He scowled. That was a dangerous reason. Someone who did it for the thrill would likely continue to do it.

  “Mmm,” he grunted more than said.

  “What does that mean?” She looked up, curious and a little insulted.

  “Nothing.” He looked away as if she no longer interested him.

  “You speak strangely. I have never heard anyone from York speak like you.”

  He kept his expression impassive. He wasn’t planning on telling her anything else about his past. She was cynical and critical. Unlike her father, she would never believe him. She would think he was a nut. On the other hand, what did he care what she thought?

  “Did you ever think of putting your mind to work on something good? Like law enforcement?”

  She laughed. “I’m a woman in case you have not noticed.”

  He had, he thought, groaning inwardly.

  “Women,” she sighed, letting her laughter fade, “do not do what you are doing.”

  “Why not?” he asked. “What’s stopping you?”

  She waved her hand and continued walking.

  He watched her, examining, or rather appreciating her feminine frame wrapped up in tan, woolen trousers and a belted tunic. There were knives in that belt and probably some in her boots, as well.

  Her rich, chestnut hair spilled down her back in glossy locks that begged to be touched, inhaled, tangled through his fingers…

  “Where would you be going if I hadn’t found you?” he asked.

  “I expected you to find me, Investigator. I simply wanted you and my father to be aware that I cannot and will not be ordered about until I am forced to marry, and I will likely not change even then.”

  “Hmph. Is that what marriage is to you? Being ordered about?”

  “That is indeed what it is!”

  “Have you been married?” he asked her.

  “No, I have not, but I was betrothed to Lord Benjamin Adere and he found great pleasure in my subservience.”

  “Betrothed…what is that, like engaged?” he asked.

  She stopped and gave him a blank look. “Engaged? No, betrothed, as in promised to wed.”

  “Yes, right. So what happened?”

  “He died,” she told him, picking up her steps again. “He was older than my father.”

  Michael scrunched up his face. “Why would you promise yourself to an old man?”

  “My father did. It was a solution to having me around.”

  He was quiet for a moment. Was she correct? Did her father want to get rid of her? Was she more trouble than she was worth? Michael shook his head on both counts. He didn’t know the duke, except to have spent a few hours with him, but he seemed like an okay guy, not someone who hated his daughter or wanted to get rid of her.

  “He could’ve sent you to your aunt’s place,” he pointed out, “but he let you stay here with him.”

  “With you as my shadow,” she reminded him.

  He shook his head. “One thing has nothing to do with the other. You’re his kid. His daughter,” he corrected when she gave him an insulted look. “If you weren’t such a pain in the a—neck,” he corrected again with an impatient growl, “he’d probably like having you around.”

  “You don’t know any better, Detective,” she smiled. “He is not your father.”

  He noted that she smiled often, even when she’d rather be shouting. He doubted her father, or any other man for that matter noticed the stiffness in her lips and the muscles around them, the veiled passion in her eyes that had nothing to do with happiness. She was a tempest cloaked in apathy.

  He was trained to see things like this in people. Tells. Something that gives them away.

  And now he knew that her issues likely stemmed from her father. But he didn’t want to go into what they were.

  Something flew by his head! What the—? He leaped from the saddle and snatched Miss Whimsey clean off her feet. She weighed little. She smelled like lilac. He let the scent fill his head and used his body as a shield while he rushed her to a large tree and set her behind the thick trunk. “Are you okay?” He wanted to run his fingers down her face.

  “Aye, are you?”

  “What was that?” he asked her, peering from behind the tree.

  “An arrow,” she replied as if he should know.

  He should, since he was in the eighteenth century. He knew how to fire a gun, but an arrow was a different monster.

