Massachusetts, 1761

The storm lashed the little beach, pelting the sand into massive divots. The sea heaved in gigantic waves, smashing themselves at the shore and thrashing little bits of driftwood into splinters.

One wave heaved itself so high it threw its cargo up onto the dunes, where a smattering of sails and splintered deck and a handful of bodies thudded into the flattened grass.

One of the bodies gave a cough, spat out some seawater, and pulled feebly on the rope about its waist. It was a young woman, blonde hair plastered to her skin, dress ratted and ruined from the sea. A gash on her forehead bled copiously down her face.

She gathered in the rope, but there was nothing on the end of it. Just sand and seaweed and a bit of torn blue silk.

The blonde cradled the rope in her arms, sobbing and sputtering. Another giant wave crashed down on the beach, and a piece of mast flew at her, hitting her head, knocking her deep into the sand. Her eyes fluttered and closed, and she lay still.

“You know what I wish?” Willow Rosenberg said as she settled back in the carriage with her best friend.

“What’s that?”

“That for once I could leave a town without people running after me with pitchforks and flaming braziers.”

“Aw, Will,” Xander Harris put his arm around her, “it’s not your fault. I think you’re great.”

“Yeah?” She gave him a hopeful look. “You’re not going to call me a witch, are you?”

“Of course not. Just don’t turn me into a toad or anything...”

She rolled her eyes at him, but Xander’s teasing made her feel a lot better. It seemed like the whole of Massachusetts had it in for her. Wherever they went, one town after another, everyone always seemed to think she was a witch. Was it her red hair? Her left-handed writing? Her unusual knowledge of Socrates and Pliny and her irritation with British rule?

“I mean, it’s not my fault there was a storm. Just because it happened to break out when I was telling them about The Tempest...”

“Coincidence,” Xander agreed.

“And there was a shipwreck... Do you think anyone survived?”

“Probably not. That was a pretty mean storm.”

Willow nodded disconsolately. “Maybe there were some British ships in it,” she said, hopefully.

“That’s not a very nice thing to say.”

“Well, no, and I don’t mean I want anyone to have been hurt, but, you know. Maybe some tea or something got destroyed. Some correspondence about making taxes higher. Something like that.”

Xander, who barely even knew what taxes were, just nodded. “Maybe we should get some sleep,” he said. “It’s a long way to Boston.”

Willow nodded and closed her eyes and laid her head on Xander’s shoulder. She wondered vaguely, as she fell asleep, exactly why it was he hung around with her. Everywhere they went she got into some kind of trouble but he never blamed her for it. And he always followed her when she had to leave town. Did he have any idea how much she adored him for it?

She eventually fell asleep, and Xander did too, the rocking of the carriage lulling away their exhaustion. It was hard work, being hated and feared wherever you went.

And then suddenly, the carriage reared to a halt, rocking violently, throwing Willow and Xander against the side of the carriage as it swung on two wheels, the horses screaming, and there was a shot, a loud report, and then the carriage teetered for a moment, Willow’s head smashed against the side wall, and the whole thing lost balance and toppled over, crashing down a steep slope at the side of the road, thrashing into trees and bushes, before coming to a halt at the bottom, half submerged in a freezing stream.

For a few seconds everything was silent and Xander lay there in a crumpled heap, Willow’s body flopped across his. Her head was lolling and he frantically reached for her wrist and gave out a huge sigh when he felt a pulse. She was all right. She’d be okay.

Now, he just had to figure out how to get them out of the fallen carriage.

The door was above him and he reached up and flipped it open. It was dark outside and all he could see were tree branches and the stars. He reached for Willow, picked her up, and pushed her out of the carriage, holding onto her wrist so she wouldn’t fall as he climbed after her.

Sitting on top of the carriage, he paused to catch his breath and try to wake Willow, when suddenly he heard someone start clapping.

“Well done,” said a dry, sarcastic voice. “You’ve just saved me having to haul your worthless carcass out of there.”

Clutching Willow tightly, Xander turned his head. In the moonlight he couldn’t make out details very clearly, but he saw a man on a horse, the animal as black as his rider’s clothes. Moonlight glinted off leather and the unnatural whiteness of the highwayman’s hair.

And off his gun.

“Now be a good chap,” he had the flat accent of an Englishman who hadn’t grown up in the colonies, “and get off there. Take your lady with you and keep her quiet while I search the box.”

Xander looked down at the ground below. It was quite a way to jump, and it was dark and soggy from the recent storm.

“Uh, how about I stay right here, and you pass on your merry way?” he suggested.

The highwayman didn’t seem impressed.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “You just-”

And then he suddenly recoiled as something hit him in the chest. “Bloody hell!”

Xander stared around, but he couldn’t see anyone. Another rock flew at the highwayman, hitting his shoulder this time. The man fired off a shot, but the report had hardly died away before a third rock flew at him, and hit his head this time, and he toppled form his horse, his gun falling to the ground.

Xander left Willow where she was and jumped off the carriage, snatching up the gun and holding it over the fallen highwayman. He wasn’t moving, but Xander didn’t have the heart to kill him. He’d never done it before. He just wanted to make sure no one was going to come after him and Willow when they stole this man’s horse and got the hell out of there.

He was just reaching up for Willow when he caught something from the corner of his eye. A woman, her hair tangled and loose about her shoulders, her dress heavy with water, her eyes wild and darting. She was venturing forward, holding several heavy rocks in her apron.

“Hey,” Xander said. “Did you - did you throw those at him?”

She nodded.

“Thanks. He was going to rob us.”

She looked up at Willow, dropped her weapons and started climbing up the wheel to get to the girl.

“Hey, be careful, that carriage isn’t very sturdy,” Xander said, but she’d already got to the top and was checking over Willow. She shook the red-head by the shoulders, quite vigorously, desperately, when Willow coughed and woke up, hugged the girl to her.

“Will,” Xander said, relieved, “you’re alright...”

“Yes,” she said, looking over the blonde’s shoulder and mouthing, ‘Who’s this?’

Xander shrugged. “Can you get down?”

The blonde heard him and pushed Willow gently to the edge. She made catching motions to Xander, and when Willow jumped, he tried to do as he was told. Unfortunately he’d forgotten how much she weighed and both of them fell to the dirty forest floor.

The blonde jumped down, quite agile, and ignored them, going over to the fallen highwayman. She kicked his ribs and he groaned a little. Looking around, she found some rope on his saddle and used it to tie his hands behind his back and lash his ankles together. Then she heaved him onto the back of the horse.

“Hey,” Xander said, standing and brushing leaf mould off him, “can I be rude and ask who you are?”

She looked at him, opened her mouth, then shut it again, shaking her head.

“Fine,” Willow said doubtfully, loosening her trunk from the back of the carriage. “Uh, but thanks for rescuing us.”

The blonde woman didn’t seem to have heard. She was looking up the slope at the dark road above. Securing their attacker to the black horse’s saddle, she started up the slope, leading the horse behind her.

