Royal's Bride. Kat Martin

to get my bearings.”

      He reached over and helped her adjust the pillows.

      “Thank you. I appreciate your care of me, Your Grace. When the highwaymen attacked, I wasn’t sure I would ever reach this place alive.”

      Instead of leaving as he had planned, he sat down in the chair beside the bed. “Tell me what happened.”

      Jocelyn nibbled her lush bottom lip and Royal felt a stirring in his loins it was far too soon to feel.

      “I am not completely certain. It all happened so quickly. The coach was rolling toward the house and of a sudden I heard men shouting, then the sound of galloping horses.”

      “Go on,” he gently urged.

      “I leaned out the window and saw them. They were pounding down on us, four men, each wearing a cloth tied over his nose and mouth. They had almost reached us when the carriage hit a patch of ice. I remember the coach tipping sideways. I remember seeing the doors fly open. That is the last I recall.”

      He squeezed her hand. “It is over now. Do not think of it anymore. Just try to get some rest.”

      She smiled at him so sweetly his chest tightened. “I’m immensely grateful you came along when you did. If you hadn’t, I should probably still be lying out there, frozen utterly stiff by now.”

      He smiled. “But I found you and now you are safe.”

      She gave him a last soft smile and her eyes slowly closed. Royal resisted an urge to lean over and press his lips against her forehead. “Sleep well, Miss Caulfield.”

      Her lovely pale green eyes popped open. “Oh, I am terribly sorry for the misunderstanding, Your Grace. But you see, I am not Miss Caulfield. I am her cousin—Miss Lily Moran.”

      Royal stalked down the hall toward his study. He shoved open the door and walked straight to the sideboard, dragged the crystal stopper out of a decanter of brandy and poured himself a liberal drink.

      Upending the glass, he swallowed the burning liquid in one big gulp, hissed out a breath and poured another, then turned and started toward the fire blazing in the hearth.

      “As you rarely imbibe before nightfall and not much even then, I take it your day has not got off to a very promising start.”

      Royal’s head jerked toward the sound of his best friend’s voice. Sheridan Knowles, Viscount Wellesley, lounged in a deep leather chair in front of the fire.

      “So far, it’s been a rotter.”

      “I heard about the brigands. Greaves says your lady was in the carriage that was attacked. I hope she is all right.”

      “The lady is going to be fine. Unfortunately, she is not mine.”

      Sherry sat forward in his chair, a tall man with light brown hair and a slightly long, aristocratic nose. His eyes were green, but a far more brilliant shade than the soft color belonging to the woman upstairs.

      One of Sherry’s finely arched eyebrows went up. “An interesting statement. Care to explain?”

      Royal sighed. “The woman in the carriage was not Jocelyn Caulfield. Her name is Lily Moran and she is Jocelyn’s cousin.”

      “I see … Well, actually, I don’t understand a’tall. What exactly is your future fiancée’s cousin doing here instead of your unofficial fiancée?”

      “Apparently, Miss Moran acts as companion to Miss Caulfield. She came ahead to prepare things for her cousin and Mrs. Caulfield.”

      “Prepare things …? She sounds more like a servant than a companion.”

      Royal took a drink of his brandy, felt the comforting burn. “I am not exactly sure what role she plays. I only know she is beautiful and gentle and if I am to be married, I should have been happy to take her to wife.”

      “Ah, I think I am beginning to see.” Sheridan rose gracefully from the chair, walked over and poured himself a brandy. “After meeting the lady, you had begun to resign yourself to the inevitable. Now you are back where you started, uncertain what might lay ahead.”

      “I suppose that’s about it.”

      Sheridan slid the stopper back into the decanter, making the crystal ring. “Best to think positively. You were satisfied merely with the cousin. Perhaps your future bride will be far more beautiful and even more to your liking.”

      But Royal didn’t think so. There was something about Lily Moran that had struck him from the moment he had laid eyes on her lying there in the snow. The feeling had grown stronger as he had witnessed her worry for the coachman and sensed her gentleness, a quality that would have complemented his more aggressive nature. And of course there was the powerful physical attraction he had felt the instant he lifted her into his arms.

      He would have to subdue it. He would soon be betrothed to another. Miss Lily Moran was never meant to be his.

      Royal lifted his glass and downed a goodly portion of his brandy.

      “So what of the highwaymen?” Sherry asked. “That is the reason I am here. As soon as the coachman reached the village, word spread like a snowstorm. As there was also an incident last month, I thought perhaps we should discuss what might be done.”

      Sheridan lived at Wellesley Hall, his country estate, lands that bordered Bransford to the east. Royal and his brothers had grown up with Sherry, who was Royal’s same age. They’d been chums at Oxford, both of them members of the school’s famous eight-man sculling team. Royal and Sherry and four others of the eight had remained close friends ever since. The other two team members had joined the military but still kept in touch as much as they could.

      Sherry had even traveled to Barbados for an extended visit when he realized Royal did not intend a quick return home.

      “I had hoped the first robbery might be an anomaly,” Royal said. “I hoped the men might take their ill-gotten gains and hie themselves off somewhere to spend it, never to be seen or heard from again.”

      “Apparently that is not the case.”

      “No, apparently not.”

      “The sheriff has already been informed. He will probably wish to pay a call on your … excuse me, on Miss Moran.”

      Royal glanced upward, as if he could see through the ceiling into her bedroom. “I’ll tell her. At the moment, she is still not feeling well enough for visitors.”

      “And the robbers?”

      “It’s been a month since their last attack. I doubt they will strike again anytime soon. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to organize some sort of nightly patrol.”

      “Good idea. I’ll see to it myself. My men will take the first two weeks. If nothing happens, yours can take the next.”

      Royal nodded. He felt better knowing the roads would be protected. He did, after all, still have a bride making her way to his house.

      Royal swore softly and swallowed the last of his drink.

      Lily slept the rest of the day and didn’t awaken until the following morning. She glanced toward the window to see a dense layer of clouds hanging low in a gray-purple sky and a spray of white flakes floating down to earth. Noticing she lay in a huge four-poster bed and the walls of the room were a soft pale green instead of the cream color of her room at Meadowbrook, her mind spun, trying to recall exactly where she was.

      Then it all came tumbling back: the trip to the country, the highwaymen and the overturned carriage.

      The Duke of Bransford coming to her rescue.

      His image came sharply into focus and her heart began thrumming as she remembered her first sight of him. Kneeling beside her, against the white of the snow, he looked like a tall, golden angel come to earth. If her head hadn’t been pounding like the very devil, she might have believed she was dead.

      Even