  And speaking of monsters, what was with his pistol? A flintlock. Seriously? With a 9” long steel barrel, it was heavy and awkward to hold compared to the guns in his century. It was in working condition with a finely raised acanthus leaf finial. The entire thing was embossed and engraved with markings that meant something to gunmakers of its time. It was a nice piece of handiwork, but none of it meant a thing. Why? Because Michael had no bullets. When the duke had given the pistol to him, it was on the condition that Michael become the lawman here. The duke didn’t give him any bullets, he was to earn them. Michael’s first assignment was to keep his eyes on his boss’ daughter so why did he need bullets? Besides, the duke didn’t know if Michael was a lunatic—whom he’d sent to watch his daughter. Michael shook his head while he looked into the bushes across from him. Someone was there.

  Maybe Miss Whimsey was right. Maybe the duke was a bad father.

  Whatever the case, Michael had to earn his ammo or get it himself. A lawman with a useless pistol, a couple of knives, and a pair of fists. Great.

  He turned and looked at Miss Whimsey. “Stay here,” he whispered. “I’m going to go around and take him hand to hand.”

  She nodded, though it seemed to be taut with uncertainty. It didn’t matter as long as she listened to him.

  Crawling across the ground, he made his way like a serpent to the edge of his covering. So far, the archer had not seen him. Getting across the road would be—a shot rang out. From his side of the road! Miss Whimsey? No time to consider it. The shot came close to their attacker and made him run. Michael took off after him. He chased the assailant for a minute or two and finally overtook him and tossed him into the currant bushes.

  The assailant’s mistake was to come up swinging. Michael ducked low, avoiding a fist to his jaw. He straightened with a jab to his opponent’s cheek and a bone-crunching right hook that lifted the man off his feet and landed him on his back, legs twitching.

  “Is he dead?” Miss Whimsey asked, rushing to them and leaning over the man.

  “No. He’s knocked out. Do you know him?”

  She stepped back, looking surprised and a little offended. “Why would I know him?”

  He shrugged. Then he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you had a pistol—and bullets?”

  “You did not ask.” She turned to walk away, moving her dainty hips. “Well, you caught him. Now, I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t leave yet.”

  She stopped and pivoted around to him. “Who says?”

  “I say,” he ground out. “I have to find a place to take him.”

  “Leave him here.”

  He gave her a foul glance. “So he can shoot the next unsuspecting traveler? No. Not while I’m here.” He bent down and hefted the man up and over his shoulder. He carried him to his horse and tossed him over the saddle. “Your father said there’s been an increase in robberies on the road. An earl was killed a few months ago after he was held up by a highwayman who calls himself The Dark Horseman. Well,” he turned to her behind him. “He’ll be The Locked-up Horseman when I’m through.”

  Her smile changed just a bit. It became hollow and cold almost instantly. He thought she might be a master at veiling her emotions, controlling her reactions. She knew things about these Horsemen. He’d have to watch her more closely.

  “What about criminals like me?” she put to him, one hand on her hip. “What would you do to me?”

  “Same as him,” he replied blandly.

  She pouted her lip in an effort, he guessed, that drew many a male gaze to it. It worked on him, as well. For a moment.

  “It might sound cheesy,” he said setting his eyes on the road. “I don’t care. I’ve always wanted to make the world better where I am for my kids. If I have any. My job hasn’t changed. I’m afraid it never will. I must catch thieves and killers and bring them to justice.”

  “I like that you want to make it better for your—what I hope you meant as children, and not goats—if you have any.”

  He turned to her and laughed softly.

  “But…I am a thief, as you know.”

  He shook his head and looked down at her hands. He lifted his finger and held it close to hers, barely touching her. “Don’t be a thief anymore.”

  “Michael?”

  “Yeah?”

  “What does cheese have to do with wanting a better world for your children?”

  He laughed softly and drew his fingers closer until they touched her, rattling his heart and making his nerve-endings burn. He traced her palm to the tip of her fingers and then pulled away.

  “I need a place to put him.”

  “The town is close.” Her voice came to him softly. “To the right and straight ahead.”

