Lord of Fortune Read online

  Wait, “their” way? Was he referring to himself and Egg, or was he including this unknown woman?

  Penn smiled at the quartet of masked men. “How can we help you, gentlemen?”

  One of the men—the leader, apparently—raised his weapon toward Egg, who’d emerged from the cave still holding the woman’s pistols. Unfortunately, another of the men went and relieved him of the weapons.

  The leader answered Penn’s question. “You can hand over the dagger.”

  Damn, they knew about it too. So much for secret treasure. “I didn’t find it.”

  The speaker snorted as a rather large fellow standing a little off to the side growled. “We know you’re lying, Mr. Bowen,” the man said. His tone held the sophistication of a learned man. He was no hired thug. He also knew who Penn was.

  “I’m afraid you have the advantage,” Penn said. “And you are?”

  “Not leaving until you hand over the dagger,” the man said pleasantly as the large growler took a few menacing steps forward. This put him rather close to the lady. She stiffened.

  Penn moved to her side, close enough that he could feel her against his arm. She might be a thief, but he wouldn’t allow her to be harmed.

  “Who is she?” the man—clearly the leader of the foul group—asked.

  “Does it matter?” Penn asked nonchalantly.

  “Take her.”

  Growler pounced like a cat, moving far more quickly and gracefully than Penn ever would have wagered. His hand curled around the woman’s arm, and he dragged her away from Penn. He stuffed his pistol into his waistband and withdrew a long knife from a scabbard at his side. With another growl, he pressed the blade against her neck.

  Every muscle in Penn’s body tensed. He was finished pretending to be pleasant. He snarled at the leader. “Release her.”

  “Give me the dagger,” he responded blandly.

  When Penn hesitated, the leader nodded toward him. “Search him.”

  As the other two men holstered their pistols and advanced, the growler tipped the woman’s hat from her head, revealing her mass of golden curls. Strands cascaded down her back while the bulk of it stayed wrapped in its knot at the back of her skull. She twisted in the brigand’s arms, and he tightened his grip, forcing a cry from her throat.

  Penn lunged toward her just as the other two men grabbed him by the arms.

  “Can’t we just shoot the lot of ’em?” the growler asked hoarsely. “Maybe not her. At least not yet. She smells nice.” He sniffed her hair and dragged his lips across her forehead.

  Penn moved quickly, surprising the men who’d grabbed him by elbowing them swiftly and dashing forward. The leader’s pistol came up. “Stop!” he yelled.

  A pistol shot rent the air, but Penn didn’t turn. He dove for the growler, knocking the large man—and the woman—to the ground.

  “Bowen!” The sound of Egg’s voice broke through Penn’s haze of fury. The distraction was enough for the growler to gain the upper hand. He hit Penn in the jaw and flipped him to his back. The leader stood over him then, his pistol aimed at Penn’s head.

  “We’ve shot your man. Give over.” He looked at the woman. “You—find the dagger and give it to me. Otherwise, I’ll let my man have you.”

  “You’re despicable,” she spat.

  Penn couldn’t see her, but he heard the venom in her tone and imagined the fire that must be sparking from her green eyes, just as when she’d called him the same adjective. He wasn’t sure how he felt about being judged the same as these villains. His thoughts turned to Egg and what his wound might be, but he didn’t dare move his gaze from the gun pointed between his brows.

  “You all right, Egg?” he called.

  “Just a nick on my arm,” Egg answered.

  Penn exhaled with relief, but it was short-lived since their situation was utterly untenable.

  “How about I give him more than a nick?” the leader offered. “And we’ll take your lady friend here with us.” His dark eyes narrowed, and he bared his teeth for a brief moment. “Give me the goddamned dagger.”

  Anger spilled through Penn’s veins. Trapped, he slipped his hand into his coat and pulled forth the dagger. “I’ll get it back.”

  The man reached down with his left hand and pulled the artifact from Penn’s grip. “Highly unlikely, but you’re welcome to try.” His mouth spread into a condescending, malevolent smile.

