The Outrider - A Paranormal Regency Romance ONC 2022

Chapter 1

Our heroine attempts to hold up Fate.

The King's road to London basked in the mellow light of late afternoon, disturbed only by birdsong and the occasional snort from Corinna's horse. Patient like a donkey, the chestnut mare would wait in the shrubbery at her rider's behest, only to burst forth when muscular legs squeezed her gleaming flanks into a run.

Those legs, long and with shapely ankles, shouldn't squeeze. They should be draped over a side saddle as custom decreed.

Nor should those legs be encased in black leather breeches; they should rather be hidden under the flowing skirt of the high-waisted muslin dress en vogue these past seasons.

Not that Corinna gave a rat's spit about customs, fashion, or seasons. At nine and twenty she was on the shelf, so it wasn't a husband she was after, and even if she were, she wouldn't find him here on the road, dressed as she was in the garb and the face mask of a highwayman, her father's fine double-barreled pistols in the saddle holsters. Four shots was all she got, but that was already more than most patrolmen would have at their disposal.

It was a long time since anybody in the Wolverstoke household had laid down money for weapons. Her father and brother were gone, both lost to Napoleon's last stand at Waterloo.

The chestnut mare snickered softly and stomped, the rings on her tack chinking as she chewed the bit.

"Steady, old girl, steady." Corinna patted her mount's warm neck with a black-gloved hand. Unlike her mistress, Nell would never want anything, feast only the finest hay and oats. Not only was the horse Corinna's only chance at survival—hers and Mother's, to be precise—but the horse was Corinna's partner.

She pulled out her brother's golden timepiece, its chain broken where the musket ball that killed him ripped through. Three o'clock.

The London mail was late.

Until it was through, she mustn't dare to attack. The mail carried too many passengers who might come after her, not to forget the guard at the back protecting the strongbox. Imagine her holding up some hapless lordling and the coach arriving in mid-scene.

Horror upon horror.

For one thing, she would have to shoot. Well, she was an excellent shot. Father had seen to that. Descended from a long line of soldiers, the late Baron of Wolverstoke had hunting and shooting in his blood. As did Robin.

It only got them killed.

Kill she wouldn't, not if her life depended on it.

From further down the road finally drifted the heavy rumble of coach wheels, the clanking of the horses' harness overlaid with the clip-clopping of many hooves. A post horn sounded, which meant the mail had reached the Billingham gatepost. Its keeper would now scramble to throw the gates open in a hurry. Last month, he had been too late, and the fine levied for his tardiness would hurt to the day.

After father's and Robin's death, Corinna and her mother had been hurting as well. George, the distant cousin, who took over Penninghall House and the title, had been in his rights when he sent them to the dower house. However, he had no right to withhold mother's portion, the money bequested to her when she said her yeah to the parson.

But how were they supposed to fight such injustice when they had not a farthing to spare for a lawyer? Most of Corinna's small dowry was gone by the time she did something about their plight.

Mother and Nell needed to eat, and so did she. And coals and candles for the winter cost dear.

The post horn didn't sound again, instead the mail came closer, its noisy approach sending the starlings skyward in a rustle of tiny wings.