In the end, it was that gods-damned ‘please’ again. That one word was going to ruin Antonio’s life. He stepped to the side, shifting his saber slightly, and parried Caterina’s oncoming attack. “Good! And again,” he said, breathing heavily.

“How many is that?” The woman asked, face flushed and covered in sweat from hours of practice. Under the gambeson, her chest pumped as she sucked in breath after breath. She’d learned the hard way not to take off her padded coat early, no matter how hot Antonio’s makeshift training room got. He’d cut her stomach the first time she’d done that. The wound had put her in bed for three weeks while he nursed her back to health. She hadn’t complained, though. He was proud of her for that.

They’d agreed on terms after hours of back-and-forth fighting over the kitchen table those three years past. First, Caterina wouldn’t help until he said she was ready. No ifs, ands, or buts. If she wanted to learn how to use weapons, ride like a sprinting stag, and kill, he would decide when she was good enough. Second, she wouldn’t complain, no matter what happened to her in training. Third, she had to be ready to get hurt. Truthfully, she took being injured better than he did hurting her, but she needed to be tough all the same.

And fourth, she couldn’t ask about the Highwayman.

“How many?” Caterina asked again. Her breathing had steadied, and her eyes had narrowed at being ignored.

Antonio sighed. She’d done it thirty-seven times. “Twenty-three. Two more! Again!”

She lunged, he parried, and for the thirty-eighth time today, he cursed the word ‘please.’ This time, he also thanked the gods his daughter struggled with numbers. He’d worked her harder than she realized every day, and it had paid off.

“One more, then five minutes in the falls. Again!”

Her eyes blazed, and her sword whipped toward his face before the last word left his mouth. He stepped back reflexively, but his sword was a quarter-beat slow, and Caterina’s saber cut a thin, shallow cut across his cheek, a full two inches below his left eye and a mere inch long.

She froze, eyes flickering from the tiny wound to his scowl, trembling slightly. All the heat she’d been giving off seemed to have vanished. He lowered his sword, took three long, deep breaths, and looked her in the eye. “Well done. Now, to the falls to clean up, then get dressed. Meet me at the table in a quarter of an hour.”

As she fled, he absent-mindedly touched the razor-thin line on his face, feeling his own blood. Then, he collected the sabers, cleaned the blades, and made sure the training floor was clean. The cut would heal on its own. She’d barely broken the skin, while he’d given her worse dozens of times. What mattered wasn’t that she’d made such a small cut. No, not at all.

What mattered was that she’d cut him at all.

When he arrived in their kitchen, Caterina sat at the table, shivering, her hair a soaked, tangled mess and her skin still wet. Her woods dress was soaked through; she hadn’t bothered to dry herself, or hadn’t had time. Her eyes darted to the cut, which slowly dripped blood down Antonio’s face, and he sat heavily and stared at her innocent face. “You’re sure you want to follow this path now that you’ve drawn blood? You won’t set this aside?”

She nodded.

Antonio winced. He’d been afraid of that. He ran his hand through graying hair and looked down at the table. For two years, even as he’d done his best to train her in swordplay and rough fighting, he’d also worked to dissuade her—to no success. Every welt from the flat of his blade, every scar across her shoulders and arms, only seemed to make her more determined. They’d marched through the woods until she collapsed from exhaustion and ran until she couldn’t help but vomit.

His beautiful daughter had stayed the course, and she was a fine swordswoman—both because of his best efforts to teach her and despite his attempts to stop her from learning.

Nothing had changed her mind. He only had one play left.

“You’re ready. Today, you’ll get to help. But first, I need to tell you a story so you know what you’re getting into.” Antonio sighed and rubbed his temples. “A long time ago, before I was the Highwayman, I had a wife. Arabella. She wasn’t special to anyone but me, just another farmer’s daughter, but I loved her with every scrap of my soul. We wanted a child, but none came, and with each passing year, her heart broke a little more.”

He looked away, toward the embers of last night’s fire. “I only wanted her to be happy, but the only thing she wanted was that child, and it just…wouldn’t happen. Her friends grew fat with babies, and their toddlers swarmed around them, but Arabella stood to the side, alone save for me. She deserved more, and I wracked my brain trying to find a way to give her one—just one—child. Nothing I tried worked.”

Caterina stared at him, enraptured. Her big brown eyes were wide, just like when she’d been a girl, and he’d entertained her with make-believe stories about dragons and sorcerers while bouncing her on his knee like a rider on a horse.

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“Then, one day, she was gone. A lord had been lurking around the village, and I had no evidence, but it seemed obvious he’d offered her the child I couldn’t. I never found out what became of her. Instead, I ran. I couldn’t bear the thought of another day in that village or another moment in a place that reminded me of her. But mostly, I couldn’t bear to think about the noble who’d stolen her from me. So I left. Anger and hatred consumed me, and I had to do something about it. I pushed her memory away and became the Highwayman instead.

“I never married again, and until you, I had no family.” He wiped a tear from his eye. “The road the Highwayman walks isn’t one filled with joy. It’s lonely, sad, and filled with wrath and vengeance, but not love. You’re the apple of my eye, and there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. But please listen to me.”