Willow and Xander looked at each other, grabbed their luggage, and followed her.

At the top of the slope they found the carriage driver dead and one of the horses on its side, unable to get up. Willow knelt by it and felt its right foreleg: comprehensively broken. She looked up sadly at Xander and shook her head.

The blonde wordlessly took the pistol from Xander and shot the horse in the head. Willow buried her face in her friend’s shoulder: she’d known there was nothing to be done for the animal, but did this little blonde girl have to be so brutal?

The other horse was fine - shaken and nervous, but unharmed. The blonde mounted the black horse and gestured for Willow and Xander to get on the chestnut carriage horse.

“But, we have luggage,” Willow began, and the woman looked annoyed. She opened Willow’s small trunk and took out a couple of plain dresses and some underwear. She stuffed it into the saddlebags of the black horse, then did the same with Xander’s spare clothes. Giving them a look of Happy Now? she got back onto her horse.

The blond man was stirring. She smacked his head smartly with the butt of his own pistol, and kicked the black horse into life.

Xander and Willow had no choice but to once again follow her.

Chapter One

They rode up to the farmhouse just before dawn, when everything was quiet. A little too quiet - there were no animals in the fields and no horses in the stables. The farm didn’t look especially prosperous, but there was vegetables growing in the plot behind the small house and a lamp burning in one of the upstairs windows.

Xander hammered on the door. “Hello? We need some help. Hello? Is there anyone home?”

The door was unlocked. He pushed at it, then looked back at Willow, who stood there shivering. She shrugged.

“Try it,” she said.

Yeah, Xander thought, it would be me trying it. Going into an empty, dark house all by myself... Yeah, it’d be me.

But the little blonde woman jumped off the black horse, handed the reins to Willow, and entered the house ahead of Xander. She didn’t seem afraid, peeking into all the downstairs rooms and then starting up the stairs. Xander followed her cautiously, leery of leaving Willow alone with the unconscious highwayman. What if he woke up? But then, what if there was something horrible waiting up here?

Not that the blonde needed protecting, so much, but it was the thought of the thing. Chivalry and all that.

She pushed open a door and sucked in her breath. Xander, dreading the worst, peered over her shoulder, and immediately wished he hadn’t. There was a dead man and woman lying in the bloody sheets, both with slit throats.

He backed out, dragging in deep breaths.

The blonde woman tried the other doors. She looked in both, and then shook her head at Xander.

“No one?”

She pointed at the second door. Xander steeled himself and looked in: there was a young man lying on the ground with a big hole in his chest. The third room was empty, but there was blood all over.

“Can we go now?” Xander asked, breathing heavily, afraid he was going to be sick.

She nodded and went back down the stairs. Xander followed gratefully - but instead of getting back on her horse, she went around the back of the house and started searching the barn. She came out with a couple of shovels and handed one to Xander.

“All dead?” Willow said as Xander finished telling her.

“Most definitely.” He looked at the shovel in his hand. “Oh no...”

The blonde nodded and started digging under one of the oaks nearby. Xander, wishing with everything he had that he’d never got up this morning, handed his hat and coat to Willow, checked the bindings on the highwayman, and started digging.

It was fully daylight by the time they’d finished burying the three bodies. Willow had helped a little with the digging and said a short prayer as Xander and the strangely strong blonde woman tipped the occupants of the house in.

Xander found an axe, hacked off a tree branch and fashioned a small cross to mark each of the graves.

“That’s bloody touching,” came a voice from behind them, and all three whipped round to see the highwayman trying to get to his feet.

The blonde woman got out the pistol from the front of her bodice and aimed it at him.

“Hey, that’s mine!”

“And you aimed it at us,” Xander said. “Were you going to rob us?”

The highwayman stared at them. “Well, yeah,” he said, as if it was obvious, “hello, highwayman? I’m William the Bloody.”

He paused expectantly, and Willow and Xander exchanged looks.

“Uh, that’s nice,” Willow said uncertainly.

“You haven’t heard of me?” William the Bloody said.

“Um, no. Should we have?”

“I’m sodding infamous!”

“Oh. Sorry,” Willow said.

“And now you’re our prisoner,” Xander said.

“No, actually, he’s hers,” Willow whispered, staring at the blonde woman, who had not taken her eyes off the highwayman.

She stared at him a bit, then handed the pistol to Willow, who looked at it like it was a snake, and strode over to William. He sneered at her, and she punched him in the face. He flew onto his back.

“Hey! What the bloody hell was that for!”

She put one foot on his stomach as she reached down and untied the rope around his ankles. She made a loop and put it around his neck, then used it to haul him to his feet and inside the house.

Willow and Xander once more followed uncertainly.

Inside, they found William yelling loudly at the silent blonde woman as she tied him to a chair in the kitchen. Willow peeked inside a pot by the fire and sniffed. Some soup, reasonably fresh.

“You hungry?” she asked Xander, who nodded eagerly. Willow started looking for bowls, then she noticed the blonde woman standing there, watching her. “Would you like some soup?” Willow asked. “I think it’s pumpkin.”

She looked confused. Eventually she shook her head, pulling at her heavy, sodden skirts.

“Looks to me like she wants a bath,” William said, and all three of them looked over her tangled hair, filthy dress and skin that had been blackened by dirt and sweat.

“Hey,” Willow said, “how about you take care of our prisoner,” she grinned at Xander, “and us girls will go and see if we can find a bath? You can borrow some clothes,” she offered the blonde, who hesitated, then nodded.

“Oh, great,” Xander said sourly, hefting the heavy pistol. “You get all naked and clean together and I get stuck here with the guy who tried to kill us.”

“Damn right,” the highwayman said. “I’d have succeeded, too, if it hadn’t been for-” he broke off, looking confused, and Xander smirked.

“For the tiny little scarecrow taking a bath upstairs? Yeah, that’s right. She smashed a rock on your head. Tiny little girl. Who’s a big scary highwayman now?”

William rattled his chair angrily, and Xander took a few steps back.

Willow heated up some water and filled the little metal bath she found in one of the bedrooms. She and Xander had stripped the beds of their bloody linen and burnt it, and the scent of the bonfire drifted in through the windows as she tested the heat of the water and chucked in the bar of soap she’d found in the kitchen.

“Not exactly French luxury but enough to get you clean,” she said cheerfully to the blonde girl, who didn’t reply. “Hey, can you talk? I thought maybe you were foreign or something but you seem to understand what we’re saying.”

The blonde looked at her for a while, looking like she was trying to say something, and then she gave up.

“Lost your voice?” Willow offered helpfully, and the blonde hesitated, then nodded.

“Okay. Well, so long as we understand each other. I’m gonna go and get some clean clothes, so why don’t you strip off and get in that water before it gets cold, and I’ll be right back?”

She left the room, and the blonde woman regarded the steaming water. She dipped her finger in and closed her eyes. Hot water was good.

