Page 5 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

A soft chuckle resonated through the door, and it was low and husky. “Sounds delicious.”

At that murmured word, a shiver of sensation worked its way from the base of her spine up her neck. She shook it away.

“They always said that it was a childish and wasteful habit,” she said.

“They?”

Her lips thinned. “You really must go.”

“Hugh’s injured,” Desmond answered. “He can’t walk. The quicker we heal him, the quicker we’ll be on our way, and we’ll leave you in peace.”

“How bad is the injury?”

“Couldn’t say. I haven’t had the chance to examine him. But I’m no sawbones.”

“I am.” The words jumped from her.

There was a pause that seemed laden with shock. “You?”

“My father,” she confessed. “He was a physician. I assisted him with many of his patients. He taught me nearly everything a trained physician would know.”

“Then,” Desmond pressed, his voice urgent through the door, “you can help Hugh.”

At her sides, Clara’s hands squeezed into fists. “I…I don’t know.”

“Please.” The low earnestness in his words thrummed through her. “If you heal him⁠—”

“I never said I could do that. I’m only a physician’s daughter.” She moved closer to the door.

“You’re the only chance he has to recover. And,” Desmond added, “once he can walk again, we’ll be gone. You won’t be harmed,” he continued, as if he sensed the objection hovering on her lips. “I vow this, missus…what’s your name?”

His voice drew her nearer to the door. “Ballantine. Mrs. Clara Ballantine.”

“Mrs. Ballantine. I will do everything in my power to ensure that no harm will befall you.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a promise,” she replied. “There’s no guarantee in it.”

“As much as anything can be guaranteed in this changeable world,” Desmond said.

The deep, sonorous notes of his voice, tinged with the long vowels of the north, pulled her forward.

She laid her hand upon the door, and it was as though she could sense him through the wooden barrier, this highwayman who ate Yorkshire cakes with butter. He valued her mind enough not to cozen her with false promises. Comforting, in a way, that he would not outright lie, when that would have been the simpler option.

Her hand hovered over the lock. Staying in the attic wasn’t truly possible. But if she left its relative safety, she was at the mercy of the highwaymen. Desmond had said he would try to protect her.

She unlocked the door and pulled it open.

Desmond stood on the other side, a candlestick in his hand. His brows rose, in seeming surprise that she’d actually come out of the attic.

She blinked up at him. He stood only a few inches away from her, and she had to crane her neck to look into his face. She swallowed hard. This highwayman, this dangerous criminal who terrorized the roads and had invaded her home…he stole her ability to speak.

During her brief season in London, she’d been introduced to a number of eligible bachelors, some of them having been rapturously described in scandal sheets as the height of masculine comeliness. And they had been. Purposeful breeding between people of similar attractiveness had produced a few examples of good looks. Some nice chins. Some elegant noses. Some well-formed mouths. She’d even kissed a couple of them—not at once—and had found the experience pleasant but forgettable.

Arthur had been considered a handsome man, and she’d once thought herself exceptionally fortunate that a well-favored man of means would take an interest in her.

A leaden weight gathered in her stomach. She’d learned a hard lesson.

She really ought to take that lesson into consideration now, as she stared at highwayman Desmond Marsh. But her mouth went dry and her heart fluttered and she did all the unfortunate things a wise person shouldn’t do when in the presence of someone who looked like him.