He’d warned her dozens of times in the last two years. He’d begged her not to follow his path. But her eyes hardened and her brow furrowed every time, and he’d give in. But not this time. This time, he’d be firm.

“You can’t follow my footsteps, Cattie. There can only be one Highwayman, and it’s me. Even if it weren’t, it would never be a woman—no, not even one as fantastic with a saber as you. Put these dreams to rest.”

She didn’t respond. She never did when he tried to talk her out of it. Her determination was one of the things he loved—and hated—the most about her. But he still had to try. “You have so much life ahead of you. I beg you once more, Caterina. Find a husband, raise a baby—hells, raise a dozen. Settle down and put this foolishness behind you. I’d give you my blessing to marry any of the village boys. You’d be happy. Content. At peace. Please,” he pleaded, eyes wet. Surely that gods-damned word would work in his favor, just this once?

She shook her head, and he sighed, a defeated man once again. A pit formed in his stomach, threatening to pull him in entirely, and he steeled himself. She wouldn’t be dissuaded. Fine. He’d show her, in all its horror, what he did.

He stood up. “So be it. If you won’t listen to reason, get ready to go. Put on the gambeson. We leave in twenty minutes.”

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The Highwayman sat astride his horse in the middle of the Old King’s Road, mask over his face. The narrow bridge was his favorite spot; carriages couldn’t turn around here, making them easy prey. He checked the brace of pistols strapped to his chest—all loaded—and pulled his saber loose in its sheath. Then he looked up the hill to a wide, gray boulder. He couldn’t see Caterina behind it, so at least she’d still listen to his orders, even if she refused to bow to his wishes. Even if she refused to live a simple, happy life.

His instructions were simple. She was to stay there until the fighting started. Then, if she wished, she could find a lone man to fight, or kill one with her pistol. But that was all she’d be allowed to do.

He wouldn’t risk any real harm to his beloved daughter.

A clattering sound on the wooden bridge drew his attention. A carriage was coming—and a rich one. He stared through the evening fog as it slowly came into view. This would be his career’s second-finest moment.

Whoever the carriage belonged to, they’d spared no expense in decorating it. Gold leaf covered every metal joint and hinge, framing the glass windows, and the wooden walls were painted a brilliant burgundy. Two black horses pulled it forward slowly, while another three riders—men-at-arms, by their weapons and plate armor—rode ahead. He flexed his fingers in their cracked leather gloves. The Highwayman had fought against worse odds, and he’d come prepared.

As the three men-at-arms rode forward, exchanging a look he’d seen a thousand times—fear, but also determination. He briefly regretted that he couldn’t signal Caterina and tell her to wait.

Then he slipped from his horse’s back and drew his first pistol.

He carried three, not his usual four. His best one was behind the boulder with his daughter. But even as he leveled the barrel at the closest rider, he knew it wouldn’t matter. He wouldn’t get three shots off, much less a fourth. The pistol jerked in his arm, and the first man-at-arms fell from his saddle.

Even as he fell, the Highwayman ducked below a saber blow that cut the air with a vicious-sounding hiss. He drew his second pistol and fired it into the second man’s back.

But the third was on him before he could draw his last flintlock.

Their sabers clashed, and the man-at-arms rolled from his horse, landing on his feet. The Highwayman rushed the armored man, scoring a bright, thin line on his enemy’s breastplate, but before he could press his advantage, the soldier thrust forward, right at the steel mask he wore over his face. He got his sword up in time, then launched into his attack.

They traded blows, their swords splitting the air and every ounce of their focus on each other. The Highwayman grinned, his lips the only part of his face visible save for his ice-cold eyes. He’d found someone almost a match for him.

Almost.

He whirled, his saber catching the man-at-arms’s sword inches from his neck, and drew his third pistol. It went off, and the last man-at-arms fell, screaming.

As he loaded his pistols one by one, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He whirled, cloak flaring behind him, and leveled a gun at—his daughter.

“Tell me you’re coming next time,” he snapped. The second gun slotted into place next to his first, and he started working on the third.

Caterina’s face flushed beneath the cloth mask she wore over her eyes. She looked at the ground. “I’m sorry.”

He stood to walk toward the carriage. “Don’t be sorry. Learn from it. Now, make sure they’re dead. The Highwayman leaves—“

A gunshot rang out, and Antonio spun as the ball tore into his lower back. He collapsed to the ground, pistols clattering next to him. Caterina’s scream sounded distant as a man stepped from the carriage, tucking a smoking pistol of his own back into its holster. He wore a breastplate like the men-at-arms, and the sword at his hip spoke of wealth. As he reloaded, he spoke a few smooth words. “No survivors. I know, I know. But that ends today.”

Antonio tried to push himself to his feet. He could feel his daughter shaking next to him, but whether it was fury or fear, he couldn’t say. He tried to say something, to tell Caterina to run, but the words came out in a whisper, and every motion sent agony rippling through his guts. He closed his eyes. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. The Highwayman left no survivors, and he couldn’t be killed.

The agony redoubled as someone lifted him and threw his body onto a horse. A pair of pistol shots rang out, and he opened his eyes for a moment before the pain ripped into him again. Then, a weight landed in the saddle behind him, and Caterina spurred his mount into a desperate gallop. Together, they galloped headlong into the woods.