Highwayman Husband. Helen Dickson

      

      “Why, my poor little wife, what is it?

      Are you telling me that you missed me after all?”

      To her consternation and fury, Laura felt her cheeks grow hot. Angrily she slapped his hands away. “I am not telling you anything of the sort. At least have the decency to explain to me where you have been for the past two years—and why you are cavorting about the county as a highwayman. Tell me!”

      “Trust me. I know exactly what I am doing, and why I am doing it.”

      “Then let us dispense with this conversation and go and tell Edward who you are, before that accomplice of yours shoots him.”

      Lucas’s fingers closed cruelly on her upper arm as she began to walk away. “Do not even consider doing that. Defy me on this and nothing would give me greater satisfaction than to make you regret it.”

      Highwayman Husband

      Helen Dickson

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       HELEN DICKSON

      was born in south Yorkshire and still lives there, with her husband, on a busy arable farm where she combines writing with keeping a chaotic farmhouse. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure, owing much of her inspiration to the beauty of the surrounding countryside. She enjoys reading and music. History has always captivated her, and she likes travel and visiting ancient buildings.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

       Prologue

      1792

       T he man stood at the prow of the small vessel as it smashed its way through the black, choppy water of the English Channel. His feet were slightly apart, his back straight, his hands clasped behind him. France was receding. England was within his sights.

      His features were quiet, intent. A sense of purpose filled his heart and mind and was etched in every line of his tall, lean frame. An aura of authority and power seemed to surround him, and he possessed a haughty reserve that was not inviting and set him apart from his fellow passengers and the crew. There was something about his eyes, shadowed with some deep-felt emotion and a mocking cynicism, as though he found the whole world a dubious place to be, that made others shrink from seeking his attention.

      Having been condemned by the tribunal in Paris, fully comprehending that nothing could possibly save him from the black prison of La Force, where he had been incarcerated to await the day of his execution, where torture and deprivation had driven him to the brink of madness, he had struggled to retain his grip on sanity for two whole years, sustaining himself by focusing his mind on escaping his prison and returning to his own fireside and his sweet young wife—and at the same time concentrating on his hatred for the man who had put him there. When freedom had come, unexpectedly, it had been received with relief and an indescribable joy, and he had lost no time in leaving France.

      In all his turbulent thoughts, in all the heated workings of his heart and mind, he had stood against resignation and mercifully his hold on life had remained strong. He was impatient to plant his feet on England’s soil. As if sensing the need in him, in an act of mercy and a desire to appease him, the wind chose that moment to stir and fill the sails and drive the vessel onward with a sprightly vigour. The man shuddered, having forgotten how cold the wind at sea could be. He turned his collar up, without relinquishing his gaze fixed on the distant shoreline—on England. His home.

      He envisioned his homecoming and considered the shock his return would be to those close to him—to his wife. How had his disappearance affected her? Was she devastated, tormented with grief and despair? One thing he did imagine was that she had been told he was dead, and he had to consider the possibility that after the required one-year period of mourning had passed she might have wished to marry again. He found this thought repugnant and grimly thrust the unpleasant possibility and the complications associated with it from his mind, deciding that in her childlike devotion to him she would have remained loyal and would be waiting for him no matter what.

      After two years’ deprivation he vowed never to take anything for granted again. He wanted to return to his home and cleanse himself of the filth of La Force, he wanted a life with meaning and a marriage filled with love. Beyond that he had only one more, less noble, aim in life—and that was to see the man who had tried to end his life consigned to hell. He wanted vengeance, and he would succeed in that goal if he himself expired in the process.

       Chapter One

       H ow the mind played strange tricks the moment darkness came to the moor and the traveller passed the lone gibbet at four land ends. The clanking and creaking of rusty chains as they moved in the wind encased the lifeless, decaying body of some poor wretch who had fallen foul of the law. Murderer, thief, highwayman or smuggler…what did it matter now he was dead? But he hung there, carrion for the birds, and for the entire world to see, a sordid warning to others—a grim reminder of what to expect for those who chose to follow the same path. This was a test for any man’s nerves who crossed the moor after dark.

      Night came quickly to this bleak, hostile landscape the night Laura Mawgan and her betrothed, Sir Edward Carlyle, travelled to Roslyn Manor on the south Cornish coast. They had been celebrating their betrothal at Edward’s home, Burfield Hall, with friends and neighbours. It had been an extremely grand affair and Edward had tried to persuade Laura to stay the night and return to Roslyn Manor the next day, but, young as she was, she had become used to making her own decisions, and had insisted on travelling home.

      On the moor there was no transition between light and dark. Ghostly shapes of rocks were awesome, etched against the night sky. With just the flickering coach lamps giving off a dull yellow glow there was insufficient light, the moon hidden behind thick cloud. Coming to high ground, they became enveloped in a dark, misleading mist in which one could get hopelessly lost, even those who believed they knew the moor.

      Amos, the driver, was determined not to be hindered by this sudden onset of mist, and the coach continued