Page 34 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

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“That was well done, Clara. Ferocious.”

As she walked deeper into the glasshouse, Desmond followed her.

She turned to face him. He looked every inch the roguish highwayman, with his dark hair loose about his shoulders, his deep blue eyes vivid beneath his brows. He was in his shirtsleeves, and without the impediment of his coat she had a marvelous view of the lean length of his body, his waistcoat close to his torso, the fabric snug to his chest and over his flat abdomen. His breeches clung to his taut thighs, and with his tall, cuffed boots, he was indeed a vision from a romantic ballad about gentlemen of the road.

Her senses were alive and sharp, keen after what had been one of the most harrowing, thrilling moments of her life—and that included dealing with a gang of highwaymen invading her home.

She pressed a hand to her pounding heart. “It’s difficult to believe I did that.”

“Indeed, you did.” He stopped a few feet away from her. His gaze was warm and appreciative. “You took a flame to those leeches and burned them off.”

“For years, years, I wanted to bar them entrance to my home. I never…I never felt I had the authority to.”

“This is your home. You’ve a right to refuse access to whomever you choose.”

“Is that so?” She arched a brow.

A grin tilted in the corner of his mouth. “Well, most everyone.” He crossed his arms over his chest, and the fabric of his shirt pulled against the solid forms of his shoulders. “A quick thinker, you are, coming up with such a ruse. The highwaymen become the force hunting the thieves.”

“Years of reading fables, I suppose, prepared me for spinning my own yarn.” She swatted his arm. “You nearly ruined it, telling the Ballantines that I chased the highwaymen off with a hunting musket. What a preposterous notion, that I could ever attempt something so bold.”

“Not so preposterous.” He captured her hand with his own. “Consider the way you’ve held your own against us, a gang of dangerous criminals.”

“Dangerous criminals who don’t fire their weapons until fired upon.” His skin was hot beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, the muscles of his arm firm and solid under her fingertips.

“We didn’t use to.” He glanced away, a troubled frown creasing his brow. “Things have changed. Cyrus changed.”

“Why?”

Desmond’s gaze met hers again, and a debate seemed to rage behind the blue of his eyes.

“The world never quite works out the way we hope it will,” he said at last.

It wasn’t precisely the answer she was looking for, but each crumb of his tale intrigued her more than the last. Clara yearned to know who this man was, so thoughtful, and yet he made his living robbing travelers. She’d no idea what in his life had brought him to this point.

“Was it a love match?” he asked abruptly. “You and your husband?”

Her brows rose again at the change of subject.

“As you said,” she answered, dropping her hand from him and moving toward the pear trees that lined one wall of the glasshouse, “the world never quite works out the way we hope it will. The Ballantine family had made their money in trade, and the rest of his kin…they were lovely. Comfortable with themselves and their position in society. But his parents…they seemed to think the ranks of the aristocracy were worth climbing. Which, as someone who was raised within those ranks, I know for certain that there’s little about the nobility that’s admirable or deserving of esteem.”

His mouth twisted, and he made no objection. Clearly, then, he had considerable experience with the gentry.

“My father had a paltry income as the third son of a viscount,” she went on. She selected a pear, its weight heavy in her hand, and picked it, then picked a second one. “Even less from his medical practice. But that was enough of a proximity to the elite that Arthur courted me assiduously. His parents thought that their son marrying me would somehow gain them entrance to glittering ballrooms and elegant dinner soirees. They were particularly hopeful that, when I conceived a child, the babe would cement their entre into society. But you see…”

Her smile was wry as she handed one of the pears to Desmond. “I never conceived. I went a year, two years, and never got with child. And if they were cold to me before my failure to give their son an heir, well, afterwards…”

She shrugged, and took a bite of the pear. Its musky sweetness filled her mouth, and she focused on the flavor. Better that than revisit the sneering faces of Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine, calling Clara a fiasco and a disappointment, and bitterly lamenting Arthur’s fate, trapped in marriage to such a failure.

Desmond held the pear but didn’t eat. His attention was entirely on her.

She ate in meditative silence for a moment, but the taste of the pear had turned to ash, and she set it aside.

“The worst of it,” she said, her throat thick, “was Arthur’s utter silence. He never interceded, never defended me. Just sat there, letting his mother and father harangue me for hours. He even looked bored by it all, by my utter humiliation, as though it was taking him away from something he’d much rather be doing.”

Desmond dropped the pear, and his steps were quick as he moved to stand beside her. “I would’ve plowed my fist into the old man’s gut. I never countenance hurting a woman, but Mrs. B. would have surely tried that dictate.”