Road Trip with a Rogue by Kate Bateman (Excerpt)

Chapter One


Hampstead Heath, London, April 1817.

Daisy Hamilton had been looking forward to her first highway robbery, but someone had beaten her to it. Several someones, in fact.

Bloody Hell.

The three men blocking the moonlit road had clearly identified this wood-lined stretch as the perfect place for an ambush—just as she had—but while their decision to hold up this particular coach was presumably random, the crest painted on the door singled it out as her specific target.

She had the worst luck.

Daisy slid silently from her horse, tied the reins to a branch, and crept forward for a better view, careful to stay within the cover of the trees.

A broken log had been dragged across the lane to force the coach to stop, and the burly coachman up on the box was cursing as he tried to control the plunging horses. Two highwaymen had positioned themselves in the middle of the track with pistols drawn, while the third had circled around to the rear of the carriage.

“Stand and deliver!” the foremost robber bellowed.

The coachman paid him no heed. The horses reared, pawing the air, as he fought with the reins. When he finally managed to control them, he shouted, “Move aside, damn you!”

Daisy raised her brows at his tone. He sounded more annoyed than intimidated. Perhaps he’d encountered thieves on this route before? Or perhaps he was an ex-soldier, a veteran, no stranger to threats of violence. Even so, his bravado was unwise, considering the odds of three to one.

She doubted he’d be getting any help from inside the coach. Spoiled eighteen-year-old heiress Violet Brand and nineteen-year-old Peregrine Hughes were eloping—a process Daisy had been engaged to stop. Being set upon by highwaymen could hardly have featured in their plans. Violet was probably having a fit of the vapors in there, and a pampered youth like Peregrine had probably never fired a pistol in his life.

Daisy’s lips twitched in dark amusement. The idiots deserved to be robbed. Who went out into the world so unprepared? She felt naked without at least two blades on her person at any given time. Even in a ballroom.

Still, she cursed her own hubris for telling Ellie and Tess that she could catch the runaways on her own. Her fellow investigators would have been most welcome right now, since she was obviously going to have to intervene in this farcical scene.

She was bloody well going to double her fee when she sent Violet’s father the bill from King & Co.

Daisy cocked her pistol, waiting to see what the highwaymen would do next, when the driver of the coach suddenly lurched to the side and grabbed something near his feet. He straightened, a huge blunderbuss in his hands, and fired at the nearest robber just as the man gave a shout of alarm.

The explosion was blinding, and she ducked instinctively as the man’s companion returned fire, shattering the quiet of the night.

Bloody Hell!

She blinked as her vision cleared. The first robber lay lifeless on the ground, his horse galloping away down the road. The second man was struggling to reload his pistol as his own mount bucked and reared, and the brave coachman had been hit; he was clutching his arm and groaning in pain, slumped sideways on the seat.

“You shot Ned, ye bastard!” The rider who’d been behind the coach galloped forward with a shout. He aimed his pistol at the coachman’s back to deliver a fatal shot, and Daisy didn’t stop to think. She leveled her own weapon and fired.

Her ball struck the rider, and his shot went wide, splintering the side of the carriage. He tumbled from his horse in a blur of limbs and dark clothing, hitting the ground with a sickening thump, but there was no time to check if he was dead.

The last man abandoned his attempt to reload and leapt from his horse, stumbling toward the gun that his fallen companion had dropped. If he reached it, the coachman was dead.

Daisy threw down her own spent pistol, pulled a knife from the sheath at the back of her belt, and stepped out into the road.

“Don’t touch it!” she commanded, lowering the register of her voice to sound more masculine.

The man in the road froze, surprised by the appearance of an unexpected third party from the bushes. Daisy raised the blade so it glinted threateningly in the moonlight, glad of the tricorn hat hiding her face and the scarf she’d pulled up over her nose and chin. She was dressed as a male—high boots, breeches, and an enveloping greatcoat—but with her wobbly voice and short stature she doubted she cut a particularly menacing figure.

Her opponent clearly came to the same conclusion. He made a scoffing sound.

“Stand aside, lad. This ain’t no business o’ yours.”

“I disagree. I can’t let you to hold up this coach.”

He snorted. “You’re barely old enough to shave. Go on, now. This is our patch.”

Daisy shrugged. “Don’t make me hurt you.”

The man gave an ugly laugh. “As if you could, whelp.” He started toward the gun again.

“Stop!” Daisy growled. “I’ve killed with this knife before. I’ll do it again.”

The man stilled, weighing the truth of her words. She was lying, of course. She’d never killed anyone, with any weapon—unless the man she’d just shot by the coach was dead. Her stomach lurched at the thought, but she forced her hand not to shake.

“Move away, slowly,” she ordered.

The man pulled back, but just as she started to relax, his friend by the coach regained consciousness. He groaned and writhed, kicking his heels in the mud, and in the brief moment her attention was diverted, the other man seized his chance.

He lunged for the pistol.

Daisy threw her knife just as he fired. She dived to the side as the ball whizzed past her ear, horribly close, and in her confused state she thought she heard two shots, one from in front of her, and one from behind.

That made no sense. She rolled over in the grass, her heart pounding furiously, then pushed up onto her elbows to see if she’d hit her target.

She had. The man was lying flat on the ground, her knife embedded in his shoulder. But why wasn’t he moving? The wound she’d inflicted shouldn’t have been fatal. She’d only meant to make him drop the gun. Was he pretending to be dead to lure her closer?

Fully expecting a trick, she pushed to her feet and staggered toward him, staying low. But his chest was still, not rising and falling, and she gasped in horror as she got close enough to see his glassy eyes staring up at the sky.

He was dead, shot in the neck. A dark puddle of blood was already filling the muddy rut below him.