She pulled at the catches on the bodice of her dress and unhooked the heavy gown from the printed panel, called a stomacher, pinned to her corset. She unfastened the drawstrings of her petticoats and the padded roll around her hips that had held the skirt out. Then she removed the stomacher and unhooked the corset, taking in a big, grateful breath. Her chemise and stockings were still very damp, torn and ragged like the rest of her clothes, she’d lost her shoes at some point and her feet were bleeding. They stung when she stepped into the water, but she ignored the pain and sank deep down, warm for the first time she could remember.

When Willow came back in, she found the blonde girl asleep in the bath, and tiptoed around picking up her clothes and setting them to dry on a rack set before the fire. Some items, like her clocked stockings, were ripped beyond repair. It was a shame, Willow thought, because they looked like they’d once been very pretty.

Around the girl’s neck was a locket with a pretty design on it, and sewn into the lining of her skirts was a purse with some money in it. Willow frowned and woke the girl up, saying, “Do you want me to help you with your hair?”

She looked frightened for a second or two, and then nodded, letting Willow lather up her tangled hair, rinse it out with water from a jug, and try to brush out the tangles.

“Your clothes are kind of wrecked,” Willow said, “but my spare dress will probably fit you. I don’t have any spare stays though, I’m afraid, so we’ll have to wash yours out and wait for them to dry.”

The blonde woman pointed to a chest by the bed, and it took Willow a moment to realise what she meant.

“You think there might be something you can wear in there?”

She nodded, and while the blonde got out of the bath and dried herself off, Willow opened the chest and found several woollen dresses of reasonable quality, a few sets of underwear and two sets of stays.

She held a cotton-covered corset up triumphantly. “You want help getting dressed?”

When she’d helped the other girl get dressed in one of her own dresses, a pretty green one with a little bit of lace on the front, Willow washed herself and sponged off her dress, putting it to dry with the other clothes, which smelled strongly of the sea. She put on her other dress, which was blue with white stripes, and the two girls helped each other put their hair up. Willow knew the girl must have grown up with a sister, because she was too well-dressed to be a maid, and she knew a lot about helping someone else dress and do her hair.

Her blonde locks curled slightly, and Willow just tied them back with a ribbon before tucking her own red hair under a cap.

“You look very pretty,” she told the blonde, and showed her the mirror above the mantelpiece. She watched as the other girl stepped forward and touched her reflection, her face, her hair, her dress. “You want something to eat?”

The blonde nodded, and they went downstairs.

Xander was eating soup, glaring at William, who glared back from his chair.

“Check out m’lady,” Xander whistled, kneeling before the blonde and kissing her hand. She blushed and even smiled a little. Without her coating of grime and the stink of seaweed, she was very pretty, petite and curvy in all the right places. “Will, no offence, but that dress looks sooo much better on her.”

“None taken,” Willow said, shrugging. “There’s still some water if you want to wash?”

Xander nodded and handed her the pistol.

“What’s this for?”

Xander nodded at William. “Mr. Bloody there?”

“I don’t think we’ll need it,” Willow said, looking at William who was staring at the blonde girl. Xander grinned and left the room, and Willow waved her hand at William.

“Are you awake there?”

He stared some more at the blonde girl. “That’s the wretch who aimed my gun at me?”

“Cleans up nice, doesn’t she?”

He nodded, looking dazed. “Who is she?”

“No idea. Won’t say a word. Don’t know if she can. She understands us, though. Came out of nowhere to rescue me and Xander.”

“Xander? The whelp?”

“He’s not a whelp. Don’t insult my friends while I’m holding a gun.”

William didn’t look afraid. “And who are you?”

She paused for a few seconds, then figured it didn’t really matter. “Willow Rosenberg. And I don’t appreciate you trying to rob me. Us.”

“‘Us’? What is he to you? A ‘friend’?” William sneered.

“Damn right he’s my friend. Since we were tiny children. His parents died when he was small and he lived with us. And then my parents, well, they died a couple of years back. Yellow fever. I tried to help them but...”

“Very sad,” William said. “Gimme some soup.”

“I will not!” Willow said. “You don’t deserve any, on account of you trying to rob our coach and getting beaten by a girl,” she beamed at the blonde, who gave an uncertain smile in return, and then a longing look at the soup.

Willow scooped some out into bowls for herself and the other girl.

“So,” William eyed up the blonde appreciatively, checking out her cleavage above the low-cut dress. Willow wore a kerchief to fill in the low décolletage, but somehow it had looked wrong on this girl. “You got a name?”

She ignored him.

“Just want something to call you, love.”

“I told you,” Willow aimed a kick at him, “she doesn’t speak.”

“Just how I like ‘em.” William grinned lazily, and Willow forced herself to remember that he was a very bad man. Just because he was one of the sexiest creatures she’d ever seen, didn’t mean she should let down her guard. In fact, it meant quite the opposite. “We should give her a name.”

“We can’t name her.”

“Why not? Gonna keep calling her Blondie? Goldilocks?”

Willow’s lip curled. “We could call her... Joan.”

“Joan?” William scoffed. “That’s not a name.”

“Hey,” Xander said from the doorway, coming in dressed in a clean shirt, waistcoat and breeches, “that was my mother’s name.”

“Then your mother must have been a boring bint.”

Xander went for him, but Willow held him back and William laughed.

“Why don’t we sit down and think of a name,” Willow suggested. “All of us. Except you,” she glared at William, who shrugged.

“Well, where did she come from?” Xander asked, sitting down at the table.

“You saw her first,” Willow said.

“She just appeared and started chucking rocks at our fearless highwayman friend,” Xander looked over William’s ropes, “I mean, our prisoner here.”

“Only so long as you’re awake,” William said. “I’ll kill you in your bloody sleep.”

The blonde girl turned and fixed green eyes on him, and he fell silent.

“How about Elizabeth?” Xander suggested.

“I don’t know. It seems a little... proper, for someone like her. Maybe... I don’t know... How about Hippolita, the Amazon Queen, from Shakespeare’s-”

“Perdita,” William said suddenly, and the blonde turned to look at him.

“Perdita,” Willow frowned. “A Winter’s Tale?”

“Perdita,” Xander tried the name out on his tongue. It was odd, but he liked the sound of it. If only someone else had thought of it.

“Means ‘Lost One’,” William said. “Looks pretty lost to me.”

Willow regarded the girl. “What do you think? Would you like to be Perdita?”

She looked them all over warily. Then she shrugged and reached for more soup.

“Perdita it is,” Willow smiled, and William looked pretty pleased with himself.

Chapter Two

“I don’t know, Xander, there’s still something very odd going on here. Why is she so strong? Did you see her? She picked William up and put him on that horse.”

“Well, maybe she’s a farm gal. Remember that girl, uh, Faith? Worked on her dad’s farm and boy, was she strong...” Xander’s eyes misted over nostalgically.

