Page 4 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“Madam,” came a man’s voice. Then, “My lady?”

Clara froze.

A sliver of light shone beneath the door, interrupted by the dark shapes of booted feet.

Say nothing, she commanded herself. Don’t move.

“Please, my lady,” the voice said again in a northern accent. Was it Des? “I mean you no harm. But I don’t plan on leaving. Not until you’ve come out of there.”

“That sounds as though you do intend me harm,” she answered.

“It’s not my plan to hurt you.”

She wanted to believe the sincerity in his words, but that was surely his plan. Lull her with false earnestness and vows, then lure her out.

“That man, what was his name? Cyrus? He said to kill me.”

A low curse sounded. “He’s…rash. He’s our leader, but his word’s not law with us. We’ve got no king. We decide everything as a pack. None of us wish to harm you.”

“He does.”

“If Cyrus tries anything, anything at all, he’ll have to go through me. I swear it.”

She put a hand to her pounding heart, willing it to calm so she might think of some way to extricate herself from this horrendous situation.

“It’s all very well for you to make avowals,” she said, tremulously, “and swear up and down that you’ll be my stalwart defender, but you’re not trustworthy. You’re a highwayman.”

“It’s a job, like any other.”

“Blacksmiths seldom carry pistols. Coopers usually don’t threaten to kill people.” At his silence, she persisted, “I don’t know you at all. Until half an hour ago, you were an utter stranger. You still are an utter stranger, capable of anything.”

“My name’s Desmond Marsh,” he said after a pause. “Des, to those close to me. I’m five and thirty years of age, I’m originally from Leeds, and my favorite thing to eat is Yorkshire cakes split and served with butter and salt.”

She pressed her fingertips to her lips, but they wanted to curve into a smile.

“What of you, my lady?” he asked in the silence.

“What of me? And it isn’t my lady. Plain old missus will do.”

“Is there a mister?”

Clara said nothing, then, “He’s away. On business. In fact,” she added quickly, “he’ll be back in the morning, so it’s best you all clear out before he arrives.”

“Begging your pardon, missus, but I can’t think of a man alive who’d travel and leave his wife all alone without a single servant to protect her.”

“I do have servants,” she insisted.

“I don’t want to call you a liar, missus, but the looks of this house show that there’s nobody here. Except you.”

She squeezed her eyes shut. Damn this Desmond for being so perceptive.

“Tell me, then, missus,” he continued, as if he hadn’t just obliterated any hope she had of ridding herself of his gang of highwaymen, and proven that he knew quite well how vulnerable she was, “what’s your favorite thing to eat?”

“Marmalade,” she said after a moment.

“Just…marmalade? You must put it on buns or bread.”

“Straight from the spoon,” she admitted.