  He raised his gaze to her. Her rich, dark eyes had grown warmer on him. It made him want to smile warmly—or turn away again. He wasn’t about to risk losing what was left of his heart to love.

  He motioned for her to hop on the horse in front of his captive. She refused. He took the reins and walked beside her.

  “You seemed to be remembering something a little while ago,” she said in her dulcet voice. “Something that…perhaps broke your heart. Would you like someone to talk to about it?”

  Someone like her? Why was she offering him her ear?

  “I have been told I’m a good listener,” she said, her gracious smile intact.

  He’d gone to a therapist from work. He’d helped others, but not Michael. Talking about stuff didn’t help. It only opened closed wounds and made him feel worse. “No. I’m fine.”

  “Are you wed?”

  He cut his glance to her. “I said I was fine.”

  “Of course. I was just trying to start a conversation.” She kept her eyes on the distance and didn’t speak again.

  “And no. I’m not wed in my century.”

  “Pardon?” she stopped walking and waited for him to stop as well. “Why did you say in my century?”

  Did he? He was so used to thinking of things in the future as his century that he automatically said it. “I meant city, in my city.” He laughed, but it was as disingenuous as hers.

  “Then you likely would have said city, if that is what you meant,” she challenged.

  “Just a misstep of the tongue, Miss Whimsey,” he said stiffly.

  “Of course.”

  They reached the village. It wasn’t as large as the city of Beddington, where they’d met yesterday morning. Most people here knew the duke’s daughter and bid her good day. Michael was surprised that she got along so well with the commoners. He thought the duke’s daughter would be stuffier with them.

  He took a quick look around at the small cottages with thatched rooves. They were quaint, but small for the most part. There was a church, a mill, a few shops and some larger manor house-looking buildings.

  He stopped thinking it was a movie set and started thinking Green and his friend knocked him out and brought him to this place…in England? There were mountain ranges he didn’t recognize from America. How was it all possible? When he thought about it too much, it made him feel ill.

  He felt eyes on him and noticed most of the villagers staring at him or the unconscious man hanging over his saddle. Some of them smiled. He didn’t smile back.

  He heard her sigh beside him and dipped his chin in her direction. “What?”

  “Are you always so solemn?” She wasted no time asking him. “Does it pain you to smile?”

  He turned his head to stare at her more fully. “I don’t think about it.”

  “You have to think about smiling?”

  He shrugged and picked up his steps once again. Her hand on his arm stopped him. He didn’t know what to tell her. Should he lie? He preferred not to, but he didn’t want to share his life. “I’ll make more of an effort to smile in the future.” He turned and kept walking.

  When he reached the center of the village, he stepped up onto a wood gazebo of sorts, with a raised wooden floor. It was all real. It was all real.

  “Can I have everyone’s attention?” he shouted. His voice boomed, loud and strong. People on their way to the mill, or to the baker or the butcher stopped and did as he asked.

  “My name is Investigator Michael Pendridge. I have been sworn to duty as a law keeper here in Croydon by Judge Whimsey, Duke of Croydon.”

  “Where do you come from?’ someone called out.

  “Never saw you before today!”

  He nodded. “I’m from York.” It was close enough. “Judge Whimsey has entrusted me with keeping the law and that’s what I intend to do. I’m not here to explain myself to you. I’m here because I need someplace to put this man who tried to kill us on the road.”

  “He tried to kill Miss Whimsey?” Some of them began to shout angrily. Miss Whimsey had to quiet them down with few well-placed smiles and reassuring words.

  “You can put him in the cellar of the mill,” a young man who looked to be in his late teens called out. “There are rooms with iron doors down there. They are very old.”

  “Take me to it,” Michael told him and then pulled his prisoner out of the saddle and hauled him over his shoulder. He followed the man to the mill, surveying him as they went. “What’s your name?”

  “I’m called Colin of Ipswich.”

  “Well, Colin, I’m called Michael. Do you have experience dealing with criminals?”