  “I’ll do more than try,” Penn promised.

  “Bind them,” the leader said, taking a step back.

  The other three men sprang into motion, one of them dragging the wounded Egg to where Penn lay in the dirt. The growler pushed the woman next to Penn as another of the men pulled Penn to a sitting position. Egg dropped beside Penn, and their arms were pulled behind them and bound together at the wrist. Penn tested the rope, but it held fast.

  “And their feet,” the leader bade as he turned the dagger over in his hand.

  As the three men bound their ankles together, the leader looked down at Penn. “This is quite a find, thank you.”

  “You’re a bastard and a coward,” Penn said, gritting his teeth as the man tying his feet pulled the rope extra tight.

  “No and no, actually. Come, gents.” He holstered his pistol and turned away.

  Two of the men followed him immediately while the growler lingered a moment. He leaned forward, his face a few inches from the woman’s. “Next time, my pretty.” He flashed her a smile that was missing several teeth before backing away and jumping to his feet.

  She was close enough to Penn that he felt her shudder.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “Fine.” The word was strained, and Penn didn’t believe her.

  Penn turned his head to his assistant, who was tied to his right. “How is your arm?”

  “It ’urts, but it’ll clean up all right, I imagine. So long as we get ourselves out of this mess.”

  “Someone will come along,” the woman said.

  Penn appreciated her optimism but didn’t think it was well placed. “I doubt that. We are quite a ways off the road.” A thought occurred to him, and he turned his head toward her. “Does someone know you’re here?”

  She nodded. “My maid.”

  “Your maid. Have you no man to assist you?”

  “My coachman is back at the inn. He just doesn’t know precisely where I am.”

  “He should.”

  “This was a discreet errand,” she snapped.

  Penn laughed derisively. “A fool’s errand, you mean.”

  She pulled at her bindings, which caused Penn to fall toward her and Egg to fall on Penn.

  Egg grunted. “Watch yourself!”

  Penn caught the scent of honeysuckle and sunlight before jerking away from her. “We are tied together,” he said. “Your movements affect ours. Please be so kind as to not cause Egg pain.”

  “Where’s your knife?” Egg asked.

  It was tucked into a leather scabbard secured to the inside of his waistcoat. “In its usual location, which will be impossible to retrieve given the state of our hands.”

  “Where is it?” the woman asked.

  Penn turned his head and was greeted with the intensity of her emerald stare. “My waistcoat.”

  She eyed his chest. “It can’t be very large.”

  His lip twitched. “It’s bigger than you think.”

  “Can I use my mouth?”

  She seemed to have missed the humor in his double entendre given the innocence of her question. Only there was nothing innocent about his sudden reaction. Unexpected heat sparked in his belly, and he struggled to recall what she was going to use her mouth for.

  The knife.

  “I suppose you could try.” It was the only plan they had. He angled toward her as best he could. “It’s on the left. My left.” The side closest to her.

  “I need to move a bit closer. Egg—is that your name?—I’m going to move now, if you could brace yourself.”


  “Egbert Howell, ma’am.”

  “I am Mrs. Forrest.”

  Mrs. “Where in the devil is your husband?” Penn asked.

  She twisted at the waist. “I am a widow.”

  “You undoubtedly drove him to his early demise.” Penn chided himself for making light of her situation. He blamed the disaster this day had become. “My apologies,” he said softly.

  “Something like that,” she murmured before bowing her head. Using her chin and nose, she nudged at the waistcoat to get to the scabbard. Thankfully, it was rather accessible.

  The feel of her against him in such an intimate fashion only served to stoke the dormant fires in Penn’s gut. It had been months since he’d lain with a woman, so it made sense Mrs. Forrest would arouse him.

  A moment later, just as he grew uncomfortable because his body was beginning to respond to hers in a rather inappropriate manner, she lifted her head. Gripped in her teeth was the slender hilt of his knife.

  Penn grinned. “Brilliant! Drop it behind you so that I can grab it and cut us free.”

