She bent over for her knapsack and hat, giving the latter a hard tug so that her eyes were in shadow. "Being robbed and having to go north again has cost us easily half a day."

Robin lifted his pack. "It could have cost us a lot more."

She thought of that kiss, and knew that it had. No matter how energetically they both pretended that it hadn't occurred, matters had changed between them, and not for the better.

As they descended the bill toward the road, she wondered if she dared to continue their journey together.

Desdemona gazed out the carriage window without enthusiasm. She was becoming heartily sick of scenery, but her pursuit should soon be over. At the last village, she had been given exact descriptions of Maxima and her disreputable companion. They couldn't be more than a couple of hours ahead. If they stayed on this road, she would overtake them by the end of the afternoon. A good thing they didn't know that they were being pursued.

She hoped Lord Robert wouldn't turn ugly when Desdemona removed Maxima from his clutches. Not that it mattered; her driver and guard were former soldiers, and they could deal with a wastrel who had never done a bit of honest work in his life.

Desdemona tried not to consider the possibility that Maxima might want to stay in the fellow's clutches. She really couldn't kidnap her niece, even for her own good. But at least if Desdemona had to abandon Maxima to her fate, she would have the satisfaction of knowing the girl was acting of her own free will.

Her musings were interrupted by a drumming of hooves and a hoarse shout of "Stand and deliver!"

Her maid, Sally, who had been dozing in a corner, awoke with a shriek. Desdemona barked, "Get down!"

Then she dived for one of the pistols that were essential equipment in a traveling carriage. A shot was fired and the coach jolted to a stop, the horses neighing frantically.

Her fingers trembled as she loaded and cocked the gun. But whatever happened, she would be ready.

The Marquess of Wolverton lounged drowsily against the comfortable seat of his coach. At least this ridiculous pursuit was taking place during good weather and the roads were in tolerable shape. He yawned, automatically covering his mouth even though he was alone, Charles having been left at Wolverhampton to attend to routine business.

Giles wasn't sure if he was tracing the runaways accurately, but he was definitely close behind Lady Ross. Her yellow trimmed carriage was much easier to follow than a couple of dusty pedestrians. He wondered how she would react if and when she discovered that he had joined the chase. He hoped there wouldn't be any sharp objects near to hand when that happened.

He was on the verge of falling asleep when a ragged volley of gunshots shattered the silence. Instantly alert, he opened a window and called to his driver, "Can you see what is happening?",

"There appears to be an attempted robbery ahead, my lord," his driver called. "I assume you do not wish to turn around and avoid the fray?"

"You assume rightly. Prepare to intervene if necessary." Giles drew a carriage pistol from its holster. As he loaded it, he suddenly wondered if the victim might be Lady Ross. Surely not. Yet she was not far ahead of him, and a carriage such as hers was a prime target. Good God, she would probably start scolding the highwaymen and get shot for her pains.

His carriage swung around a bend, then lurched to a wild halt to avoid crashing into a vehicle angled across the road. Giles threw open his door and leaped to the ground. A moment later he was joined by his guard, who carried a carbine in his hands. Ahead of them, a riderless horse bolted into the woods.

It was indeed the yellowtrimmed coach, but their assistance was not required. Lady Ross stood staring at a, sprawling body while her guard examined another body farther away. The metallic scent of blood was in the air, and both coachmen had to struggle to keep the nervous horses under control.

Giles was relieved to find Lady Ross safe. It would be a great waste for such a splendid virago to die so pointlessly.

She looked up and recognized him. Despite the hostility of their first encounter, she seemed glad to see a familiar face.

He lowered his pistol and walked toward her, saying, "Are you and your people all right?"

She nodded and tried to reply, but no words emerged. After swallowing hard, she said, "The highwaymen must not have been expecting much resistance. A pair of amateurs." She raised her hand to brush at her bonnet, then stopped and stared at the pistol in her hand.

"Good God," Giles exclaimed. "Did you shoot them yourself?"

"Luckily it didn't come to that. My men are veterans of the Peninsula." Her smile was a little crooked. "They were having trouble finding work after being invalided out of the army. I thought I was doing them a favor by hiring them. I didn't expect my good deed to be rewarded so dramatically."

