Page 2 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

“Bedroom,” one of the men snapped. Hard to tell in the dimness, but his hair appeared to be sandy, several shades darker than her own pallid blond tresses. He had sharp features, pale skin, and an uncompromising air.

“Please,” another man added, in a slightly more mollifying tone that carried the accent of Yorkshire.

Even in the flickering illumination, the vivid blue of the Yorkshireman’s eyes shone brightly. Yet it wasn’t easy to see anyone’s faces clearly by the light of a single guttering candle. She had only the impression of a deep-set brow, a goodly proportioned nose, and hard jaw shaded by stubble.

The man they carried—Hugh, one of them had called him—moaned. Blood from his injury dropped onto the worn wooden floorboards. The sounds of a man in pain and his dripping wound cut through her fear, and she grabbed her candle.

“This way.” She led them up the stairs.

Their much larger, heavier forms made the seldom-used staircase groan. Even when the house had been at capacity, staffed by four housemaids and two good-sized footmen, the stairs hadn’t needed to bear such weight. These men were large, all of them towering over her admittedly undersized form, and they radiated a feral strength that made her grip her candle tightly. The flame flickered, and its dancing light and twisting shadows turned her ordinary house into a scene from one of her unsettling dreams, the kind where she woke up with a pounding heart and sweat coating her limbs.

At the landing, the hallway branched into two directions. She guided them down the corridor that didn’t contain her bedchamber. They continued to carry their wounded friend.

“It wasn’t necessary, Cyrus,” the blue-eyed Yorkshireman growled. Color was high in his fair cheeks, angry red staining his face.

“The fucking outrider had a gun pointed at me,” the blond one snapped.

“They always have guns pointed at us when we stop a carriage.” This came from another man, the candlelight gleaming on his deep sepia-brown skin and in the even darker shade of his eyes. He wore his curly black hair shorn close to his head. His accent carried tones of East London. “Hazard of the profession.”

Clara’s steps stuttered. Oh, God. They were highwaymen.

She’d heard stories that coaches and carriages traveling between Cheltenham and London were sometimes stopped by armed thieves. The few broadsheets she’d read had extolled highwaymen as either dashing or vicious, or both. At the moment, Clara hoped fervently for the former, but dreaded that what she had in her home, instead, was the latter.

Her hand paused on the doorknob to the Blue Bedroom.

They were four very hale men, and one injured one, whereas she was but one rather short woman. Granted, tending to her home almost entirely on her own had given her a slight degree more strength than the average gentlewoman. She chopped her own wood.

It would hardly serve her against a quartet of hardened criminals.

Glancing over her shoulder, she caught the flash of metal and wood. Each of the thieves carried at least two pistols. Some were slipped into belts, and others were tucked into baldrics slung around the highwaymen’s chests. They had knives, too, sheathed at their waists.

Clara fought against the urge to squeeze her eyes shut. She’d shut them out and they’d disappear.

Moving forward was the only option.

“Hurry up!” barked the blond one. Cyrus, she remembered him being called.

“Apologies.” She turned the doorknob and, before she could enter, was pushed aside by the highwaymen.

They carried their wounded comrade to the bed and laid him down atop the blankets. Crimson immediately soaked into the blue toile quilt covering the mattress. At this distance, though, she couldn’t determine the exact nature or severity of the wound.

The four thieves collected around the bed, staring down with tense expressions at the man writhing in pained misery.

“The hell are we supposed to do now?” This came from a man with a shaved head. Either he wore a wig and had lost it in the chaos, or he eschewed the fashion altogether and simply walked around bald. “He won’t last until tomorrow night.”

“Letting Hugh bleed to death isn’t an option.” The blue-eyed highwayman whipped off the stock from his neck and hastily wrapped it around the wounded man’s injury.

“If you—” Clara began.

“We don’t need complications or witnesses.” Cyrus flicked his gaze toward her, then at the blue-eyed thief. “Kill her.”

“That’s not—” the blue-eyed man began.

Before he could say more, Clara turned and ran.

2

Making it to the front door of the house would be impossible. If the men gave chase, they’d catch up to her in an instant, with their much longer legs and ruthless strength.