Willow bashed his arm. They were in the dark, empty parlour, having left William tied to his chair in the kitchen. The newly named Perdita was asleep upstairs on the only bed to have not been covered with blood - the boy’s. Willow and Xander had decided that he’d probably heard his parents being killed and come to help, before he was shot in the chest. As for the third bed... There was blood all over it, and the sheets were tangled and trailing on the floor, but there was no body to match it. They’d checked everywhere.

“And there’s something else,” Willow said. “When I was washing her hair I found this big cut on her face - I got soap in it and everything but she hardly seemed to notice. And there’s a big bump on the back of her head...”

“So she got clobbered, but I still don’t...”

“There have been cases of people getting hit on the head and when they wake up they’ve gone mute or something. Or maybe what happened to her was so traumatic she’s too shocked to speak.”

“You noticed she smelled all seaweedy?”

Willow nodded. “Maybe she was part of that shipwreck.”

“I saw some of that wreckage, Will, no one could have escaped it.”

“You got a better idea?”

They looked over the table at each other.

“No.”

Next door, William listened in on their conversation anxiously. He needed them to both fall asleep before he could make his move. Perdita had tied his ropes securely, but William had seen a meat cleaver hanging above the fire and just, only just, managed to half-stretch up to nudge it to the floor while they were upstairs seeing to Perdita.

He laughed to himself as he worked at the ropes wrapped around his wrists. It was so obvious the whelp fancied Perdita. His mind wasn’t on the little Jewess at all - although she definitely had it bad for him.

So the Jewess fancied the whelp, and the whelp fancied Perdita. Wouldn’t it just be delicious if Perdita fancied William?

“Just like Shakespeare,” he said to himself, and the final thread of the rope broke free. Oh, thank God. Wriggling his sore arms, William stretched them round and unfastened the knots holding his torso to the chair. Maybe Perdita knew how to tie a man up, but the other two were complete idiots to leave him alone in a room with a lot of sharp implements.

He freed his ankles, stood up and stretched. It was damn cold in here, after the sun had gone down and all the warmth of the day had left the stone-floored kitchen, and he was glad he still had his tall boots and long leather greatcoat on for warmth. He straightened out his shirt cuffs, ran his hands through his pale hair. Nancy-boy Xander had his hair in a silly velvet queue, but William just had a leather toggle holding his back. No dandy, him. Besides, he needed a trademark. Or two. His caped overcoat was one, his hair another. He might gather a few more along the way, if he could be arsed.

He peeked into the parlour and saw Willow and Xander asleep on the sofa, arms around each other. To say nothing was going on between them, they sure were close. He closed the door, praying that it wouldn’t squeak, then made his way up the stairs to the only room with a closed door.

Perdita lay asleep in the middle of the big bed, hair spread around her like a golden blanket, covers thrashed to the floor. She’d taken off the restricting dress and in its place wore a short shift that showed the outline of her breasts and hips and legs.

William placed the meat cleaver on the table by the bed and silently shrugged off his coat. He was not, by nature, a rapist. He told himself that all he wanted to do was talk to her. Hold her. Kiss her. Feel those curvy little thighs around his waist, her little breasts heaving against his chest-

She frowned and moaned something in her sleep, and William’s eyebrows moved up. So she could actually make a noise. Hmm. That could be a problem.

William’s hand hovered over her body, a hair’s breadth from her skin, tracing the outline of her delicious curves. He touched her hair, the lovely golden strands like silk under his fingers, and he marvelled at the change in her. This morning she’d been a terrifying monster - dirty and smelly, her hair almost dreadlocked with dirt, her eyes flashing dangerously, almost insanely.

Was it weird that he’d wanted her even then?

He touched her lips with his fingertips and she sighed, her mouth opening just slightly, an invitation to William, who couldn’t help himself. He reached down and touched his mouth to hers, tasting her lips with his tongue, wrapping strands of her glorious hair about his fingers, touching her shoulder and suddenly realising that she had a knife pressed against his throat.

“Get the hell away from me,” she said in a low, raspy voice, “or I’ll bloody kill you.”

William stared at her. “I thought you didn’t talk!”

“I found something to say.” She pushed him away and William, mindful of the sharpness of her blade, sat up, hands raised.

“Who are you?”

She ignored him. “If you ever touch me again I will cut you apart piece by piece. Starting,” she flashed the knife down to his crotch, “right here.”

“Okay, all right, point taken,” William tried to move back again, the knife once more at his throat.

“What did you do here?”

“Do? I didn’t do anything,” he said cautiously.

“To the people who lived here. The ones we buried.”

“I didn’t do anything! God, woman, just because I’m a daylight robber, doesn’t mean I’d just walk in and kill people for no reason.”

Her eyes flickered to the meat cleaver not far away. “What was that for?”

“Protection.”

“Yours, or mine?”

He looked at her, her steady green eyes, her tumbling blonde locks, and felt a wave of desire. “Who are you?”

A flash of uncertainty crossed her face. “That’s not important. Did you hurt Xander and Willow?”

“Friends of yours?”

The knife pricked his skin. “Did you hurt them?”

“No. No! They’re asleep downstairs. You can check if you like.”

“And let you escape?”

“Why are you keeping me here?”

“You said yourself. You’re an infamous highwayman. I could kill you right now and probably get a reward for it.”

He regarded her steadily, wondering if she knew her left breast was almost exposed by her gaping chemise. “So why don’t you?”

“Because there’s been enough death here for one day. Those people were killed last night - the blood was still fresh.”

He nodded. “Whoever did it could be coming back.”

“Why? They took anything of worth. This was a prosperous farm but there’s no livestock, no money anywhere, not even any plate on the sideboard.”

“Then how do you know it was prosperous?”

“There are three bedrooms but only three bodies - the girl was gone-”

“What girl?”

“The other room. There are women’s things in it. Dresses like a young woman would wear. She had dark hair,” Perdita touched her own golden locks, “I could see it on her hairbrush.”

“Where do you think she went?” William asked, imagining reaching out and kissing her bare shoulder, brushing her hair aside, putting his lips to her skin and tasting the faint saltiness he knew would be lingering there...

“I imagine they took her. The sort of bandits who would murder the occupants of a house and take anything of value would probably be quite happy to take a young girl with her. Her clothes were pretty,” Perdita said dreamily, “most of them were work clothes but she had some pretty frocks too. She was a pretty girl.”

“You’re a pretty girl,” William said softly, and her attention snapped back to him.

“And you are a bandit.”

“I’m a highwayman,” he corrected. “I don’t make cowardly attacks on undefended homes.”

“No, you attack undefended stagecoaches instead.”

“A man’s got to make his living.”

“He could try doing it legally.”

“Yeah,” William gave her one of his best lazy smiles, “but how much fun would that be?”

Perdita narrowed her eyes at him. “Mr. - do you have a real name?”

“William’s the one I was christened with.”

“I can’t call you William.”

