey a charming gamester—but never had anything so romantic as a highwayman crossed her path. A highwayman.

  A familiar sensation assailed her, of weakness and secret longing. Would this be her fate, then, to fall in love with a highwayman?

  “Senor Christopher is not within? Do you mean to gammon me, my good man?”

  “Nay, I wouldna do so.” the coachman said. “I’ve ought but a young lady on her way to the Mermaid Inn at Three Rivers Cross.”

  “I must see this lady for myself. Keep the horses steady or my servant’s pistol will blossom.”

  So, he was not alone. How beautifully the English language rippled over his foreign threats.

  She heard his booted feet. Her nerves flittered with anticipation. His frame drew before the window and blocked the moon. He was entirely cast in shadow.

  How unfortunate, for she could see nothing of his face, not even his chin. All that she was able to determine was that he was a tall man, his shoulders were shrouded in a cape, and he wore an unusual, ostensibly Spanish hat angled over his head. Yet, there was something about his costume, coupled with his voice that set her heart to thumping.

  The door opened. His words flowed over her in a rich, dark melody. “A young lady traveling alone across the moors. Do I perceive an adventurer like myself?” He extended his hand to her. “Come to me, senorita.”

  She stared at the hand protected by a leather glove and, after a moment, placed her hand within his.

 
He did not immediately draw her from the coach but, rather, commanded her. “Look at me.”

  She lifted her gaze to him, and he shifted sideways so that the moon, which now appeared gloriously above his right shoulder, might suffuse her features.

  She heard him draw in a long, appreciative breath. “You are very beautiful, senorita, but you should not be traveling alone, not on a night such as this, for the moon will make me do wicked things for which I cannot be accountable.”

  His accent, so exotic and deep and rolling over his words as they were, took the strength from her knees.

  “I am a daughter of Artemis,” she responded in kind. “So, you see, I cannot fear the moon or its effects upon you.”

  “I was right,” he said, smiling. “I have found an adventuress within this travel-stained coach.” Only then did he tug gently on her hand and help her from the coach.

  He did not lower the steps but caught her easily about the waist and lowered her slowly, and with such strength, to the ground below. Nor did he release her once her feet touched the earth.

  “A daughter of Artemis, the huntress?”

  “My mother’s name,” she responded, breathless.

  “And your padre’s name?”

  “Alas, he was a mere mortal. Harold was his name.”

  “Muy ingles, no?”

  “Yes, very English.” She could not help but giggle. “However, I apprehend you were not expecting me.”

  “No, I was not,” he responded, drawing her closer to him. “But I do not, how you say, repine?”

  “You have been in England for a long time, then?”

  “Si,” he responded. “I come to your island often.”

  She stared up at him, her heart unsteady, her knees still abysmally but so pleasantly weak. “What is it you demand of me, senor?”

  “You spoke to me in my own lingua. How happy you make me. But what do I demand of one so beautiful, so radiant in the moonlight, except perhaps to gaze upon you for an eternity?”

  There was poetry in him, she mused, her heart slipping from its moorings yet a little bit more. “I will tell you what I demand of you,” she returned, emboldened by some unknown force.

  His lips parted in surprise. “Tell me, my pretty one. I vow, I would grant you any desire.”

  “That when you have finished with this night’s work, you compose a sonnet in honor of the goddess Artemis, else I fear she will be very angry with you for having disturbed one of her daughters. Look, even now she glares at you from the heavens.”

  She gestured to the moon with an upward tilt of her chin.

  He laughed. “You are an adventuress, and one who knows her duty to those who control our destinies. Very well, you shall have a sonnet in your goddess’s honor. But I fear that another carriage approaches, so I must now take what is my due.”

  He tilted his head and before he could do more, she swiftly placed her lips over his. He surrounded her with his arms, deepening the kiss until she moaned softly against his mouth.

  “My adventuress is also full of passion,” he murmured, kissing her more deeply still.

  Abigail could no longer feel her knees at all and knew that only the strength of his arm, which was formidable, was supporting her.

  “Senor.” his servant called to him in a growling voice. “A carriage approaches.”

  The highwayman released her at last, casting one last brilliant Iberian smile upon her. She turned and watched him as he strode quickly to his waiting mount. She had a final view of lean, booted legs as he swung into the saddle, turned his horse in a southerly direction, and with his servant, galloped into the night.

  Abigail stood staring after the highwayman’s shadow even past his disappearance from the road. She could not seem to move, nor to dispel the ethereal quality of the sensations that surrounded her. Her lips still tingled from his kisses, and it seemed as though his arms were yet wrapped tightly about her.

  She discovered the ability to move only when the strange coach drew abreast.

  “Is all well?” a gentleman called to her. “Have you lost a wheel or broken a pole?”

  She turned to face the newcomers. “No. I believe the carriage to be perfectly sound. Is that right, coachman?”

  “Aye, miss,” was the return answer.

  A woman poked her head out the window, and her brows rose instantly. “The highwayman has been here.” she said. “I can see it in your face.”

  “He has,” Abigail admitted readily. “But how did you know?”

