Falling In Love Again (Heroic Rogues Series)

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Falling In Love Again

Copyright
© 2011 by Marie Higgins

Cover Design by Sheri
McGathy

This
ebook
is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This
ebook
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For more information about author:
 
http://mariehiggins84302.blogspot.com

Marcus Thorne wears several masks in his life, but the one that would have him hanged is the one he can never reveal. But after he kidnaps his enemy’s daughter, he’s captivated by her beauty and is nearly ready to give her his heart…until he discovers Isabelle is a spy with the power to endanger his life and the lives of his friends.

After her release, Isabelle can’t stop thinking about her masked abductor and how he’d stolen her heart before ridding her of his presence. Affianced to a man who strangely reminds her of the man whose kisses set her ablaze, she marries him, only to discover he’s not who he seemed to be. But then…neither is she.

Dedication

I want to thank my critique partner and friend, Melissa Lynne Blue, for helping me with this story and having faith in me.

I also want to dedicate this story to my all-time favorite entertainer,
Engelbert
Humperdinck—King of Romance—for sharing his love songs.
 
Out of all the songs I adore,
After The Loving
is my favorite, which inspired me to write this story. And the title of this song fits my story perfectly!

New York, 1766

The pops of gunfire all around Isabelle Stanhope sounded like she stood on a battlefield, instead of riding in a stagecoach. The few other passengers screamed, sliding down into their seats. Fear of the worst kind surged through Isabelle as she bent over and clutched her trembling legs.

Her life may end today.

“Everyone stay low!” the driver yelled. “Highwaymen are swarming around us.”

Panic thrashed inside Isabelle like a turbulent wave, threating to suffocate her at any moment. A gang of highwaymen had killed her father over a year ago and she feared the same fate would befall her.

Another pistol fired, closer this time. Mrs. Winters, Isabelle’s companion, screamed then slumped against her. Tears filled Isabelle’s eyes and a sob rose to her throat. She dared not look to see if her companion had been shot or if the frightened woman just swooned, since Mrs. Winters had been prone to do that. Isabelle had never been able to handle the sight of blood, especially from someone she cared so deeply about.

As the fast-moving stagecoach rocked to and fro, small satchels fell to the floor. The other passengers had been holding these at one time. Looking at them now, Isabelle didn’t know which one belonged to whom.

One of the satchels was slightly opened, and the gleam of the golden handle dagger caught her attention. Without a second thought, she snatched the weapon and held it close. She wouldn’t bat an eye if she had to kill a highwayman to save her own life.

The stagecoach came to a jerking stop and had her sliding to the floor. She landed on another passenger, and mumbled her apologies as she tried to climb back on the seat. Her gaze fell to Mrs. Winters, who was still unconscious and thankfully, didn’t have any blood on her—that Isabelle could see, anyway.

The door flew open and a masked man wearing a black cloak framed the door. “Everyone outside if you want to live!”

Of course she wanted to live—the imbecile! She nodded, and waited for those in front of her to exit first.

With a shaky hand, she hid the dagger underneath waist of her traveling jacket. She followed the woman in front of her, taking careful steps until they all came to a halt. Armed highwaymen stood everywhere, each wearing a mask that covered their eyes only. A different type of fear sliced through her. Silently, she prayed for strength and courage.

She glanced over her shoulder at the stagecoach. Where was Mrs. Winters? The still body of Isabelle’s companion made her stomach twist with sadness and she wondered if Mrs. Winters had indeed been shot. Isabelle then looked to the driver and the guard. Both were slumped over, while blood continuously spilled from each head as their bodies remained unmoving. Bile rose to her throat, and she placed a hand over her mouth, looking away.

Someone standing next to her pushed her forward and she stumbled into another highwayman. He grasped her shoulders to keep her from falling. As soon as she gained her footing, she took one step back and looked at the tall, man. A shaky breath caught in her throat. Black silk cloth covered the top part of his face—save for the eyes—which served as a mask as it hid his true identity. Once-white linen stretched across wide shoulders and a broad chest, opened at the throat to display sun-bronzed skin. Black jackboots and breeches molded to his powerful legs. An ebony wool
tricorn
, decorated with a feather as black as the silken mask, topped his equally dark head. And he was muscular beyond belief! The man made her think of a pirate and not a highwayman.

The highwayman who’d forced them out of the stagecoach stepped next to the man. “Captain Hawk, all the passengers are here, Sir.”

A gasp caught in her throat.
Captain Hawk!
Here stood the very person responsible for killing her father! Rumors about a retired pirate who’d turned highwayman had spread through England, especially after her father and his friends had died.

Desperate to stay strong, she squared her shoulders and met his hooded gaze. The captain’s mouth dropped opened. His focus moved over every part of her from the top of her crooked bonnet down her body to her booted heels. Did he know she was Commodore Stanhope’s daughter?

