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61

He rode the gelding at a ground eating pace. It had not all been a lie. During the night he had lain awake most of the time and he’d come up with a plan to break into his ancestral estate.

It was the only chance to find the authentic papers, which would prove him to be the true heir and that the estate had never been entailed by any back taxes.

André had never tried to get inside the house since Sheriff Snowden had laid claim to it.

But time was running out. His finances were suffering, and the estate itself showed signs of neglect. Apparently, the sheriff thought an estate took care of itself and the tenants and servants would do their chores without any guidance.

It was well past noon when Emerald Hills loomed ahead. He’d eaten the food the Bellingshire cook had packed for him, but he was already famished again. He grinned. He would probably be late for the noon meal, but if he took the shortcut through the copse of trees at the westernmost edge of the estate, he would cut off some valuable time.

The gelding responded well to André’s guiding hands, but it took more of his concentration than it would with Rebel, since his own horse had galloped through the copse many a time.

He’d barely entered the thick stand of trees, when he heard the rush of hooves behind him. He twisted around in his saddle and saw three riders gain on him. Their faces obscured by dark masks. He fumbled for the gun in his belt. There was precious little time to react. Bloody hell, he hadn’t expected this—and he should have.

He aimed his gun at the nearest rider, but his gelding shied and the shot went wide.

Cursing, André grabbed for his sword, but he knew he was too late and outnumbered. His last thought was that no one would miss him. No one expected him back at Emerald Hills and no one would worry at Bellingshire. Then everything went black as a heavy cudgel caught him across the back of his head.

André did not hear the nasty chuckles as the three riders crowded around him.

“He went down like a sack of autumn potatoes, lads. Good work.”

“Should we bring his mount along, gov’ner?”

“Naw, the stupid beast isn’t one from around here. I noticed the strange markings on its saddle, so let’s just take the saddle. If anyone finds him, it’ll take days to locate its owner and by then I’ll see that justice is done.

André woke up to a pounding headache. He slowly cracked an eyelid open, afraid light might intensify the pain. Darkness. He snapped both eyes open with a start. Where the hell was he? He sniffed experimentally and wrinkled his nose. The place stank of moldy hay.

“Merde,” he muttered. Instinctively, he felt the need to cradle his throbbing head. As he tried to lift his hands, he realized that he was manacled hand and foot to some kind of cot. Shock held him momentarily immobile as he continued to stare into the impenetrable blackness.

Awareness came flooding back on a rush of adrenaline. He remembered the sudden charge of hooves, the way the three riders had converged on him. Damn, they’d been lying in wait. But why didn’t they just steal his valuables and leave him in the copse? He could not have identified them, since they’d worn masks and none of them had uttered a word.

Wide awake now, his heart slammed painfully against his chest. The uncertainty of not knowing why he was imprisoned and shackled to a pallet gave way to a brief panic. He could feel sweat break out all over his body and he clenched his hands in powerless rage.

It would gain him nothing to struggle. He was trussed like a Christmas hen. Panic would not improve the circumstances he found himself in. He willed his breathing to slow and suppressed the feeling by taking stock of his person.

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62

With a sigh of relief he registered that his captors had left him fully clothed. He experimentally wriggled his toes in his knee high boots, just to be sure. But his relief didn’t last long, because the thought niggled at the back of his brain that even in well kept cellars like his own, or Emerald Hills, rats would find a way in. The buggers knew no fear. He’d heard of people being eaten alive by rats, if they were bound and helpless.

Revulsion almost pushed him over the edge. A scream hovered on his lips, but he gave himself a mental shake. It would not do to surrender to his terror. It would be as fruitless as his struggle against his shackles.

Breathing deeply, he managed to regain a smidgen of control. So, what options did he have? He snorted in disdain. He had no options. Until he knew who had captured him and why, he could not make any plans.

