The Highwayman Read online

  Table of Contents

  The Highwayman

  Book Details

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Bonus Short

  About the Author

  The Highwayman

  Deceived No. 2

  MEGAN DERR

  Though he is his father's heir, Bartholomew spends most of his time doing a whole lot of nothing, constantly reminded that his father doesn't need his help, and his siblings definitely don't want it.

  When he receives word that the village back home is being plagued by a highwayman, Bart leaps at the chance to prove to his family that he can handle more responsibility, that's he's more than an irritating older brother always getting in the way.

  But upon his arrival, the home he remembers so fondly seems long gone, replaced by strangers, murder, and an old friend who seems to be only a pale, sad shadow of the boy Bart used to know…

  The Highwayman

  Deceived 2

  By Megan Derr

  Published by Less Than Three Press LLC

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher, except for the purpose of reviews.

  Edited by Samantha M. Derr

  Cover designed by Aisha Akeju

  This book is a work of fiction and all names, characters, places, and incidents are fictional or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.

  Second Edition June 2018

  First Edition published in Deceived October 2011

  Copyright © 2018 by Megan Derr

  Printed in the United States of America

  Digital ISBN 9781684312719

  Print ISBN 9781684312726

  One

  Bartholomew handed off his horse to the footman who descended the steps, taking the stairs swiftly and briefly greeting the ever-tolerant family butler, Willow, before heading directly to his father's study. He knocked briskly, and then let himself inside. However, rather than an agitated, restless figure beset by dire troubles for which he'd felt compelled to summon his eldest son straight from his club… Bart only found his father as he would on most nights: behind his desk, hidden by mountains of books and other miscellany, the scent of paper and leather mingling with wax and ink and tea.

  In fact, he was so lost in his latest book that he did not even look up as Bart strode across the deep green and burgundy rug dominating most of the floor of his father's study and library.

  He had a sinking feeling about who had actually summoned him, which meant that he knew how this interview was about to go…but damned if he could keep himself from trying anyway. He cleared his throat, which finally forced his father to look up, the bushy white eyebrows vanishing into equally bushy white hair. "Father, you sent Phelps to fetch me from my club? A matter of some urgency? "

  His father snorted. "Rubbish—I've done no such thing. Who left your mother unsupervised again? I told her I had matters well in hand. "

  "Whatever it is, you know that I am more than happy to help. Why did mother send for me via you?" She simply could have summoned him herself, instead of ordering the poor footman to lie. Honestly, his family gave him headaches.

  "Rubbish," his father repeated firmly, flicking his fingers and reaching for his tea, before bending back over his book. "It's only a trifle; your mother should learn to take up needlework or something."

  Bart almost smiled. Other couples exchanged endearments and fond looks—his parents traded insults and glares. Still, love was love.

  Thinking about such things only worsened his mood. It had been foul to start, but had actually brightened at the thought that his father needed him for something… only to find that he did not and his mother was up to her scheming again. Really, he should have known better. Nobody ever wanted his help with anything.

  Stifling a sigh, he tried again. "Father, is something wrong with Cris or Lane?" Perhaps Abby, Lane's wife, was struggling with her pregnancy…no, if that were the case, his mother would have pretended to be Lane.

  The sour feeling that was always present in Bart's gut suddenly increased and he fought it down. His father only grunted, and Bart gave up. Choking back bitter, angry words, he made his way back to the main hall.

  The sound of laughter brought Bart's head up and he watched his brother Crispin and his lover, Jude, descending the grand staircase. He turned away before they felt obligated to speak with him. Crispin and everyone else might declare him overbearing, overprotective, interfering, and just generally aggravating—but he was the one who had made Jude realize it was him that Crispin loved in the end, hadn't he? Only to receive a tongue-lashing for his efforts.

  Bart was sorely tempted to leave and bugger all of them. His mood had been foul before, but he'd been warm and comfortable and alone. Now he was downright miserable and wanted only to retreat, but the same damned habits that always got him yelled at compelled him yet again to interfere. His mother had summoned him under pretense, which meant that she knew something was wrong, but not what and she did not think that she would figure it out anytime soon. She was also the only one who understood how Bart felt and was likely trying to help in her own interfering way.

  Bart made for the front door—but with his hand on the door, guilt and his ever burning need to help took control. Instead of retreating, he turned and vanished into the back of the townhouse to see Willow, who precisely where he was always to be found at this hour, when the house was quiet: at a table in the kitchen, sipping tea and gossiping like a fishwife with the cook.

  "Willow, a moment of your time."

  "Of course, my lord," Willow said, but did not rise. They had long ago moved past such trifling formalities. Willow smiled. "How can I be of service?"

  "Did anyone come to visit my father today? He's being his usual self."

  Willow chuckled. "Watkins came rushing in this morning with an urgent matter for his Lordship. He's not to speak about it to the rest of the household, of course."

  Bart snorted and took a seat, absently thanking the cook—Gina—for the cup of tea she pushed toward him. "So what did he not tell you, then?"