  She turned her body back to a more natural position, and he realized she might have incurred more than a bit of discomfort. After a moment, she turned her head, moving her chin to the edge of her shoulder. She dropped the knife.

  “It’s in my hand,” she said.

  “Well done.” He didn’t bother keeping the admiration from his tone. Thieving had clearly given her some useful skills.

  “Where’s your hand so I can deliver it to you?”

  “Let me find you so you don’t stab me,” he said. “I’m not wearing gloves.”

  “You’re taking the fun out of this.”

  He smiled in spite of himself. She was skillful and brave. And witty. Also beautiful. She was, in a word, dangerous.

  Penn sobered as he searched for her hand. His fingers grazed her sleeve. Moving down, he encountered her glove. A few more inches and he clasped the knife.

  “Egg, give me your hands.”

  “What about mine?” Mrs. Forrest asked.

  “I won’t risk cutting you,” Penn said.

  “I am wearing gloves. And neither of you are. It makes sense that you should cut my restraints first.”

  It did, in fact, make sense. Nevertheless, he wasn’t going to. “Egg?”

  “Here.” The assistant thrust his hands into Penn’s.

  Sweat dappled Penn’s brow as he worked at Egg’s bindings. It took a few minutes of blind navigation and several minutes more of awkward sawing, but Egg’s hands soon came free of the ropes. He exhaled. “Thank you, sir.”

  Mrs. Forrest made a sound of irritation.

  Egg quickly untied his feet, then set about freeing Penn’s hands.

  “What happened to helping ladies first?” Mrs. Forrest demanded.

  “Are you a lady?” Egg asked. “I’m not sure.”

  She let out a distinctly unladylike expletive under her breath, but Penn caught it.

  As soon as Penn’s hands were free, he shook them vigorously to restore feeling, then leaned forward to untie his feet. When he was finished, he turned to Mrs. Forrest.

  Her eyes narrowed when he didn’t immediately release her. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I’m contemplating whether I ought to untie you.”

  “You’re as beastly as they were.”

  “No, I’m not.” He moved to her back and untied her hands. He lowered his head and spoke next to her ear. “I may be a scoundrel from time to time, but I am not like them. If you get to know me, you’ll find that out for yourself.”

  As soon as her hands were loose, she scooted away from him and untied her own feet. “I have no plans to do either.”

  Penn climbed to his feet. “Pity. I was hoping you might tell me how you knew about the dagger.”

  Her shoulders crumpled, and her face lost a bit of color. “The dagger.”

  “Don’t fret. It was a fake anyway.”

  “A what?” She stared at him with incredulity, her jaw hanging open.

  “A fake.”

  “How can you know that?”

  “The hilt and, more importantly, the markings on it were too new.”

  She surveyed him with great skepticism. “I ask again, how can you know that?”

  “Mrs. Forrest, I am an antiquary with a great deal of knowledge and experience. I am trained to recognize artifacts and determine their authenticity. That artifact was absolutely a fabrication. But then I am not surprised, since its counterpart, currently residing in the Ashmolean, is also a sham.”

  He didn’t think it was possible for her to look more shocked, but her jaw dropped farther and her eyes practically fell from their sockets.

  “Are you talking about the Heart of Llanllwch?” Her pronunciation of the Welsh was impeccable, and he couldn’t suppress a flash of admiration.

  He nodded. “I am. It’s a fake.”

  She drew herself up to her not unimpressive height. “It most certainly is not.”

  “And how can you know that?”

  “Because my grandfather found it, you cretin.”

  Chapter 2

  Amelia stared at the man while thoughts of murder barreled through her. He didn’t actually mean to accuse her grandfather of fraud, did he?

  “I can see why that would be distressing for you, but it is, alas, a fake.” His tone was as condescending as his pitying gaze.

  Yes, he actually meant to accuse Grandfather of fraud.

  She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “Prove it.”

  His dark blue eyes glittered in the afternoon sun. “That’s precisely what I mean to do. After I tend to Egg.” He turned and strode toward the cave. The older man, Bowen’s assistant, had gone to where he’d dropped their belongings—two bags, a length of rope, and a lantern.

