Highwayman Husband

Highwayman Husband
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?

“Why, my poor little wife, what is it?

Are you telling me that you missed me after all?”

To her consternation and fury, Laura felt her cheeks grow hot. Angrily she slapped his hands away. “I am not telling you anything of the sort. At least have the decency to explain to me where you have been for the past two years—and why you are cavorting about the county as a highwayman. Tell me!”

“Trust me. I know exactly what I am doing, and why I am doing it.”

“Then let us dispense with this conversation and go and tell Edward who you are, before that accomplice of yours shoots him.”

Lucas’s fingers closed cruelly on her upper arm as she began to walk away. “Do not even consider doing that. Defy me on this and nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to make you regret it.”

Highwayman Husband

Helen Dickson

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

HELEN DICKSON

was born in south Yorkshire and still lives there, with her husband, on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.

Contents

Prologue

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

Prologue

1792

T he man stood at the prow of the small vessel as it smashed its way through the black, choppy water of the English Channel. His feet were slightly apart, his back straight, his hands clasped behind him. France was receding. England was within his sights.

His features were quiet, intent. A sense of purpose filled his heart and mind and was etched in every line of his tall, lean frame. An aura of authority and power seemed to surround him, and he possessed a haughty reserve that was not inviting and set him apart from his fellow passengers and the crew. There was something about his eyes, shadowed with some deep-felt emotion and a mocking cynicism, as though he found the whole world a dubious place to be, that made others shrink from seeking his attention.

Having been condemned by the tribunal in Paris, fully comprehending that nothing could possibly save him from the black prison of La Force, where he had been incarcerated to await the day of his execution, where torture and deprivation had driven him to the brink of madness, he had struggled to retain his grip on sanity for two whole years, sustaining himself by focusing his mind on escaping his prison and returning to his own fireside and his sweet young wife—and at the same time concentrating on his hatred for the man who had put him there. When freedom had come, unexpectedly, it had been received with relief and an indescribable joy, and he had lost no time in leaving France.

In all his turbulent thoughts, in all the heated workings of his heart and mind, he had stood against resignation and mercifully his hold on life had remained strong. He was impatient to plant his feet on England’s soil. As if sensing the need in him, in an act of mercy and a desire to appease him, the wind chose that moment to stir and fill the sails and drive the vessel onward with a sprightly vigour. The man shuddered, having forgotten how cold the wind at sea could be. He turned his collar up, without relinquishing his gaze fixed on the distant shoreline—on England. His home.

He envisioned his homecoming and considered the shock his return would be to those close to him—to his wife. How had his disappearance affected her? Was she devastated, tormented with grief and despair? One thing he did imagine was that she had been told he was dead, and he had to consider the possibility that after the required one-year period of mourning had passed she might have wished to marry again. He found this thought repugnant and grimly thrust the unpleasant possibility and the complications associated with it from his mind, deciding that in her childlike devotion to him she would have remained loyal and would be waiting for him no matter what.

After two years’ deprivation he vowed never to take anything for granted again. He wanted to return to his home and cleanse himself of the filth of La Force, he wanted a life with meaning and a marriage filled with love. Beyond that he had only one more, less noble, aim in life—and that was to see the man who had tried to end his life consigned to hell. He wanted vengeance, and he would succeed in that goal if he himself expired in the process.

Chapter One

H ow 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.