“Why not?” He cocked his head at her and imagined sliding that chemise down an inch or two so expose her little pink nipple... He could already see it was tightening into a delicious little nub, it would taste so sweet-

“It’s too familiar. And it doesn’t suit you.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No. William is a cultured name and you,” she sneered at him, “are not cultured.”

He gave her a slow smile, and when he spoke again his voice had lost the rough edge he’d always used before, and instead sounded polished, careful - cultured. “‘Thou dearest Perdita, with these forced thoughts I prithee darken not the mirth o’th’feast. Or I’ll be thine, my fair’-”

“Stop,” Perdita said through clenched teeth. “What was that?”

“Shakespeare. The Winter’s Tale. He was a William, too, you know.”

“I have heard of him,” Perdita lied. “Are you telling me your name is Shakespeare?”

He laughed softly at her confusion. She’d no idea at all what he was talking about. “No, love, not Shakespeare. If you don’t like William you could call me Will?”

She shook her head.

“What’s your real name?” William asked.

Again, nothing.

“We called you Perdita because we didn’t know your real name.”

“‘We’? You’re not allied to them. I saw you trying to rob them! You would have killed them.”

“Probably not,” William said, “but then again, I might have.” He was enjoying her distress. It made her bosom heave deliciously. “Is that what you do, love? You like to help people out? Like those charity girls? Is that your game?”

Perdita was silent.

William chewed thoughtfully on his lip. She’d lowered the knife, that was good, although he knew better than to make a move on her so soon.

“What about that cut?” he asked, lifting a hand, which she waved away with the knife. “On your face. And there’s a bump on your head. What happened to you?”

Nothing.

“Did someone hit you? Attack you? A highwayman. What did he look like? I’ll probably know him and-”

“Not a highwayman,” Perdita said quietly. She looked up. “What would you have done? Told him where I am so he could finish the job?”

Smashed his bloody brains out, William was astonished to hear himself thinking, but he said, “You said it wasn’t a highwayman.”

“So it wasn’t.”

“Then who?” He scrutinised her. “A man. Your husband?”

She shook her head. He’d noticed she wasn’t wearing any rings - but it was nice to have it confirmed.

“Father. Brother. Who hit you?”

“No one hit me.”

“Then you fell? You don’t strike me as the clumsy type.”

“I - I’m not...”

“So then what happened?”

Perdita’s eyes were on her hands, playing with the little knife. “I don’t remember,” she mumbled.

William said nothing for a while, watching her, thinking. The blood on her face, her sodden clothes, her silence and her fear. She’d been trying to cover it with anger or violence or whatever, but she was afraid, he could tell. And she was desperately uncertain.

“What don’t you remember?” he asked gently, and the tone of his voice seemed to encourage her.

“Any of it.”

“How you got hurt?”

“Anything.”

“Perdita,” William said, “what’s your name?”

She shook her head.

“Where are you from?”

Nothing.

“How did you come to be on the Boston road in the middle of the night?”

“I - I followed the river...”

“From where?”

“The sea.” She shivered and drew her knees up to her chest and William had to fight a sudden impulse to reach out and cuddle her.

“Why were you at the sea?”

“I don’t know.” She touched the cut on her forehead. “I woke up and I - there was debris and, and bodies, and I...”

William remembered the fierce storm that had hit the shore. He remembered talk of a shipwreck, with no survivors.

Except, maybe...

“A shipwreck?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.” Suddenly her head shot up, startling William, who hadn’t realised how close he’d got to her. “If you tell anyone I’ll kill you,” she said fiercely. “I swear I’ll kill you.”

He held up his hands. “Not a word, love.”

“And don’t call me your love. I am not your love.”

Belatedly, the idea occurred to William that he could have tricked her into thinking she was... If only he’d realised before that she had no idea who she was. Dammit.

“I won’t say anything,” he promised.

“I don’t think I can trust you.”

“What have I done to you?”

“If I hadn’t been armed you would have - you’d have-”

“I don’t think you being armed would have any bearing on that,” William smiled at her. “I can’t see anyone making you do something you don’t want to. Unless,” he looked down then back up through his lashes, “you want to?”

“I’d rather throw myself back in the sea,” Perdita snapped, and William smiled.

“All right. Until you change your mind,” he said, and made to get off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

“Leave milady to sleep.”

“While you run away? William the Bloody, you’re going nowhere. You could kill my friends-”

“Friends now, are they?”

She narrowed her eyes. “More than you are.” She got up and pulled the top sheet off the bed and pushed him against the bed head. William let her, not at all disturbed by her manhandling of him. In fact, he was rather getting used to being tied up by this woman, and not in a bad way.

She used the sheet to tie his wrists to the head of the bed, and William looked down at her with sleepy eyes. “Are you going to leave me here all night?”

Perdita got off the bed and headed for the door. She said nothing as she left, but she was back five minutes later with the pistol in one hand and William’s former ropes in the other. She tied him up properly, her knots firm, his wrists fastened to the head of the bed and his ankles to the foot. Then she carefully loaded the pistol with powder and shot and placed it by her side of the bed.

Then she pulled the covers over herself and lay down and closed her eyes.

William went to sleep entertaining himself with thoughts of this delicious little minx waking him up in very naughty ways.

Chapter Three

Perdita didn’t go to sleep for hours. She tried as hard as she could to remember anything before she’d woken up on that beach, but nothing came. Tears leaked from her eyes in utter frustration. It was ridiculous. Why couldn’t she remember? She must have parents, siblings, friends. A home. There must be people who missed her. Her dress had been of reasonable quality before the storm had ruined it, so her background couldn’t have been that bad.

And then there were the wounds on her head. And not just her head - her dress had been torn in several places and her skin had bled from salt-encrusted wounds. She’d been careful to keep Willow from seeing them.

Ah, yes, Willow. The little red-haired Jewess and her nervous, jocular friend. See, I can remember the word jocular, Perdita thought in frustration, why nothing else? What is my name? I must have a name!

Lost One. Well, that seems to be me. No name, no past. I suppose that’s something a few people would be grateful for. I suppose William the Bloody might be - but then, he seems to enjoy his notoriety.

She turned her head and looked at him. His chest was rising and falling and she was pretty sure he was asleep. He had the look of a soldier, she thought, but she wasn’t sure what made her think that. His body was very lean, all bone and muscle, not a single ounce of fat anywhere. His face was all sharp angles and hollows, his cheekbones devastatingly high, his eyes hard. A scar sliced through his left eyebrow - it was very dashing. Only his mouth had any softness, and Perdita knew firsthand that it didn’t just look soft. It felt divine, too.

It was disgusting, really - not just that he’d tried to, to touch her like that, but that she’d very nearly responded. Thank God she’d had that knife under her pillow.

If he ever touches me again, Perdita thought, I’ll bloody kill him. I know I will.

Willow woke when the sun came through the parlour window, Xander asleep beside her on the sofa, and it took her a few moments to realise where she was and what was going on. She reached for the pistol that had been tucked down the back of the sofa and panicked when it wasn’t there.