  “Let’s see about your arm,” Bowen said.

  Egg scoffed. “It’s nothing.” He picked up the bags with his uninjured left arm and attempted to lift the lantern with his right. Wincing, he let go, but Bowen caught it before it tumbled to the ground and started a fire in the dry grass. After putting the lantern out, he frowned at his assistant.

  “It’s not nothing. Drop the bags and sit.”

  Egg grimaced and directed a dark glower toward Bowen. “It’s not as bad as your hand!”

  Amelia’s gaze dropped to Bowen’s hands, and for the first time, she noticed the back of one was sliced open and covered in dried blood.

  “That is an utter fallacy,” Bowen said calmly. “I know you don’t want me to touch it. You’re such an infant.” He knelt beside the older man and rummaged through one of the bags. Withdrawing a flask, he handed the vessel to Egg and bade him to drink. Next, he took out a cloth. “Remove your coat.”

  Amelia walked toward them. “You can’t mean to tend the wound here?”

  Bowen arched a brow as he looked up at her. “Do you have accommodation nearby?”

  “In Burrington, yes. Haven’t you?”

  “We do not.”

  “And you say I didn’t plan very well,” she muttered.

  “I didn’t say that,” Bowen protested. “Egg did.”

  She lifted her gaze heavenward before kneeling next to him and giving his arm a light shove. “Let me.”

  After a moment’s hesitation, he scooted to the side.

  “What are you doing?” Egg asked, his voice heavily laced with doubt.

  It was hard to see the depth of the wound with his clothing in the way, but the bleeding had slowed to a trickle. “Trying to determine if you require sutures.”

  “You’re skilled with that?”

  “I’ve stitched a few people here and there.” Amelia’s grandmother had taught her old remedies, and between them, they’d cared for their retainers as well as a few neighbors. She poked at the wound, drawing a sharp hiss from Egg.

  “Watch it,” he scolded.

  She glanced over at Bowen. “You’re right. He is an infant.” She stood abruptly. “It would be bes
t to clean and dress the wound properly. Burrington isn’t far on horseback. I saw your mounts tied near the road.” She inclined her head toward where the animals were in plain sight. Her own horse was on the opposite side in a copse, hidden.

  “You’re offering help?” Bowen asked, his head cast at a skeptical angle. “After you threatened to shoot us?”

  “She did more than that,” Egg said. “She nearly nicked my ear off.”

  Amelia winced. “As you said, nearly. If I’d wanted to, I would have.” She was wholly exaggerating. She’d never meant to shoot at them at all. She’d brought the pistols for defense—she was a fair shot—never imagining she’d encounter someone trying to steal her grandfather’s treasure. Panicking, she’d acted out of desperation when she’d pulled a neckerchief over her face and threatened them. Looking back, she felt a burst of pride at her daring, along with a blaze of fear over what she might have done if her aim had been a bit more true. Couple that with the horrifying intentions of the man who’d held a knife to her throat, and she was surprised she wasn’t shaking in distress.

  Unsettled, she tried to find the bravado she’d shown earlier. “Are you coming or not?” She pivoted toward the road.

  “We’re coming,” Bowen responded. He helped Egg to his feet, then bent to pick up their bags.

  Amelia swept up the lantern.

  Bowen’s gaze conveyed a mix of gratitude and wariness. He retrieved the rope, and they started toward the horses. Amelia stole several glances at him. He bore the dark complexion and accent of a Welshman. His hair was also dark, but his eyes were a striking blue, like the lapis her grandfather had given her on her tenth birthday.

  “Today has not gone as I planned,” Bowen said. “Beginning with you. How did you know about the dagger?”

  She took solace in the irritation buried within his tone, glad to have stopped him from taking her grandfather’s dagger, even though it had ultimately been stolen. “My grandfather found it, as he did the heart.”

  Bowen was quiet for a few steps, then said, “I wonder, did he know they were fraudulent when he found them, or did he believe them to be real? I should like to ask him, if I may.”