  “My poor child.” the lady called out, afterward ordering her spouse to open the door and let down the steps.

  The next moment, Abigail found herself embraced warmly in the arms of a woman smelling of lavender. “You are trembling.” she said. “Come. You must return to your coach. You there, groom. Go to the horses’ heads that the coachman might regain his box. I shall be traveling with your young charge. To Three Rivers Cross, on the instant.”

  The groom, recognizing the voice of command, left his perch at the back of the carriage and hurried to the horses’ heads as ordered. The lady then commanded her husband to let down the steps and assist ‘the poor young woman’ into her coach.

  Abigail, still caught in the lethargy of the highwayman’s assault, watched rather absently as the tall, graying gentleman moved swiftly to obey his wife. She sensed a general irritability in the lady’s manner as she supervised her spouse in the task of letting down the steps, opening the door, and assisting Abigail.

  “Do take her arm, Sir Christopher. Be careful what you are about, she is a lady, not an ox. Whatever are you doing? You have stepped on her pelisse. Good heavens. Take your hand off my arm, I can climb the steps by myself. Oh, for heaven’s sake, do shut the door. It may be July, but the night air is quite chilled.”

  She settled herself beside Abigail. “What are you waiting for, husband. Return to your coach.” She turned to smile upon Abigail. Her expression was pleasant and quite visible in the flood of moonlight that still lit the coach. “Does your journey end at Three Rivers Cross?”

  “Yes,” Abigail said, the sound of Sir Christopher’s quick footsteps fading as he hurried to his coach, “for I am to spend the night at the Mermaid Inn.”

  “You will find the town charming indeed. Our community is lovely, with some of the finest thatching in all of England covering the homes of our farmers and gentry. I could only wish that you had arrived a year ago, before this ridiculous highwayman began plaguing us, for he has kept the countryside in an uproar. Prior to that, I assure you, we were as snug as peas in a pod. However, I wish to assure you that we shall not have that blackguard with us much longer, for Sir Christopher has sent for a Bow Street Runner. Yes, well you may stare. A quite experienced man in all sorts of criminal matters that he might ferret out this terrible Spanish man and send him to Newgate.”

  “To Newgate?” Abigail queried, shocked.

  “I have overset you.” The horses jumped in their harness, causing the coach to jerk several times before settling into a steady rhythm as the gentle descent to Three Rivers Cross commenced. “Well, let us not dwell overly much on the highwayman. Only tell me, do you hope to make your residence in our vale?”

  “Yes, but only for a brief time,” she said, grateful for the turn of subject. “On the morrow, I will be taking up my post at Oak Hill.”

  “I knew it.” she said, her eyes glittering. “I knew you were dear Sarah Lavant’s new governess. Though I have been given to understand that you will serve only until shortly after you have prepared her properly for society.”

  “That much is true. I have been hired specifically to help prepare her for her come-out ball.”

  “You wished for such a post?” she inquired, clearly bemused.

  “Yes, for it suits me perfectly of the moment. I have been recently in London, and the short duration seemed just what I needed after serving in a large household in the metropolis.”

  “How very interesting,” she mused, her gaze search
ing Abigail’s face as though trying to make her out. “But how pretty you are. I have so much to tell you by way of giving you a hint or two on just how you are to go on in our neighborhood. Permit me to introduce myself. I am Lady Waldron.”

  “How do you do? I am Abigail Chailey.”

  Lady Waldron smiled contentedly, then continued, “I feel it entirely provident that we happened upon you as we did, for there is something I must tell you about our poor neighborhood. Only, I must ask you, when you were in London, did you ever hear of or chance to meet the Duchess of Chandos?”

  “No, the name, and therefore the lady, is entirely unfamiliar to me.”

  “Well, the Duchess of Chandos is my sister, and the story I am about to tell you involves her. She had been married quite young, though splendidly, to an exemplary man, but she was inexperienced in the ways of the world. She was seduced, and I know I do not shock you in saying this, for I can see that you are not in the first blush of youth. At any rate, she was seduced . . .”

  Abigail listened intently to the long history of Lady Chandos and a stripling by the name of Lord Treyford, who had been nineteen when he seduced Lady Waldron’s sister. Apparently, he had been intent on her for a considerable period of time, intent on ruining her dear sister’s fine reputation. The duke had been away in London when he learned that his wife was no longer faithful. He returned in a towering rage and called Treyford out. The duel with pistols that ensued nearly cost Chandos his life, while Treyford escaped with barely a scratch.

  “So you can see how terrible a man Lord Treyford is, a libertine no doubt since his youth, and for that reason, once I wed Sir Christopher, I simply could not countenance being in society with a man who nearly made my sister a widow. Treyford’s principal seat is but a few miles from Three Rivers Cross. I do not say Treyford has not changed these twenty years, for he is much admired by many of the local farmers and tradesmen, but I believe in setting an example for our young people, of which we have so many. Therefore, he is not received generally. Your employer, Sylvester Lavant, is a friend to him, a circumstance I cannot condone, though I believe it reflects a large-mindedness in Mr. Lavant that cannot be thought an entirely unhappy trait.