Lord Midnight

Lord Midnight Part 1

Yorkshire, 1812

Only a miracle could halt the wedding now.

Marisa Dunsmore whispered another hopeful prayer, though it did nothing to slow the carriage racing toward Westbrook Hall, the home of her betrothed. Soon she would have to abandon dreams of aid, divine or otherwise, but for the moment optimism was still a comfort.

She glanced at her brother Bernard, sleeping across from her, his head lolling in a most undignified fashion against the gold silk interior. He would be horrified to learn his meticulously arranged blond curls had flattened on one side, while his cravat was crushed beyond repair. Marisa bit back a grin. Since Bernard had refused every appeal to help her escape the wedding to Lord Westbrook, she would not inform him of his sartorial faux pas.

After all, betrayal did have its price.

They were still several miles from Westbrook Hall, though there would be no further stops, or chances to escape. Freedom had been so near at hand at the last posting inn. As soon as the carriage had stopped, Marisa had exclaimed the interminable trip from London had shattered her nerves, putting her in dire need of the necessary. She had clapped a hand over her mouth and run to the back of the inn. Once there, she detoured for the stables, ready to borrow one of the horses awaiting its turn in the traces. She reached toward the nearest mount, her heart leaping with elation, until Bernard's hand clamped around her arm, a triumphant expression lighting his features.

Marisa closed her eyes, weary at the reminder of her latest setback, and what it meant for her poor Aunt Althea. She tugged her red wool cloak closer, though the chill she tried to ward off was not due to any deficiency in Lord Westbrook's carriage. In truth, the coach's only defect was its inability to speed her away from the upcoming nuptials. Was it too much to hope for a small portion of divine intervention?

A single gunshot exploded, piercing the stillness with a loud crack.

"Stand and deliver!"

The coach skidded to a halt, the coachman yelling out to the York horses squealing in protest. Marisa bounced on the bench seat, grabbing for something, anything, to keep herself in place. She flew across the carriage, landing atop her brother, her elbow slamming into the side of his head. Bernard sat upright, blinking as he rubbed the newly inflicted injury.

Marisa's stomach tumbled with excitement.

Her prayers had been answered, and so quickly.

She darted toward the side glass, eager to glimpse the highwaymen accosting them. The carriage lamps reflected little except her own likeness, and she was not at all interested in the blue eyes and unruly blonde curls mirrored there. She rubbed the glass for a better view. The moon proved to be a brilliant lantern, illuminating the dozen or more brigands as they galloped from the surrounding beech trees, positioning their mounts around the coach.

"It is fortunate Lord Westbrook insisted on covering his crest on the carriage door," Bernard said in a tight voice.

Marisa swiveled to look at her brother. He tugged the ends of his cravat, frowning as the ruined linen drooped even further.

"Why should the crest matter? They have stopped the carriage regardless."

"You are quite valuable to your future husband," Bernard said, running his fingers through his hair.

"Do you think they will abduct me?"

"I apologize, poppet." He stopped primping and reached his hand to her. "I did not mean to frighten you. I can assure you that will not happen."

"Oh." Marisa sagged against the silk cushions.

Bernard laughed. "Any other female would be clawing through her reticule for her smelling salts. Yet, rather than being terrified, you are irrationally hopeful."