Merde, he was on his own. No one expected him at Emerald Hills. It could take days before the Mowbrays decided to leave Bellingshire, and there was no guarantee they would even ask about him once they arrived back at Thomas’s mansion.

Frustrated, he struggled once again against the manacles, but after a few moments he dropped his head to the pallet in defeat. But he could not dismiss the thought that other poor souls had been tied to this very cot in this putrid hell hole, helplessly awaiting their fate.

He must have dozed, because suddenly he became aware of someone bending over him, shining a lantern into his face.

“Wake up, your highness.” The words were uttered with contempt and followed with a sharp kick to his ribs.

André grunted in pain as he squinted against the bright light. His chest heaved with the helpless fury that coursed through him. Damn, he couldn’t even shield his eyes.

“What do you want from me?” He forced himself to keep any inflection out of his voice.

Don’t let his captor know the utter terror he felt.

A

malicious

chuckle

sounded above him. “Ah, it’s good to see you trussed up like a Christmas goose. And you’ll end up as dead as one. Thought you were so smart, didn’t you, Villeneuve?

“I do admit that it took me some time to piece it all together. I was puzzled why the holdups by that highwayman never resulted in any robberies. You see I have my spies. Of course, it was a stroke of luck that we happened to be at that copse, when you came riding through.”

“Snowden.” It was not a question, but André just realized, who kept him imprisoned and where. He was held in his own immense cellars that spread in a tentacle-like maze under Greenbriar. Even if someone knew their way, they would have a hard time finding him. A frisson of despair skittered up his spine.

Snowden delivered another vicious kick to his midriff, his mouth curling into a malicious smile. “So you figured where you are?”

André compressed his lips and took a deep surreptitious breath to contain the moan that hovered at the back of his throat. Drawing on his reserves, he stared up at his jailer with undisguised contempt. “What do you want with me? You’ve already stolen my estate. What more is there?”

Snowden kicked him again, trying to goad André into trying to fight back. “It’s never been your estate. And it never will be again. This is English country. It should never go to a foreign bastard like you.”

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63

André wanted to point out that all kinds of people lived in other countries and owned property there. Besides, his mother had been full-blooded English, Greenbriar her girlhood home. He knew it would not get him anywhere, so he clamped his mouth shut and waited for the next kick.

Snowden leaned closer. “You’ve been a thorn in my side for months now. I am going to make an example of you.” He chuckled evilly. “I know I could let you starve down here and the rats would eventually take care of the remains of your carcass. But I have a better plan for you.

I will have you hanged. Once I expose you for the notorious highwayman that endangered our countryside, no one will feel any sympathy toward you. They’ll be glad to attend the hanging.”

André briefly thought that hanging couldn’t be any worse than being tied up and used as a punching bag. He didn’t know how much longer he could cling to consciousness.

“I see you don’t deny that you are that highwayman, who’s been holding up coaches. It wouldn’t do you any good anyway. As I said, I have my spies. And they found your hideaway.”

André’s heart skipped a beat. Good God, had anything happened to Stuart?

“You know Despard, you wouldn’t make a good actor. Your feelings show. I can see it in your eyes that you worry about that manservant of yours. Well, by now he should have bled to death. He did put up a valiant fight. I never would have expected it of his kind.”

He cocked his head to the side as if he were conducting a normal conversation. “Just how do you manage to inspire such loyalty, Villeneuve?” He spat on the ground. “He would have never eluded us, if it weren’t for that brutish black stallion of yours. Once we’ll find him, we’ll be all set. He’ll help us prove your criminal activity. And I promise you that once I get my hands on that beast, I’ll break his spirit with my whip.”

André felt the bile rise in his throat. The thought of the stallion in Snowden’s hands made him physically ill. God, if only he could get up. “Was it one of your spies, who sold me the wrong information about my solicitor being on that coach?”

Snowden reared his head in laughter. “You’ll never find the old man. Your solicitor is sharing your aunt’s grave. The stupid woman refused to sign Greenbriar over to me, but when I threatened to kill the solicitor, she meekly put her name to the paper. I used the same ruse on the old geezer. He thought he was saving your aunt and she figured she was saving him.” He guffawed.

