Highwayman Husband. Helen Dickson

away from him. ‘You must think I am very stupid.’

      He merely looked up at her and raised an eyebrow questioningly. ‘I hope you’re not feeling disappointed because you’ve had to break off your engagement. I didn’t take you for a romantic.’

      Ignoring the irony of the remark, Laura mastered her anger sufficiently to say, ‘You have no idea what I am like.’

      A wicked smile tempted his lips. ‘Maybe not as well as I should after two years of marriage, but I am looking forward to getting to know you better.’

      It was on the tip of Laura’s tongue to retort that the last thing in the world she wanted was for him to do that, but when she looked across at him her heart skipped a beat. He was lounging back against the cushions, his muscled chest partly revealed through his open shirt. With his black, slightly curly and dishevelled hair, ruggedly chiselled features and a slumberous expression in his eyes, she thought he was the most handsome man she had ever seen.

      When she finally brought herself to speak, instead of the harsh rejoinder she intended, all she said was, ‘Then you’ll have to be patient. My knowledge of marriage is limited, as well you know—three days, to be exact.’

      Lucas stirred impatiently, about to utter a cutting remark, but when he gazed at her from beneath his lowered eyelids he could see how tense she was, and that her deep blue eyes glaring defiance at him were shining with pain that he and Edward Carlyle had caused. He was touched despite himself by her youth, and perhaps also by some private scruples. She had an innocence and warm femininity that touched a deep chord inside him.

      ‘Sit down, Laura, and stop glaring at me.’

      Wanting to appear haughty and coldly remote, Laura was taken aback by his unexpected gentleness and completely at a loss as to how to answer. Repressing her irrational annoyance over his conduct towards her earlier, she reluctantly did as he bade and seated herself across from him, perching uncomfortably on the edge of the chair.

      Lucas looked across at his lovely young wife in her provocative blue gown, her face both delicate and fine with stormy dark blue eyes and soft lips. The candles’ glow shone on her proud head with its crown of shining curls as black as his own. His conscience reminded him that his conduct towards her earlier had been inexcusable and unfair.

      No longer feeling the injured party—which was exactly how he’d felt when he’d discovered Laura had become affianced to Carlyle in his absence—he studied her calmly, impressed by what he saw. When he’d made her his wife and brought her to Roslyn she’d been hoping for a lifetime of happiness, and all he’d given her was three days followed by two years of widowhood.

      She had truly believed he was dead and yet, according to John, the courageous girl had stayed at Roslyn and valiantly kept things going. He would be eternally grateful to her for the loyalty she had shown at such a difficult time in her young life. And yet he couldn’t blame her for wanting to move on. Besides, he wouldn’t have wanted her to wear widow’s weeds for the rest of her life. She was far too lovely to hide herself away.

      And yet he did wonder how audacious Carlyle had been regarding his courtship of Laura. The mere idea of his wife lying in Carlyle’s bed was enough to splinter his emotions from all rational control. At any other time and with a woman other than his wife he would have shrugged it off. But this wasn’t another time and Laura was his wife. John, sensing his unease on this matter, had tactfully told him that she had resided not one night at Burfield Hall, and that Carlyle’s visits to the manor had been infrequent and of short duration, and always during daylight hours. And yet Lucas was not reassured by this.

      ‘Tell me something,’ he said softly. ‘How do you like living at Roslyn?’

      ‘I like it very well. I’ve come to love the house and everyone in it.’

      ‘And yet you were going to leave it to wed Carlyle. What do you think he would have done with it, Laura?’

      His words were calmly spoken, but Laura heard an edge to his voice. ‘I—I don’t know. We never discussed it.’

      Lucas shifted to a more comfortable position, propping one booted foot casually atop the opposite knee. ‘Why don’t you sit back and relax? You look like a rabbit about to bolt down the nearest hole. You’re spoiling the atmosphere.’

      ‘I am?’

      ‘Yes, the atmosphere I was enjoying before you came in, which was warm—quiet. For me it was…’ He fell silent and stared intently into the glowing heart of the fire, his eyes fixed on something invisible, something way beyond the confines of the room.

      Easing herself into a more comfortable position, Laura looked at him in surprise. There was something in the clear depths of his eyes that she did not recognise, something mysterious—sinister, even, that eluded all her understanding. For a moment he seemed to forget where he was. ‘What are you thinking?’ she asked quietly.

      Abruptly he came back to earth and said harshly, ‘You couldn’t understand.’

      ‘I—might. I’m a good listener—so I’m told.’

      He smiled suddenly, that crooked smile Laura remembered of old. His light grey eyes rested warmly on her face, the fire having turned her cheeks a soft pink. ‘I’m sure you are.’

      They fell silent, each preoccupied with their own thoughts and content to listen to the wind buffeting the great house on its high perch above the sea. Seated thus, Laura felt a strange sense of security she had not felt in a long time. She could not believe Lucas was here with her. Was it an illusion—a figment of her imagination? she asked herself.

      She let her mind drift back over two years, remembering how it had been between them that one and only night she had lain with him as his wife. In a new home surrounded by strangers, she had had no one to answer the frightening turmoil of questions about the night ahead.

      At thirty years old and having made love to many women, a paragon of virtue Lucas was not. Before they had married Laura had already fallen in love with her husband-to-be. She was not foolish enough to think the feeling was reciprocated, and nor was she naïve enough to believe she knew how to make him happy. But she had desperately wanted to—somehow—and she had been determined to find out how to accomplish it.

      Lucas having made no attempt to consummate their marriage at any of the posting inns on the way to Cornwall, when they had reached Roslyn Manor and the moment had finally come Laura had yielded helplessly to the hot, searing need within her, while a nameless panic began to take hold of her. Lucas had taken her quickly, dutifully, and without endearment, with no thought to her immaturity and innocence, and after he had withdrawn from her he had rolled away and gone to sleep. It had been nothing more than the joining together of any man and his wife. Duty or pleasure, the thing was done.

      Too stunned to move, Laura had lain looking up at the shadows playing with the light on the ceiling, struggling with disappointment. She had felt so miserable she had wept at her husband’s absolute detachment. If that was love she could not understand why they made so much fuss about it in story books. It had left her with a feeling of disgust combined with a strong sense of frustration.

      Gazing across at him now, Laura could not believe the man she saw was the same man who had left her bed with the dawn and immediately embarked for France. Suddenly she saw his expression gentle, and she was sure she could see approval in his inscrutable eyes. ‘Why did you want to hide from me?’ she asked.

      ‘I didn’t. I just wanted to lie low for a while.’

      ‘But why? Has it something to do with you being a thief—a common highwayman? Why have you taken to the life of a High Toby?’

      As he observed how seriously concerned she looked Lucas’s composure slipped and he laughed outright, a rich, deep sound that reminded Laura of thick velvet. She realised that when he did that he seemed younger, much younger than when his face was in repose.

      ‘I’m sure you will be relieved when I tell you that I am not a highwayman. Tonight was the first time—and the last—that