“Xander,” she shook him awake, “I can’t find it.”

“Wha’?”

“The pistol! I was going to check on William but I can’t find the pistol. God, do you think he has it?”

Xander’s eyes darted from Willow to the door. “I’ll go check,” he said, as manfully as he could, and hesitated for a long time.

“Want me to come with?” Willow asked, trying to hide her smile.

“Sure, if you like. Safety in numbers, I guess...”

They crept out of the door and down the passage to the kitchen. The house wasn’t big enough to have the kitchen separate from the rest like in some big places, it wasn’t in the basement and didn’t have to be reached by some back passage. Here the kitchen was the centre of the house.

And it was empty.

“Perdita,” Xander said, and Willow nodded, and they dashed upstairs, flung open the door to Perdita’s room, and pulled up short when they saw her curled around the highwayman, his black waistcoat unfastened, stock loosened, hands and feet both tied to the bed.

“Riiight,” Willow said doubtfully, and Perdita’s eyes slammed open, as did William’s, and he looked vastly amused to see them standing there, looking so shocked.

He stretched luxuriously and cocked an eyebrow at Perdita, who looked horrified.

“Sleep well, pet? Don’t mind the ropes, she likes to get kinky.”

“Uh, maybe we should go,” Willow said to Xander. “Xander? I think you’re drooling...”

Perdita, sat up, pulling the covers up to her chest, which was rather exposed by her thin little shift.

“It’s not - I mean - I was just-” she began, and Willow and Xander’s faces registered new shock.

“You talked!”

“She talked!”

“She can hear you!”

“I know!”

William watched them, smiling delightedly.

“Oh,” Perdita said, blushing, “erm, yes. I, er, found my voice...”

Xander raised his eyebrows at William. “And he helped you find it?”

“I tried,” William said modestly, and Perdita thumped him.

“He came up here and I didn’t want him to escape so I tied him up,” she explained, and gestured to the pistol. “I thought he might have hurt you, but you look alright...”

“We’re fine,” Willow said. “When did you start talking?”

“Um, last night. I think I was in shock,” she said, and took a breath as she prepared to tell them the story she’d made up last night. “After my carriage was robbed.”

“Oh no, you too?”

“Not by him?” Xander pointed to William, who frowned.

“You don’t think I’d remember her?”

“No, by someone else. Masked. I didn’t see their faces. They killed everyone,” Perdita said, “I was lucky to escape.”

“You were,” Willow nodded vigorously. “Were you - were you with anyone? Family, or, or friends...?”

Perdita shook her head quickly. “No. I was alone. I was, er, going to, er, meet with someone. But I didn’t want to, so, you know. Maybe it’s better this way. Erm,” she pushed her hair out of her eyes, “can I ask you not to say you’ve seen me?”

“Not a problem since they don’t know who you are, love,” William pointed out, and she bashed him again.

“We should get some breakfast and try to figure out what we’re going to do,” Willow said.

“Do?”

“Well, don’t you want to find out what happened here? And surely Perdita wants to get back home?”

“Yes,” William said, looking up at her, “surely she does.”

“I think it’s best if I lay low for a while,” Perdita said. “Those bandits could be looking for me.”

“Do you have a real name?”

“I’d prefer not to use it. It’s safer that way,” Perdita said, and Willow nodded.

“Good thinking. Do you need any help getting dressed?”

“No, I’ll be fine. Thank you, Willow, and Xander too. For all your help.”

They nodded, pleased, and left the room. Perdita turned to William.

“That was not very helpful,” she said.

“Sorry, love. Couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah, well, resist,” she said, wishing she had a snappier comeback, but her head was throbbing. Two injuries in one short space of time could not be good for a person’s consciousness.

“You’re in a bad mood this morning.”

“Maybe this is my usual mood.”

“Maybe it is.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “Still no memories?”

She didn’t look at him, just shook her head and got off the bed.

William settled back as comfortably as he could to watch her get dressed. His arms ached horribly.

“I could help you, you know,” he said.

“I can manage,” Perdita snapped, trying to remember in what order things went on. Damn. Corset, then hip roll? Yes, that would make sense. Now, now the hell did she get it fastened? It was so tight.

“You need to loosen it a bit,” William said helpfully, and she glared at him. “Just a suggestion.”

She did so, and fastened the hooks and eyes, but then she realised she needed to tighten the corset strings, or Willow’s dress would never fit.

Part of her wondered if there was a woman out there who was allowed to wear clothes that fit her body, not her stays. And then the rest of her dismissed it. Of course not. That would just be stupid.

Sighing, she came back over to the bed and untied his wrist ropes. William flexed his arms and rubbed his skin. “Thanks.”

“You’d better pull them pretty tight,” Perdita said. “The waist on that dress is very small.”

“I’d noticed. Maybe you should hold onto something,” he said, and was slightly disappointed when she took him literally and hooked her arms around the post at the head of the bed. He looked around her. Yes, because his spine was just meant to twist like that. “And then maybe you’d better untie my ankles, ‘cos I’m not an invertebrate.”

It was obvious she’d no idea what that was, but she untied them anyway so he could stand, and, rather nervous at presenting her back to him, grabbed the pistol and the knives and held them ready while he laughed.

“I’m not going to strangle you, love,” he said, which was true - his thoughts were much dirtier than that. Her chemise was awfully thin and she did have a rather delicious little bottom...

“Can you just tie the corset, please?” Perdita snapped, and William shook himself out of it. At least she’d said please.

She didn’t make a sound as he pulled the corset strings as tight as he could get them, wondering how the hell a skinny little bint like Willow had managed it. And how the hell did a woman’s ribcage compress that much? Perdita wasn’t fat, but then she wasn’t that skinny, either. Her curves were rather nice. How did they all fit under that corset?

“You know, I think you look better without it,” he said softly, and was amazed when she let out a small laugh.

“Mindreader. I bet you any money these things were invented by a man.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because they don’t have to wear them.”

“Some do.”

“Oh, right-” she began, with deep sarcasm, and William laughed.

“No, old fat men wear them. And dandies.”

“And how would you know?”

“People hide stuff under their clothes. Best way to get them to hand it over, make ‘em strip. You know, the women don’t mind so much, but the men... First I thought they must all be hiding a fortune, then I realised it was just their bellies...”

She wasn’t laughing any more, and William cursed himself. Dammit. He hadn’t wanted to remind her what he was.

“You need help with the rest, love?”

“No. I-” Perdita stamped her foot. It wasn’t just her long-term memory that was failing her, she couldn’t even remember yesterday. She must have got dressed like this a hundred times before. It wasn’t new. “What goes on next?”

William settled his palms on her waist, which was now small enough to wrap his hands around. “Should be a cage, love, but you don’t have one.”

“A what?”

“A cage. For the skirts? Actually, some women don’t wear them at all any more, I hear in England it’s quite fashionable to go without... Are you laughing at me?”

She turned, his hands still at her waist, and smiled.

