Page 1 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

1

Gloucestershire, England. 1763

Loud, frantic pounding woke Clara Ballantine from an already shallow sleep.

She lay in bed for a moment, staring at the faded canopy overhead. What was that blasted sound? Where in pity’s name did it come from? Perhaps she’d dreamt it, which wouldn’t be unusual. Deep sleep often eluded her. The closer it grew to the full moon, the more she became restless and sensitive.

If she wasn’t mistaken, the full moon was tomorrow night. No wonder she had barely been able to manage a few minutes’ rest here and there.

When slumber had come, her dreams had been fraught with the same sneering, jeering faces and cold, stony silences that made her shudder and cower every night.

She was wide awake at the moment, listening carefully.

Whatever that pounding had been, it was gone now. She could attempt to edge sideways back into sleep, as she usually did each night, sneaking up on slumber as though it were a wild animal that might bolt at the slightest disturbance. Failing that, she’d make her way down the hall, with its missing portraits and partially empty display cabinets, past unoccupied bedrooms and parlors that hosted no one, then downstairs with its echoing dining room and silent salons, to arrive in the kitchens. Once there, she’d brew herself a cup of tea, then sit and wait for the sunrise. She’d done it before, but hopefully, tonight would be different. There was nowhere quite so lonely as a kitchen built for many, but only fed one person.

Her lids lowered as sleep crept towards her, then her eyes flew open again when the thudding started up once more. Stronger this time.

“Open up! We’ve need of your assistance!” A man’s slightly muffled voice echoed up the stairwell and down the corridor, piercing her solitary bedchamber.

Whoever it was stood outside the manor house’s front door. Judging by the loud thumps against the thick wood, he was impatient—and strong.

She cowered in the center of her mattress, making herself small. Pulling her faded quilt closer, she hoped it would cocoon and shield her.

If she ignored him, he’d go away. No one had trimmed the hedges in recent memory, and there were weeds poking up through the gravel in the driveway. One of the panes of mullioned glass in the front drawing room had been knocked out by a flying branch in last winter’s storm and never been replaced.

Hopefully, her house’s neglected appearance might make him believe the estate was deserted. The visitor would leave, and she could go back to living within the stagnant isolation that had marked her life for the last six years.

The pounding on the door continued, growing even more insistent.

“Have pity!” There was an edge of desperation in his voice. “I’ve an injured man here! He’ll surely die if he isn’t given some attention!”

That, she couldn’t ignore.

She leapt from her bed and grabbed the nightrail draped over the back of a chair. Stuffing her feet into her slippers, she threw on the robe before lighting a taper. She held the flickering light as she hurried from her bedchamber. Her hair was loose around her shoulders as she sped down the hallway.

Braiding your hair was for women who needed to look pretty in the morning. But there was no one to see Clara.

The pounding on the door continued as Clara rushed downstairs, nearly tripping in her haste, but she grabbed the railing to keep herself from crashing down the steps. After righting herself, she made it safely to the vaulted entryway. She paused on the other side of the door and drew in a shuddering breath. Her nightrail was threadbare and provided little coverage of her equally frayed nightgown. If anyone looked too closely, they’d clearly see the outline of her body beneath the serviceable linen. Nobody had ever taken much interest in her body, so they surely wouldn’t now.

Candle flame quivering from her trembling, she set her taper down on a small table next to the door. She couldn’t master her hands enough to stop their shaking, but at last she unfastened the locks and pulled the door open.

Immediately, a seething mass of people barreled inside and pushed her against the wall. She had a vague impression of several men, clad in greatcoats, their tricorn hats pulled low and shadowing their faces. They slammed and locked the door behind them. The entryway seemed filled with these men, they were everywhere, their voices gruff and harsh as they spoke to each other.

“—Got to lay him down⁠—”

“—We need a doctor⁠—”

“—No sawbones, we can’t risk it⁠—”

“—Hugh could die⁠—”

Four men milled in the entryway, and they carried another man between them. This man’s head lolled back, and his eyes were closed, but his teeth were bared in a grimace. Like the others, he wore a greatcoat, which was flung open to reveal his writhing torso, and, lower, his bloodstained leg.

“He’s been shot,” Clara murmured.

It was as though her words made the men realize that they weren’t alone. Their heads whipped toward her, their eyes piercing through the flickering shadows of the entryway.

She pressed herself against the wall, as if she could seep into the wood and disappear entirely.