“Once I had the papers in my hand I helped your aunt down the main staircase.” He winked. “She was spryer than I expected. The old bird refused to die. I finally had to put a pillow over her face, but don’t worry, the servants were told she died peacefully in her sleep.

The solicitor was easier. I caught him riding toward Bristol, probably wanted to expose me to the authorities there, so I put a bullet through his brain.”

Bile rose into André’s throat. His gentle aunt murdered and the solicitor killed just as mercilessly. His chest heaved with fury. He struggled against the chains holding him down.

“You foul bastard. You’ll rot in hell for this.”

Snowden’s face contorted with hatred. Holding his lantern a little higher, he delivered a last vicious kick. He smirked, when he heard the crunch of bones and saw André’s eyes close in a dead faint.

At the door he turned and though he knew André couldn’t hear him, he ranted, “There is nothing you can do, you foreign piece of offal. Greenbriar is mine and you will soon follow your simple-minded aunt into oblivion.” He exited and slammed the door behind him.

The cell was thrown once more into pitch darkness.

STORMY HEIDE KATROS

64

Stormy fought against the last vestiges of a nightmare. She woke up panting from exertion, her whole body damp with sweat. Thrashing her covers aside, she looked wildly around the room. It took her several minutes, before she remembered that she was a guest at Bellingshire.

There was a short knock at the door to her bedroom. Before she could muster the words to enter her mother walked in. She hurried toward the bed and sat on the edge. Reaching out, she stroked the damp curls from her daughter’s face. Peering into her wide, panic stricken eyes, she asked, “Are you all right, Stormy? Your father and I heard your screams.”

Wordlessly she threw herself into her mother’s embrace, burying her face into her neck, while she shuddered with remembered terror.

Alarmed, Annemarie drew back, giving her a gentle shake. “I gather you had a very bad nightmare, sweetheart. Let’s talk about it. It will make it seem less real.”

Stormy tilted her head to stare into her mother’s eyes, aware that they were so much like her own. Her voice quivered. “It seems silly now that you are here, mother. I had this horrid dream about André. I can barely stand the man’s presence, mind you. But someone was holding him prisoner in a dark cell and threatened to hang him.” She attempted to laugh, but it fell short of humor. Embarrassed, she pulled away from her mother. “Now that I spoke about it aloud, it is even sillier.”

Dawn rapidly gained momentum and gave off just enough light to lend the lie to Stormy’s story. Annemarie almost smiled. She had seen the smoldering looks that passed between her daughter and the dashing Frenchmen. Hadn’t she denied her feelings for Trevor for the longest after they first met? But she wasn’t about to let Stormy know that she had noticed their attraction for each other.

“When you were but a few minutes old, your father tried to convince me that you were fey. I laughed it off, though I am almost certain that my own mother had the gift to see into the future. Although it seems far-fetched in the light of morning, what if you saw something in this dream that is quite real? What if André were truly in trouble? Even if you can’t stand the sight of the fop, I would think you wouldn’t want him to come to any harm?”

Stormy thought that over for a moment. She regarded her mother through brooding eyes.

“André is no fop. If I told you a secret, would you keep it to yourself?”

Annemarie did not hesitate. She had enjoyed more than a mother/daughter relationship with her own mother and learned that confidences were sacred. “I will not even confide in your father, if that is what you wish.”

Stormy took a deep breath. “That highwayman, you remember? .... ” She let the sentence hang for a second, but she did not miss the acknowledging flicker of recognition in her mother’s expression. “André is that highwayman.”

She took a deep breath and tried to gauge her mother’s reaction. “I found out just the other day, by accident. I swore I would never divulge his secret. Apparently, the local sheriff wrested André’s estate from him, while he saw to business in France. He claimed there had been STORMY HEIDE KATROS