William sucked in a breath.

“You, knowing all about ladies’ fashions.”

“Yeah, well, some of those dresses are worth a lot, love. Sell ‘em on for quite a bit.”

Her smile faded. “I suppose so.”

William cleared his throat and moved away before he started doing things that would make her hurt him. “I think this goes next,” he said, holding up a wide pad, shaped to fit around her waist. It was to hold the skirts out, used in place of the panniers grand ladies wore. On quiet days - and days when they wanted to get through doors - the excessively wide, flat skirts were reduced a little by wearing hip pads and the prettily named bum roll, like the one he tied around Perdita’s little waist.

He added a couple of petticoats, the bottom one plain cotton edged with narrow lace, the top one prettier, a panel of patterned calico at the front of it. Then he put Willow’s green dress on over it, fastening the hooks in front to the stomacher he’d pinned to the front of the corset.

Perdita stood still, letting him dress her, his face earnest, concentrating, smoothing out the fabric, making sure everything was right. He fussed with the frills at her elbows and she had to hide a smile. For someone so apparently careless, he was quite a perfectionist. Briefly she wondered if he wore stays to keep his waist and hips so narrow, but then she remembered waking up with her arms around him, and feeling the heat of his skin under his fine lawn shirt. There’d been nothing under there but hot, hard muscle-

No, bad Perdita. Stop thinking like that.

He sat her down on the edge of the bed and asked for her foot and, after a second’s pause, she held it out to him and he rolled a stocking up her smooth, slim leg, trying a garter just below her knee and trying not to tremble as he moved onto the other leg. He wanted to smooth his hands up the rest of her leg, feel the softness of her thigh, up under her skirts to her delicious little buttocks, slip his fingers between her legs and-

“Finished?” she asked, and he looked up, slightly flushed.

“Wanted to make you pretty,” he said as she stood. “Well, prettier.”

“That’s enough,” she said, and then added, “thank you.”

He smiled at her, the first genuine smile she’d seen from him, and it was quite breathtaking. Perdita’s arms were resting on the exaggerated hips of her skirts, but she had a sudden compulsion to put them around his neck.

Stop it, Perdita. He’s a bad, evil man, he robs people and probably kills them too, and he could have violated you last night...

Although maybe being violated by him wouldn’t be so bad...

She wasn’t sure if he kissed her or she kissed him, but their lips met, hot and soft and permissive and demanding, and William pressed her tight corseted body against his and sank his teeth into her lip. Perdita let out a little moan, and her hand came up, tangled in his long pale hair, held him to her.

“God,” William moaned, “you taste so good.”

And Perdita’s eyes snapped open, she stared at him in horror, and backed away, stumbling over the skirts which were too long for her.

“I - but - no, what-?”

And William looked at her, flushed pink cheeks, hot glistening red lips, long tousled blonde hair, and knew if he stayed he’d never leave. And he had to leave.

“Bugger,” he said, and grabbed the pistol from her hand before she realised what he was doing. “Perdita, sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he said, and smartly whacked the butt of the pistol into her head, caught her and laid her on the bed, and then advanced towards the window.

He stopped, and looked down at himself. Dammit, he’d never be able to climb down in this state.

He looked back at Perdita, lying there like a pre-Raphaelite heroine, hair flowing around her, covering the cut on her face, her bosom rising and falling above the low neckline of the dress, and his hand was inside his breeches almost before he knew what he was doing. A few strokes brought him relief, gasping Perdita’s name, then he grabbed his trademark leather greatcoat, tucked the pistol into his waistband, and was off.

“Do you think she’s taking a long time?” Willow asked, looking up at the stairs.

“I don't know, Will, it takes you hours to get dressed.”

“We can’t all just throw our clothes on in a few seconds,” she said. “Some of us have to take time with our appearance. I think she’s taking a long time.” She put her hand on the banister.

“Uh, Will,” Xander said, “maybe she’s, uh, not, you know, taking time on her own.”

She stopped, and looked back at him. “You think she’s getting naughty with the highwayman?”

“Well, they looked pretty cosy this morning.”

“She had him tied up!”

“Some people like that,” Xander said, thinking happily of Faith again.

“Well, I don’t think so. I’m going to see.”

“Willow Rosenberg! Not without me,” Xander said, and bolted up the steps ahead of her. They both hesitated in front of the door, looked at each other nervously.

“I guess we should knock,” Willow said.

“I don’t hear anything,” Xander said, and his voice was touched with disappointment.

Willow rolled her eyes at him and knocked. Nothing. She knocked again, and listened hard.

“Perdita? I’m coming in, okay? Are you alright?”

Still nothing. Willow pushed the door open, then raced inside when she saw Perdita lying prone across the bed, the curtains fluttering in the breeze. William was nowhere to be seen. Xander tried to tell himself that it was just as well Perdita was dressed, but he didn’t believe himself. Couldn’t she have passed out while still wearing that little chemise?

Willow was shaking Perdita by the shoulders, and the blonde’s eyelashes fluttered.

“Perdita? Are you alright?”

She opened her eyes. “Willow...”

“Well, she still remembers us,” Xander said lightly, and Perdita’s eyes snapped fully open.

“Remember anything else?” Willow asked curiously.

“I remember everything,” Perdita mumbled quickly. She felt her aching head. “He hit me.”

“Who? William? Where did he go?”

She shook her head. “I-” The memory of his hot lips on hers was burning Perdita. “I don’t know. I guess he escaped.”

Willow sat down on the bed. “At least he didn’t, you know, try anything,” she said. “Did he?”

“No. No. He didn’t.” Perdita ran her hands through her hair. “Thank you for coming in. I’m getting sort of tired of being hit over the head.”

“Who hit you last time?” Xander asked.

“The highwayman. The one who robbed my coach. When I ran,” Perdita babbled. “I, er, it bled, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s not too bad,” Willow said, checking it. “Maybe we should go and find a doctor, though, just to check. I mean, head wounds can be bad.”

“I’m not sure I can afford a doctor,” Perdita said shyly.

“Well, actually,” Willow reached inside her bodice, much to Xander’s interest, and pulled out a purse, much to Perdita’s. “I found this inside your dress. Did you forget about it?”

Perdita opened the purse and stared at the money inside. No wonder her dress had felt heavy! She was rich!

“Oh my,” she said. “I - I guess it must have been the shock, I forgot...” She looked up at Willow. “Let’s go and find that doctor!”

They packed their belongings into saddlebags they found in the barn outside the house, and rather guiltily added a few things from the house, too. Bits of clothing, knives, flint and tinder.

“It’s not like they’ll be needing it,” Perdita tried to rationalise, “and someone else could come to the house and we’d have lost everything...”

She left behind her ruined dress and underclothes. They were too spoiled to be worn again.

William the Bloody had taken his big black horse away with him, so they were left with the single, heavy carriage horse they’d rescued from the stagecoach wreck. Taking it in turns to ride, they talked all the way along the road, taking the opposite direction from the one they’d come from, and Perdita found out about Willow and Xander’s lives so far.