  "Apparently a highwayman has cropped up in the wood just past the Ford Bridge, Lord Bartholomew. The village has been attempting to tend to the matter itself, but it seems that someone took serious injury four nights ago, and so they felt compelled to inform His Lordship."

  A highwayman. People were getting hurt back home and his father did not think Bart needed to be told? Did his father have so little faith in him?

  The tea Bart had sipped suddenly tasted stale on his tongue, making the sour feeling in his stomach worse. He was three and thirty and no matter what he did, how he tried to help…everyone preferred that he go away and stop being a bother. If he could figure out how properly to behave, didn't they think he would do so in a moment? His family loved him, he never doubted that for a moment. Unfortunately, he had realized long ago that love and like did not necessarily go hand-in-hand. His carefully weighed conclusion was that while his family loved him, they did not like him.

  Still, Bart had to try in the only way he knew. He was the heir, the next head of the family—it was his duty to take care of everyone, to see to their health and happiness. Damn it, he could do that—if only his father would finally let him! Hadn't he made certain that damnable rake did not wrong Crispin? Had he not made Lane spill his wine so he would be forced to talk to the woman who was now his wife? Did he not—

&
nbsp; Oh, why could they not have left him alone to get over his sulk in his own way? Now he would be brooding through most of tomorrow.

  "Tell me more of this highwayman," Bart requested, eager to help and to distract himself. He listened carefully as Willow recounted all that he'd learned from Watkins, a servant back at the family seat in the country.

  Four weeks now, the highwayman had been operating. He rarely harmed anyone, and if he did it was only after they attacked him and more the result of misfortune. But then that had abruptly changed: he'd shot someone four days ago, wounding the man's arm—and not just any man, but the son of the local Constable.

  Bart drummed his fingers against the table as Willow finished speaking. His father, no doubt, had written several sharp letters dictating how the matter was to be handled. Very likely he would concoct some mad scheme to return home if the matter worsened.

  There was nothing for it, then. Bart would have to return home and take care of the highwayman himself. It would keep his father from handling things he should not be handling at his age, especially with his knee and back problems, and perhaps the damned man would finally see that he could trust more of managing the family to Bart.

  Thanking Willow and Gina and bidding them a good night, Bart left the kitchen and made his way back to the main hall. He could hear laughter spilling from one of the front parlors; from the sounds of it, Jude and Crispin were playing a game of cards with his mother.

  Tomorrow was Sunday, when the family always gathered for a private meal, to talk and relax and avoid outside concerns. Of late, it had become an exercise in humiliation. Wasn't there some rule that the eldest child should be happy and settled before his younger siblings? If not, then there should be; Bart failed to see how it was fair that Crispin and Lane both got to be in love and his parents were able to still cheerfully bicker away, while he interfered and bellowed so that they wouldn't see he was miserable. Crispin wasn't the only one who'd inherited their mama's tendency to hide deeper emotions; Bart was just the only one to inherit both that and their father's thickheaded nature.

  Well, it didn't matter. This time tomorrow, Bart would be on his way to the elegant pile of stones that was the family seat. When he arrived, then he'd send a note to his family.

  *~*~*

  Guilt compelled Bart to send a missive halfway through his journey after all. He was certain that by now they would realize he was not in the city—or at least not anywhere they could think to look for him. He squashed the still-moody part of him that suggested that they hadn't bothered to look at all—but unless Willow put two and two together, they likely didn't know where he was headed. Still, Bart wasn't going to wait around long enough for them to send someone after him. He wouldn't return to the city until he'd dealt with the highwayman; was he or was he not the next Earl of Greendale?

  Thankfully, no one arrived to drag him back. The better part of three days and he'd not tripped over a single family member anxious to take him to task for his various and sundry wrongs. It was a deuced strange, albeit pleasant, feeling—if a bit lonely, but he was ignoring that part. He knew the estate better than any of them, except possibly his parents, although that was entirely debatable. Now that Bart thought about it, he had not been back for some time. Usually at the end of the Season he returned…but for the past several years, one thing or another always took him away. People turning to him for help, knocking sense into his thickheaded brothers, escorting his mother to the Waters, the hunting trips… Four years, Bart realized. He'd not been at the family estate beyond a day or two for just past four years. He shook his head in wonder at the realization. Had so much time really passed? No wonder some dishonorable wretch had taken it upon himself to rob the good people of Greendale.

  Well, he would put a stop to that nonsense with all due haste. No one hurt those under his care. Although, thinking of highwaymen, perhaps pushing on right then wasn't the smartest decision. It meant he would arrived in the dead of night, when the Highwayman waited to prey upon travelers.

  The sky was clear, stars and moon bright, providing more than enough light by which to travel roads he knew well. It was a pleasantly cool night, and well out of the city, the air smelled clean and sharp and green. He conceded that maybe—just maybe—his family had a point about his occasional, very infrequent bouts of recklessly dashing about. Good sense dictated that he should turn back, return to the inn for the night, and wait until the morning to journey the last few miles to Greendale Estate.