  The young man shook his golden-curled head, but he appeared more confused than untrained.

  Michael sighed. “Right…um…have you ever been in charge of bad men like this?”

  The unconscious man draped across his shoulder opened his eyes somewhat and tried to lift himself off his captor.

  Colin immediately stepped back and smashed his fist into the man’s jaw, knocking him out again.

  “Forget my last question,” Michael said, readjusting his prisoner. “You just answered it. Do you want to work for me, Colin?”

  “Aye,” Colin answered without hesitation. It made Michael very pleased. Only one problem. Where was he going to get money to pay Colin?

  First, he had to get the man off him and into a cell.

  Hidden behind baskets and barrels of grain, the dark, gated rooms in the cellar were perfect for what he needed. He went to one and stepped inside. He dumped his prisoner to the floor and smacked his hands together, as if he were ridding himself of unseen germs.

  “I’ll pay you…um…” What did one pay his employee in seventeen twenty-four? “I’ll let you know.”

  Colin nodded. “What do you need me to do?”

  “Guard him. I’m going to go back to speak with Judge Whimsey about what to do with him.” He patted his back pockets then audibly sighed. “I could use my phone right now.” He smiled halfway and shook his head when Colin asked him what a phone was.

  “Forget I said it. I’ll hire another man or two to take shifts watching him and help you out. I’ll return later with everything we need to know. For now, you stay here with him, okay?”

  Colin quirked his mouth at him. “Okay.”

  “I have to escort Miss—” He realized she hadn’t followed him in. He ran for the exit of the mill with an oath on his lips.

  She wasn’t outside. At least, not anywhere he could see her. No one knew where she’d gone. He checked the baker’s shop, a shop with a guy making leather shoes, a blacksmith outside under a tent, the tavern, everywhere in the village.

  Damn it! He’d let her escape him. He probably wouldn’t have a job when he told the duke. What should he do about paying Colin? Securing his prisoner? No. She wouldn’t cost him this. If he was stuck here, he needed a means to make money and live—what if he wasn’t stuck here? When he thought about it, there had to be a way back. He wasn’t cut out for this life. He liked the gritty, fast-paced life of New York.

  Didn’t he?

  His brother wouldn’t have died here in this time.

  What he should be doing was investigating how he came here and why.

  But there was no time for all that now. He had to find Miss Whimsey. Of course, his horse was gone. She was no fool.

  Someone had to have seen her take off on the horse.

  He hurried back to the gazebo and called out. “Whoever saw Miss Whimsey leave this area had better speak up now or I’m going to lock you all up!” He repeated his warning a second time when he had all their attention.

  A young man wearing tattered brown trousers and leather shoes on his feet stepped forward. Immediately, an older man pulled him back by the shoulder and shook his head.

  “I’ll lock you all up for the night and return for you in the morning,” Michael called out. He had to do something to get someone to talk. “Maybe.”

  “Why do you want to find her?” the young man who’d stepped forward called out. “What do you mean to do to her.”

  “I don’t mean her any harm,” Michael told them quickly. Time was running out. She was getting away. “Her father hired me to keep an eye on her. From what I was told, Croydon needs some law and order. I can keep them. I know how to do it, and I will, but I can’t go back and tell the duke I lost his daughter. He’ll kick me out on my ass.”

  “She rode west.”

  “Liam!” the older man scolded. “We do not aid strangers who seek to find her.”

  Liam turned his gray-blue eyes to his companion. “You said it yourself, Sir, the roads are becoming more dangerous day by day. This man is willing to do something. I will not let our cowardice stop him.”

  “Come with me,” he motioned for Michael to come. “We’ll need horses. I can track her.”

  As he hurried back to the stable, Michael called out for two men to help Colin inside the mill.

  He had a chance. He had a horse. And he had an escort, one who knew how to track. Talk was sparse for a while, both of them comfortable in the searching silence.