“I think it’s marvellous you know so much,” she said. “I don’t think it’s a mark of witchhood. I wish I knew about Shakespeare and the English. I mean, I hate the English,” she added, based on one day’s acquaintance with one who was particularly unpleasant, “but I’d still like to know more about them.”

“Well, I can tell you,” Willow said enthusiastically, and Xander groaned.

“Once she starts, she’ll never stop,” he said, and Willow bashed his arm.

“Just because your skull is too think to learn anything,” she teased.

“No, I’ve just become immune, because you never stop talking about literature and history and the English and all that stuff. Can’t we talk about interesting things, like carpentry?”

“Carpentry isn’t interesting!” Willow laughed. “Perdita doesn’t want to hear about carpentry.”

“Sure I would,” Perdita said, smiling at their easy friendship. “I’d like to hear about it all. Especially you two. When did you get married?”

They stared at her, then Xander started laughing. “Married? Are you insane?”

“Oh, thanks,” Willow said, and Perdita could tell she was more hurt than she let on.

“Oh come on, Will, I didn’t mean... It’s just, you’re Jewish and I’m Methodist, and, well, you’re like my sister, and...” He stopped, realising she was hurt. “I’m sorry, Will. We’re practically married anyway. Often,” he looked up at Perdita, who was on the horse, “we pretend we are married, just to make it easier. People have a problem with us just being friends.”

Yes, Perdita thought, and Willow’s one of them.

“So what shall we be in town?” she asked lightly. “Your wife and your mistress?”

Xander’s eyes misted over.

“How about your sisters,” Willow rolled his eyes.

“A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead,” Perdita laughed, “what kind of a gene pool is that?”

Willow was impressed. Not too many people had heard of a gene pool.

Perdita was confused. What kind of a gene pool was that?

Xander was smitten. Smart and beautiful. The perfect woman.

“Look,” Willow pointed, “I think that’s something there...”

They came into the little town and the first thing they did was find a horse trader. They re-shod the carriage horse and bought another animal with Perdita’s money. Willow and Xander told her she didn’t have to, but she insisted.

“He can’t carry three of us,” she said, “he can barely carry two. We’ll need a saddle too, and a bridle, and...”

They tied the horses outside a large house that the blacksmith had told them belonged to the local doctor, and knocked politely. A woman with a neat cap over her grey hair answered, admitted them to a little parlour, and then took Perdita through to the doctor’s study.

He examined her head wound. “It’s not serious,” he said, “but it may leave a small scar.”

“I can cover it,” Perdita said, and he was surprised at her nonchalance. Most young women would be horrified to learn that they’d be facially scarred.

He put a few stitches in, told her to keep it clean, and took some money from her.

“Well?” Willow asked when they’d left. “Is it okay?”

She showed them the stitches. “It hurts,” she said, “more now that it did before. Needles are nasty. Let’s go and get something to eat to make me feel better.”

It was nearing lunchtime, and Willow and Xander were about to head towards a street vendor for food, when Perdita strolled towards the nearest tavern.

“Uh, Perdita? A tavern?”

“It’s broad daylight,” she said, “and we are travellers. We’ll be fine. Come on.”

Inside it was low and dark, but not as intimidating as Xander had feared. They were served plates of indiscernible meat and some stewed vegetables, which Willow picked at and Perdita wolfed down.

“Sorry,” she said, “I don't remember eating in a long time.”

“Exactly when was this coach robbery?” Xander asked, but Willow kicked him under the table, because a young woman was passing their table, going up to the bar.

“Mistress McClay,” the barman said. “What can I do you for?”

“Any news?” she asked diffidently, playing nervously with the ties of her cloak.

“Nope. Nothing. You could ask those three,” he pointed to Perdita’s table, and she ducked her head. “Travellers.”

Mistress McClay looked terribly shy, but she came over and half whispered, “Excuse me?”

“Can we help you?” Willow asked, her face friendly.

“I - m-my master is - he wanted to kn-now... There was a shipwreck a few m-miles up the coast, and he wants to kn-now any news of it. Do you have any n-news of it?”

Willow willed her eyes not to flick at Xander. They’d discussed Perdita’s hasty cover-up this morning while she was with William, and neither of them had believed her story about the highwayman. Not completely, anyway. She’d definitely been in the sea. She had something to do with the shipwreck, but neither of them wanted to ask her what.

“Why does he want to know?” Xander asked.

“He’s anxious to hear of a f-friend on board. Some of them took boats to safety, but a lot didn’t m-make it.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Xander said. “We rode through the storm, but we didn’t hear anything of a shipwreck. I’m sorry.”

The girl nodded, gave a small smile, and turned to go.

“Wait,” Perdita said. “Who is your master?”

“Mr. Giles. He’s the schoolteacher,” Miss McClay said.

“If we hear anything, we’ll pass it on.”

“I’m very grateful,” she said, and this time her smile was braver. Then she left.

Further inland, William the Bloody pulled his horse to a halt, patted her flanks, and tied her up outside a tavern.

“Gimme some whisky,” he said when he walked in, and when a small glass was put on the counter, he shook his head. “The whole bottle.”

“Bad journey?” the barman asked.

“No, the journey was bloody marvellous. Rolling countryside and pretty trees and fair maidens sodding everywhere.”

“It’s a woman,” the bartender surmised.

“Damn right it is. Stupid sodding women. I could - I could just go out and get another one, and d’you think she’d care? No. Sodding bint.”

The barman wondered if the blond man had been drinking before, because so far he’d not touched the bottle in front of him, but he sounded pretty pissed already.

“Turned you down?”

“Turned me down, tied me up, kissed me like her lungs stopped working, and what did I do?”

“What did you do?” the bartender asked, interested.

“I bloody left.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Search me. Chivalry.”

“I thought chivalry was dead.”

“Yeah, mate, me too. God, the things I could do to that tight little body,” William made feminine shapes in the air and clawed his fingers around them.

“Don’t she want you?”

William pictured her breasts heaving under her thin chemise, her lips hot and red, her flushed cheeks, remembered her arms around him as he slept, her fingers tangling in his hair, and he let out a long breath.

“She wants me.”

“Then... Oh,” the bartender said. “Is she married?”

“No. At least - God, I hope not.” The thought of some long-forgotten husband claiming her completely sickened William. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Betrothed, then.”

“No.”

“Then what’s your problem?”

William considered the whisky bottle in front of him. Yeah, what was his problem? The wench wanted him and by God, he wanted her. He could take her if he wanted to. He had his pistol back and he knew her fondness for ropes. He’d tie her to the bed, gag her mouth and shag her out of his system.

Only...

Only, dammit, he didn’t want to rape her. He wanted to exalt in her pleasure. Wanted to hear her cry his name, tighten herself around him in every way, clutch at him and beg him not to stop...

“Bollocks,” he said, and went and got back on his horse.

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