  Except the small stretch of woods that marked the official border of Bart's family lands loomed hardly more than a breath away, and just inside the trees was Ford Bridge, put there when his family had taken up the Greendale title. Damn it all, no heartless scoundrel was going to taint his family name and title by skulking about that bridge causing fear and harm! He would not stand for it and bugger his father too for thinking that he did not deserve to be involved in the matter.

  Well, that decided it then. Besides, Bart doubted that highwaymen attacked every night. Beyond that, he was a lone traveler on a horse—a highwayman would not waste their time on such an unpromising target. Anyway, even if the highwayman was waiting and did attack him, Bart was an excellent shot and a fair hand with a sword. Of course, he would be much better with them if he had not forgotten to bring such things along. If his mother were there, she would administer a Lecture. His brothers would simply shake their heads at him. Likely his father would not notice. He never noticed Bart until the others started complaining loud enough about him. Didn't most fathers dote on their heirs?

  His horse drew him out of his thoughts by way of an abrupt stop and an irritated snort. Even the horse was sick of him. Bart sighed and urged it forward once more, finally slipping into the trees.

  Completely alone in the dark, Bart finally admitted to himself that he was a bloody fool. If his brothers had been the ones doing this, he would have made certain that they had three flintlocks and a sword apiece—if he didn't stop them entirely. Why the devil had he not remembered to bring so much as a dagger? What had he planned to do, talk the highwayman out of his life of crime?

  Pushing on, because damned if he would turn back now, Bart followed the thin threads of moonlight that showed his path, swearing softly whenever the horse faltered.

  A shadow appeared just as the woods began to fall away before the bridge. Ford Bridge was wide, long, and made of sturdy wood that had lasted through five generations with nothing but the most minor repairs required. The shadow raised its arm, displaying a flintlock that glinted in a hint of moonlight.

  "So you are the highwayman."

  For a moment there was only silence and Bart had just opened his mouth to speak again, when a voice like the finest brandy, rich and warm with a hint of rough burn, finally broke the silence. "Well, well, if it's not the Lordling Ford himself."

  Bart started. "What?" How had the highwayman known that? What had given him away? He wasn't even dressed like a lord; he'd had that much sense.

  "Off the horse, my lord," the highwayman replied, gesturing with his flintlock.

  Biting back a protest, more angry with himself than the highwayman, Bart dismounted.

  "Your belongings," the highwayman said, motioning again. "All of them, on the ground at my feet. Toss them here—carefully. He raised his weapon higher when Bart did not move. "If you are come, my lord, then you must realize that I have no qualms about shooting. Do as I say."

  "Bastard," Bart hissed, but obeyed, tossing over his purse.

  The highwayman laughed, and it was a deeper, richer sound than even his sharply spoken words. Despite himself, Bart shivered. The man might be the lowest sort of rogue, but his voice was a thing of beauty. "Is that all you carry, my lord?"

  Bart did not deign to answer.

  Chuckling, the highwayman dismounted smoothly, kneeling and swiftly scooping up the coin purse, stowing it somewhere on his own person. The moonlight was again clear and bright and Bart had an impression of dark hair, falling just shy
of the bastard's shoulders. A mask covered most of his face, going over his head and knotting at the back of it.

  "Have you come to put me in my place, my lord?" the highwayman asked. "I must confess, for all your size, you do not inspire much fear."

  Bart flushed, hating himself for it. Damn it; must he be a miserable failure at everything? Could he not do even this one simple thing right? "Mayhap I am ill prepared tonight, highwayman, but you may depend that upon our next meeting that will not be the case.

  The highwayman chuckled again and Bart sorely wished the man had a grating, pain-inducing voice like that bothersome Miss Merrick. It was entirely unfair, even in a world plagued by unfairness, that his voice under any other circumstance would have had Bart hard in a moment. "Well, that hardly encourages me to permit a next time, hm? I am astonished that you came alone, my lord, and so ill-prepared. Did they neglect to tell you I was armed?"

  "No," Bart snapped. "You harmed an innocent person and for that I will see you hanged!"

  "If you survive this night," the highwayman replied, brandy voice turning cool. "I shot an innocent? No innocent has traipsed across my bridge. If I shot him, well, perhaps that will teach him not to cross me. But he was no innocent."

  Bart vibrated with anger. "No one deserves to be shot! A fine one you are to look down upon the lack of innocence in a man when you are the one stalking the helpless and taking from them that which they earned."

  "Indeed, my lord," the highwayman replied. "That which they earned. Is this not earning my own wages?"

  "Stealing is not earning," Bart said scathingly, wanting more than his next a breath a chance to knock the bastard right off his feet. However, as the highwayman had said, for all his large size, Bart was no match for a flintlock.

  He tensed as the highwayman suddenly drew close enough that he could pick out details in his appearance—the gleam of cheap tin buttons, the way the ragged state of the clothes, that they were nearly matched in height ... that he smelled oddly—that he smelled at all. Highwaymen did not wear cologne; or rather, it seemed that such men would not trouble themselves with such an unnecessary thing. Yet this man did.