“Very well, Simon.” Although the captain spoke to his crew member, Hawk’s eyes never left hers. Slowly, the leader of this ruthless gang of cutthroats grinned. “Who do we have here?” He swept his gaze over her once more in leisure.

“I—I—I—” She couldn’t tell him her real name. He might remember her father, and then she would end up with her sire’s doom.

“Miss, will you please remove your bonnet?”

“Sir, I don’t see why I need—”

He stepped closer and yanked on the silken pink ribbons securing the bonnet that sat loosely on her head then pushed it off. She reached for it, but the bonnet fell by her feet as the wind blew unbound curls against her face. His eyes widened.

Fear suffocated her. Why did he act in such a manner? Perhaps she would indeed have to defend herself against him.

“What’s your name?” His voice boomed louder than before.

She gulped, praying the Lord would forgive her for lying. “Miss Stan—ley. Belle Stanley.”

Seconds ticked by into incredibly long minutes of silence. Only the wind slapping through the trees and the softening cries of the stagecoach passengers blended together to disrupt the stillness.

Finally, the captain’s jaw hardened. “Miss Stanley, what is your purpose for this trip?”

She gnashed her teeth. Curse those stubborn highwaymen thinking they owned the world. “I—I’m on my way to New York to settle my father’s affairs.”

“Where are you from?”

“I’m from England. I arrived only just this morning.”

“Why would any father send his daughter across the sea during turbulent times such as these?”

“My father didn’t send me. He’s dead, if you must know.”

“I see.”

His gaze swept over her again as his finger smoothed across his thick, black mustache. “Tell me, Miss Stanley. How long ago did your father die?”

She hesitated, knowing she couldn’t tell him the truth. “Just a few months past, sir.”

“Indeed?” He folded his arms across his wide chest. “Has the length of time for mourning changed? The last I heard, a family member wore black for a year.” He motioned his hand in front of her. “Yet there isn’t a stitch of black on you. Can you tell me why that is?”

She fought the urge to slap his arrogant face. He was correct, of course, and his sharp wit made her pause. Why couldn’t she think of an impressionable answer? It was as if a fog impeded the thoughts in her mind.

“I—I—”

The wind lifted the midnight black hair resting on the back of his nape, and blew the edges of his shirt open. A square jaw and thick neck emphasized his masculine build. Indeed, men would fear the captain even without his mask, but Isabelle wouldn’t allow the horror stories to make her cower.

Someone nudged her arm, and she peeked at the person. Mrs. Winters, her companion, gave her a small nod. So relieved the older woman wasn’t dead, Isabelle wanted to throw her arms around her companion, but before she could, Mrs. Winters cleared her throat, stepped closer to the captain and aimed her gaze toward him.

“Sir, you must forgive Miss Stanley for not being in proper mourning attire. There was hardly time, and certainly no funds. Her father didn’t leave a shilling for her in London, which is why she had to sail to New York where he resided. Once she receives money from his estate, she will purchase suitable black gowns, I assure you.”

Tears of respite stung Isabelle’s eyes. She’d have to thank her companion later for coming to her aid and thinking up the lie so quickly.

The tilt to Hawk’s head and his dark scowl showed his irritation as his gaze pinned the older woman. “Pardon me, but who are you?”

“Mrs. Winters. I’m Miss Stanley’s companion.”

“Ah yes, I see.” His face hardened. “If you will, Mrs. Winters, don’t speak until you are spoken to.”

The older woman gasped. “Why I never—”

“I’m quite certain you have
never
, but then you have never known anyone like me.” He took several steps back to look over his prisoners. “And I hope all of you learn your place posthaste.” The volume rose in his voice. “Because you are all my prisoners, you will follow my rules or end up with the fate of your stagecoach driver and guard.”

Isabelle let out a rushed breath. Why had she even dared hope the leader of this group of men would have any morals or show a shred of kindness?

Amongst those standing with Isabelle as prisoners were a widow and two older gentlemen. The woman sobbed into her handkerchief, wrenching Isabelle’s heart. Her older companion, Mrs. Winters, clutched shaky hands against her bosom, her face deathly pale, mirroring Isabelle’s own fear. Highwaymen violated women, and took much more than their dignity. She vowed she would not let Captain Hawk take hers.

Hawk turned to one of his men who stood by the stagecoach. “Simon, escort the prisoners to the wagon so we can take them away.”

“Aye, Captain.” The other masked man motioned his pistol in the air. His long, dirty blond hair waved in the wind. He smirked, displaying a full set of yellowish-brown teeth.

Everyone fell into step and walked in the direction Simon indicated. As Isabelle shuffled a couple of feet, Hawk strode to her and grasped her elbow.

“Miss Stanley, you won’t be going with them.” The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I have a more suitable place for you.”