Page 12 of A Stranger’s Gamble

“You mean invest your ill-gotten gains?” Adam asked.

“I understand your desire to have the last say with your father,” Balfour said. “But it’s a shame that desire took your last shilling. I am surprised you do not have a…reserve.”

“If you are referring to the rumor that I turned pirate and stole from our king, those rumors are untrue.”

Balfour flashed a smile. “Of course they are, just as the rumors about my piracy are untrue. Shouldn’t two men who society has decided aren’t worthy work together?”

“I thought you said you had a wager.”

“Merlyn against the five thousand pounds I offered—”

“I will not sell Merlyn,” Adam cut in.

Balfour shook his head. “Not sell. A wager. This is about gold guineas headed to England.”

“And you want to rob it.” Adam barely managed to keep the shock out of his voice.

“Then we must melt the gold,” Balfour said.

Wilmingly hadn’t said anything about a shipment of gold coins. Then again, he wouldn’t. Like most noblemen, he thought himself superior to those beneath him, so it probably never occurred to him that a man like Balfour would make such a bold move. It would serve the Crown right if Balfour robbed them. A thought struck. What if that had been Wilmingly’s plan all along? What if he was smarter than Adam was giving him credit for? Adam mentally grimaced. Was he as arrogant as Wilmingly in underestimating Balfour?

“I wager we can take the gold with a dozen men,” Balfour said.

Adam frowned. “Take a frigate with a dozen men? Impossible.”

“I plan to take the gold without firing a single shot, at least not at the ship.”

Jack emerged from the stables, carrying a saddle. He stopped, stared for a heartbeat, then turned and hurried back out the door.

“What do you mean ‘at least not at the ship’?” Adam demanded of Balfour.

“When the ship docks in London and is unloaded for transportation, we will take the gold on route to King George.”

Adam looked up from brushing Merlyn. “Rob the transport? That is suicide. At least two dozen soldiers will be guarding the gold.”

“Hardly,” Balfour replied. “The ship’s hold isn’t laden with gold. This is but one chest. George believes he has kept secret the transport.”

“Who’s to say someone else does not know?” Adam asked.

“Who’s to say anyone does know?” Balfour countered.

Twenty minutes later, Adam left the busy streets of Edinburgh behind for the open countryside. The exceptionally warm autumn day made him want to ride all the way to Inverness. He left the road and cut through a deserted orchard. When he reached the stretch of grassland beyond, he gave the horse his head. The horse’s massive hooves pounded out the most beautiful rhythm Adam had ever heard. He let the animal run until the land turned more densely forested, and Stirling Castle, high on its hill, appeared little more than a speck. Adam slowed. The horse tossed his head, as if to say, “It’s about time,” and Adam swayed in tempo with the brute’s gait.

A rider came into view beyond the open countryside on the road. The rider, a lad, hunched low over the horse’s neck as they flew down the road. Adam watched in appreciation. The lad could ride, but it was the horse that captured Adam’s attention—a chestnut mare with beautiful lines and a smooth gait.

A carriage rattled and Adam looked down the road about half a mile behind the rider where a magnificent coach-and-six traveled at a sedate speed. The lad on the mare pulled rein at the top of the rise and waited until the carriage reached him minutes later. Adam could discern no crest emblazoned on the side and nothing to hint at the identity of the passengers within. The six horses were fine creatures, but still, the lad’s mare outshone them all. As the coach rolled past, the rider took off again, and in minutes, they vanished along the road toward Edinburgh.

If they stayed in Edinburgh long enough, he might be able to hunt down the mare’s owner. The horse could be just the mare to breed with Merlyn. A gust of wind blew his hair, carrying with it the scent of rain. He glanced heavenward. A line of dark clouds were sweeping down from the north. He had better turn back if he didn’t want to get caught in the rain. Adam cut across the heather and galloped toward the city.

The sky had darkened when Adam handed his horse’s reins to a boy in the stables. Adam rubbed the back of his neck and stretched his legs. The exercise had stimulated his appetite. A dog barked in the distance as he headed toward his favorite tavern on Lacy Street. As he neared the church, the creak of harness reached his ears an instant before the coach-and-six he’d seen on the road turned the corner of the church.

“Well, damn,” he murmured.

Half a dozen seconds later, the mare he’d seen also came into view. Adam stepped out of the road as the coach passed. Boys’ shouts went up behind Adam. He glanced over his shoulder to see three lads chasing one another down the street toward him. He chuckled, then faced forward as the rider and mare neared him. Adam started to lift a hand to hail the rider. The boys reached where he stood, and one of the lads pushed the other into the street. He tripped and fell in the mare’s path.

The mare screamed and reared, pawing the air. Adam dove for the fallen boy. The mare’s rider yanked the animal’s reins to the right, away from the boy. The horse’s hooves hit the ground two feet from where the boy had fallen as Adam rolled with the lad in the opposite direction. The boy pushed away and jumped to his feet. Without a backward glance, he raced off after his companions, who had taken off down the street.

“Blasted fool,” the mare’s rider shouted after them.

Adam agreed. With a groan, he rose. The rider turned his mare toward Adam as a gust of wind whipped Adam’s hair. The rider’s hat flew from his head. Adam froze when a wealth of brown curls spilled down onto the rider’s shoulders. A woman. The rider was…a woman.

She gave a gasping sort of laugh and shifted as if to dismount. Adam scooped up the hat from the ground and looked up into a pair of laughing brown eyes. She held a finger to her lips, begging his silence. His gaze caught on her full mouth and his cock twitched. The little piece of baggage was a hoyden. He extended the hat toward her. She grasped it and tugged, but he held fast.

“What is your name?” he asked before checking the impulse.

Dimples appeared on cheeks flushed pink from the chill air. “I am no one, sir.”

His mind snapped to attention. No one? She spoke far too cultured to be no one. He released the hat, and she quickly clamped it on her head, stuffing as many curls as she could beneath the rim, then kicked the mare’s flank and trotted down the street. She sat straight in the saddle. She would, of course. The woman was clearly born to ride. He slid his gaze downward along her slender breeches-clad legs.

The coach-and-six rattled to a halt before a row of affluent townhomes down the street. A mist began to fall as Adam strode toward the carriage. Perhaps the driver might tell him who the lass was. He reached the carriage, then halted when he caught sight of the numbers on the large brass doorplate where the carriage had stopped. Number ninety-one.

The footman hopped from his seat and opened the carriage door. A long, slender arm appeared, and the footman helped a woman from the carriage. She wore a fine ermine-trimmed pelisse over a light blue gown. The lady paused and glanced around. She drew her brows into a scowl and thinned her lips in displeasure.

He drew back in dismay.

Surely, she couldn’t be? Sophie. Madeline Forsyth’s niece.