"It's a good argument for charity." He looked over at the man who lay by the carriage. "Are both robbers dead?"

"I believe so."

As Giles studied the fallen highwayman, his heart gave an odd lurch. The hair was very blond, a little longer than average. No, it couldn't possibly be… He stared, pulse pounding. "That coat-" he said tightly. "It's like the one Robin was wearing the day he disappeared. And the hair is rather like his." He began striding toward the body.

Desdemona sucked her breath in. Surely the dead man couldn't be Lord Robert. Yet it was not unknown for wild young gentlemen to play at being highwaymen, and the robbers hadn't seemed very skilled at their trade. She gave a horrified glance to the other corpse, but it could not possibly be Maxima.

That didn't mean the blond man wasn't Lord Robert. The idea that the rogue might have committed such a vicious, irresponsible act enraged her. He couldn't be anything like his brother.

The marquess knelt beside the dead highwayman and turned the body for closer examination. Then he exhaled and dropped his head, covering his face with one hand.

Desdemona's anger vanished, replaced by compassion. She had. also looked into that shattered, bloody face herself, and knew it would figure in future nightmares.

She joined the marquess and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Wolverton. It's your brother?"

"No." He raised his head, visibly struggling for composure. "But for a moment I thought it might be. I was… relieved to learn I was wrong."

So the marquess defended his brother not only out of family loyalty, but love. She wondered what the wayward Lord Robert had done to deserve it. "You believed your brother capable of highway robbery?"

Wolverton made an impatient gesture. "Of course not. The idea was absurd." He touched the highwayman's sleeve. "But I'm willing to wager that this coat is Robin's. You can see from the cut that it's French,' not British. I wonder how the devil this fellow came to be wearing it."

"Perhaps your brother sold it and this villain bought it?"

"I'm not sure I believe in that much coincidence." Expression grim, the marquess began searching the dead man's pockets. He found several coins, a folding pocketknife, and a gold watch, but nothing that could identify the highwayman.

Desdemona frowned. "Let me see that watch." When the marquess passed it to her, she snapped open the case with a fingernail. Inside the lid was engraved "Maximus Benedict Collins." Silently she showed it to the marquess.

He whistled softly. "That belonged to your brother?"

She nodded. "It was a gift on his eighteenth birthday. I believe. When he died, it must have gone to Maxima." She gave her companion a worried look. "Obviously the highwaymen encountered your brother and my niece. You don't suppose that that… they might have robbed and killed them?"

The marquess's slateblue eyes darkened to nearblack as he got to his feet. "I doubt it. There would have been no need to kill two unarmed people. Also, Robin and your niece were seen alive and well in the last village. Any murderous assault would have had to have taken place within the last few miles, and I saw no signs of that. There was probably a robbery, and the coat and watch were part of the loot."

Her hand curled over her late brother's watch. "Vicious men don't need a reason, and shooting two people and hiding the bodies wouldn't leave many traces."

The marquess scowled. He knew that as well as she, and would rather the words hadn't been spoken aloud. "Possible, but unlikely. Robin is good at getting out of trouble. I can't believe that he would be so easily murdered, or that he would fail to protect a young woman in his charge."

"So Lord Robert has had vast experience at getting out of trouble. Honorable men don't need such skills," Desdemona said acerbically. "Money and influence have saved many a loose fish from hot water, but they won't save your brother this time."

The marquess must have been equally on edge, because he retorted, "If your trollop of a niece makes it safely to London, it will be because of my brother's protection, since she is apparently as deficient in sense as she is in morals. What kind of gently bred girl would even consider walking the length of England? Though at least she had the sense to take up with a man who could help her get there."

"She didn't 'take up' with him; she's being forced!" Desdemona snapped back. "You must be concerned about Lord Robert's behavior, or you wouldn't be following me."

"It's you who concern me, not my brother," the marquess said, his voice rising. "After you stormed out of Wolverhampton, I decided that I must try to protect him from the most pigheaded, vindictive female I've ever met in my life. It's obvious that you've already decided what happened, without a shred of real evidence."