A wave of nausea rose in her throat. She tugged down the scarf covering her face, clapped her hand over her mouth, and swung away, trying to make sense of what had just happened. Had the driver on the box fired a second weapon? It seemed unlikely. He was still cursing and trying to bind his injured arm.

She turned to the man on the ground by the carriage. Had he pulled another pistol and tried to shoot her, only to miss and accidentally hit his colleague?

No. He’d lost consciousness again, and there was no gun on the ground near him.

Daisy shook her head, feeling dizzy. Her heart was beating so quickly she could feel it in her throat, and she sucked in a deep lungful of the cold night air to steady herself.

A noise came from the carriage, and she belatedly remembered the existence of the two passengers. Dear Lord, they must be frightened out of their wits! She took a step toward the vehicle, ready to reassure them, but her attention caught on the glint of a pistol protruding from the darkened window, held in a large, gloved male hand.

She stopped, surprised. Had Peregrine managed to load and fire one of the carriage pistols? Had he been the one to kill the third man?

The door handle turned. She opened her mouth to thank him for his unexpected help, but the words died in her throat as the panel swung open and a tall, dark figure that was definitely not Peregrine Hughes stepped down into the road.

Daisy’s stomach dropped, and a wave of horrified disbelief swept over her as she took in the man dressed entirely in black, save for a pristine white evening shirt and cravat.

Oh, shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Dark hair, broad shoulders, straight nose. Eyes as black as Hades, and full, mocking lips. She knew that face; its cruel beauty was engraved into her heart.

Lucien Vaughan. Marquis of Exton.

Daisy shook her head. No, not the marquis anymore. His father had died, sometime last year. He was the duke now. The Duke of Cranford.

Standing in the road.

What in God’s name was he doing here?

She was about to ask him that very question when a twig snapped behind her. Startled, she started to turn, instinctively reaching for her second knife, sheathed on the inside of her wrist, but before she could reach it a thick arm wrapped around her shoulder and came across her throat in a chokehold.

She gasped and tried to free herself, kicking and wriggling like an eel, but the pressure of the arm only increased. The man behind her squeezed, lifting her off the ground, pressing his fingers into the side of her neck, and she opened her eyes wide, trying to fight off the encroaching darkness.

Bloody Hell. What a stupid way to die.

And in front of Vaughan too. How utterly humiliating.

She had no hope that he would save her. He was a villain, despite his glittering military career. He’d save his own skin at the expense of hers.

Daisy kicked weakly against her assailant, but all the strength had left her limbs and a dark wave of fatalistic humor seized her. The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her was Lucien Vaughan’s sinfully handsome face.

It had a pleasing kind of symmetry, she supposed. He’d haunted her dreams for years. Perhaps, if he watched her die, she’d haunt his.

She bloody well hoped so.



Chapter Two

Lucien William Devereaux Vaughan, the twelfth Duke of Cranford, glanced down at the unconscious woman in the road, then back up at his faithful—if somewhat overenthusiastic—valet.

“You didn’t need to strangle her, Finch,” he said coolly. “You could have just held her arms to restrain her.”

Lucien frowned as he crouched down beside her and tried to still the uncharacteristic pounding of his heart. Few things managed to increase his heart rate anymore, but the female before him had always managed it, even against his will.

Daisy Hamilton. He’d recognized her the moment he’d heard her voice.

She was still breathing; she’d come round in a moment or two. He’d seen Finch use that same move countless times to incapacitate an enemy, and he knew precisely the amount of pressure to employ, but that knowledge didn’t seem to prevent Lucien from worrying, apparently.

Finch gave an unapologetic shrug and dipped his chin to indicate the lethal-looking knife that had fallen from her hand.

“You saw what she did to that bastard before you put a hole in ’im.” He gestured toward the body lying in the road with her knife embedded in its arm. “I didn’t think it wise to underestimate her.”

Lucien grunted in reluctant agreement, even as his gaze roamed over her features as if he’d been starved of the sight of her. Her wild mop of curly brown hair was the same as ever, unsuccessfully restrained by a black ribbon at the back of her neck. Her skin was pale in the moonlight, her eyebrows dark, but he could see the sprinkle of freckles that peppered her nose, and the lush perfection of her lips.

His body heated. He’d kissed those lips. Five years ago, now. And God, if it hadn’t been one of the best and worst nights of his life.

He was glad her eyes were closed. Something strange always happened to him whenever their eyes met: he experienced a tightening in his chest, an instant rush of desire that turned his cock to iron. It was infuriating. No other woman had ever had the same effect.

She’d been pretty at eighteen, before he’d left for war. An impetuous wide-eyed beauty just shimmering on the edge of womanhood. Now, at twenty-three, she was enough to stop a man’s heart.

He’d glimpsed her a few times, briefly, at various social functions since he’d been back in England, but he’d never allowed himself to approach her. Like an alcoholic who knew he couldn’t be trusted to look at a tumbler of whisky without needing a sip—and then the whole bottle—he’d stayed far away from her. He simply hadn’t needed the aggravation.

Had he occasionally imagined her beneath him while he was fucking a dark-haired courtesan? Yes. Had he once accidentally breathed her name while debauching his mistress? Yes again.

But those were perfectly acceptable substitutions. The only safe scenarios in which he would allow himself to think of Daisy Hamilton.

She was not for him. Not back then, and certainly not now.

Thanks to her brothers, he knew she worked as some sort of private investigator, but he’d resisted the urge to learn more. She was his curse, not his salvation, and he’d been right to let her go. It had been for the best. Noble, even. But regret still scorched his veins as he remembered his deliberately cruel rejection of her.

If the horrified look she’d given him just before she lost consciousness was any indication, she’d neither forgotten, nor forgiven, that particular episode either.

Bloody Hell.

What in God’s name was she doing here?


Copyright © 2025 by Kate Bateman.